All About Food

It is impossible to discuss culture with out talking about food.  We all need food to survive- it is basic to human existence.  Fortunately for us, food has become so much more than just a survival mechanism.  In fact food has a culture all of its own-from its cultivation in raw form to is preparation in the kitchen to its eventual ingestion into our bodies the specifics of these traditions reflect the environment in which they are found.  To talk about food is to talk about people and therefore insight into any society can be found by means of culinary exploration.

Like so many aspects of our daily lives the food that we eat or more specifically the decision of what to eat is taken for granted.  I find it so interesting to compare the United States with Africa in this regard.  The U.S is such a mosaic of ethnicities and cultures each with its own diet and feelings about food that making the decision of what to take for dinner can be literally overwhelming.  There is really no clear ‘American’ food culture, in my opinion, aside from cheeseburgers and apple pie, which some people would argue as a root cause in America’s perverse relationship with food.  On the other hand take a place like Ghana where you have incredibly strong social institutions built off of thousands of years of tradition it no wonder that these traditions make their way into the realm of food as well.  Ghana is not diverse at least in content of food eaten.  Even though there are nearly 50 ethnic groups each with their own ‘culture’, food is pretty uniform between them.  Actually there are only a handful of traditional dishes available in Ghana and people have been eating these with almost zero innovation for centuries.  If food has two aspects: survival and enjoyment I would have to say Ghana leans more heavily on the side of survival.  The decision of what to eat seems to be mainly based on ‘the most bang for you buck’ at least in terms of calories.  Its funny actually, most foods are barely chewed if chewed at all the point being to get calories and nutrition into your body as quickly as possible.  Starches form the base of the diet and very few ‘complex’ foods, nutritionally speaking, are consumed on a regular bases.  I’ve never craved a salad so badly before in my life.  The staple crops are yam, cassava, maize, and plantain all of which are super high in carbohydrates and not much else.  These crops are used to make about four or five different dishes that are all ridiculously similar and quite basic.  It’s basically the decision between starch and stew or starch and soup.  That’s it. 

Tradition does much more than just governing what is eaten, but guides how food is eaten as well.  Everything can be eaten with your hand just don’t make the mistake of using you left one.  I think silverware is a relatively recent western addition and it is completely acceptable to eaten everything with your fingers.  For instance, it completely normal to watch business men wearing expensive suites and ties digging into a bowl of soup with their hands or tearing the meat out of a fried piece of fish.  Water and soap are given at every table to wash before and after eating, so the practice is clean and organized.  The truth is I love eating with my hand it allows me to feel, literally, what I am eating.  Not to say that it didn’t take getting used to because it did, but once you learn and develop your own style I’ve realized that there is nothing unrefined about it.  Just like a child first uses a fork without much tact eating with your hands takes a bit of practice. 

It still blows my mind… I mean don’t people get sick of the same old food every single day?  Rice, fufu, banku, yam, kenke, beans, and that’s about it.  Of course there is small variation within each of these meals, but the basic idea is the same.  I asked my friend Omari if he ever got tired of the limited choices and he said most definitely.  I said really, well then why don’t you think people try new methods of cooking?  He said I really don’t know.  So there you have it, once again people are left wanting, but don’t seem to do anything about it.  Maybe its poverty, maybe its time, maybe its laziness, but most likely it’s a sign of the rigidity of tradition.  There are proverbs that warn against eating foods your Mother never prepared and I think they are telling examples of the mentality around food.  What ever is happening its not all-bad, obesity doesn’t seem to be a problem and Ghanaians have a very stable healthy emotional relationship with food.  Although limiting, in my opinion eating according to tradition, at least in part, is the best diet around. 

By the way, you guys should look up some of the dishes I mentioned; they’re pretty bizarre at first glance.

Kwahu Ridge

Its Sunday night again and I’m back on campus, back at home from a great weekend.  It amazes me how fast time moves especially here in Ghana.  With every passing day I feel like the clock is wound tighter and tighter until the hour hand becomes a minute and the minute a second.  Right now my body is tired and soar from a rough and dusty trip home, but I feel content with the passing of another fulfilling weekend.  Blake and I traveled about three hours north of Accra to a mountainous region known as Kwahu Plateau.  Neither of us had serious expectations for the trip beyond getting out of the campus bubble for a while.  We heard the landscape was beautiful and there were plenty of opportunities for hiking around, which sounded perfect to me.  There is something refreshing about getting into the mountains I’m not sure exactly what it is, but I like it and need it at times.  Something about relief in the topography of the landscape allowing me to gaze into the distance and really see my surroundings.  No matter where you are the mountain air is fresher, which is most definitely welcome after spending any time in the choked and congested cityscape of Accra.  In reality the Kwahu plateau only stand about 750 meters above sea level, but relative to the whole of Ghana that’s pretty high. 

We took a long and curving taxi ride up following switchback after switchback until we level off on the plateau top.  The plan was to stay the first night in Tafu and check out the area from there.  Apparently we came at the peak of the funeral season and all of the lodging in town was completely occupied.  An older man took us to ask the chief if he could provide any housing for us, but unfortunately he was away, so we hopped back in a taxi and drove to decent sized township called Obo. 

The community rests in the center of a circular ridgeline with large (unoccupied) mansions on the mountainsides.  Dropping down into the bowl there was a sharp contrast between the rusted red corrugated steal roofs of the old colonial buildings and the lush deep green mountains surrounding the town.  We drove through the center of town and up the opposite ridge to a quasi resort that was mentioned in our guidebook.  I want to pause to say a few words about the infamous guidebook.  Guidebooks can be tremendously helpful and terrible restricting at the same time.  You really need to be careful when following the advice of a self-proclaimed guide who is willing to write down for you everything you need to know.  I think if you follow the recommendations too closely they have the potential of limiting what you see of any particular place and how you experience it as well.  It’s important to be prepared, but if you form expectations based on some else’s experiences your time won’t be original and unique.  Fortunate for us the resort place was way too expensive and so we walked back into the town proper and followed a sign to the central hotel.  It dusk by the time we found the hotel, which was nothing more than a large gray exposed concrete building that looked as if remodeling had begun some time ago and very minimal progress had been made.  Inside the place was bare, but clean and we were offered a room with a single bed for about 5 dollars a night.  We tossed our bags in the room and walked out to the sleepy streets of Obo to find some chop.  Blake wasn’t hungry so I settled for a fried egg sandwich.  The entire town was watching the Ghana Brazil soccer match we walked around stopping at various spots and provision stores to join everyone else in watching the game.  When Ghana won the small quiet town exploded for an instant with kids and adults rushing onto the streets yelling and singing and dancing like mad.  I stood there in the street watching and smiling and thinking about the pride of Ghana and how great this simple expression of unity is. 

The next morning we strolled around town again looking for something to eat and then set off to find a bush path that we could hike for a while.  We walked to the next town, which was quite a bit smaller, but still made up of slightly decaying old colonial buildings a few extravagant vacation homes.  At the far end of the town the paved road ended and a well used dirt path continued into the forest.  We passed by a good amount of people apparently on there way to a funeral from some remote village some few kilometers away.  Being Ghanaian, everyone asked us what we were doing and where we were going.  It was slightly odd to respond, just taking a walk, but I guess that’s what we were doing.  The forest was thick and lush here and we could see only a small distance into it.  There was virtually no wildlife beyond some crazy spiders and butterflies and other various insects.  It’s not surprising though, in the southern portion of Ghana most of the wildlife has been eradicated.  Farther along the path there were occasional glimpses of the massive sandstone cliffs that make up the edge of the plateau and are quite impressive.  We followed a side path down to what we thought was a waterfall or river, but turned out to be a small stream.  Banana trees were planted along the stream banks and they made for a welcome refuge.  We sat underneath their massive leaves and relaxed for a while before returning to Obo.

That night Blake went back to the room and I went out of the hotel to make a phone call home.  As I was walking onto the street I passed by a group of people about my age sitting around a table eating dinner.  They called for me to come over and join them.  Not wanting to be rude I walked over and they made room for me to sit down.  They told me to wash my hands and dig into the Banku and Okro stew.  Ghanaians find it so hilarious and shocking when white boys like myself enjoy their traditional dishes.  The food was good and we sat and chatted and got to know each other.  Most of the group were just visiting for the weekend and would be attending the funeral, the deceased was 110 years old by the way, and then returning to Accra.  The crazy mother of one of the guys came out to say hello and talk to me since we had met the day before on my initial arrival to Obo.  Her name is Matilda and she is quiet eccentric.  In fact the first time Blake and I met her we thought she was pretty tossed.  She insisted on only speaking Twi to me even though I’m sure she spoke decent English as well.  The interaction was hilarious and everyone was laughing as I did my best to understand what she was saying and respond with my very limited repitoire of Twi phrases.  The guys were going out to drink and party so I was left with Matilda and her crazy neighbor.  Don’t ask me how, but she saw that I had a dead black and blue toenail and she insisted on getting some unlabeled cream and rubbing it all over my foot.  Her large neighbor friend came over to see what was going on, grabbed my foot and started yanking on my toe wiggling it back and forth and laughing at me when I was obviously in some kind of discomfort.  Two other girls started laughing at me and I thought this lady was going to for sure pull my toe right out of the socket.  Matilda gave me the cream and told me to put it on everyday and my toe would be better in no time.  I’m still confused as to what exactly they thought was wrong with my foot.  That’s traditional medicine for you I guess.  

Sunday morning we woke up to a misty and drizzling morning a welcome change of climate from the scorching dry heat of the Harmattan.  We sucked down some pourage and took a taxi down to the banks of lake Volta to have a look around.  Dropping down from the plateau the lake comes into view as this expansive shimmering sheet of water that doesn’t quite belong where it is.  The lake really doesn’t have much of a basin making it seem that much more artificial.  We crossed via boat taxi at a narrow section of the lake and stepped onto Afram plains to try and find of place to swim.  The town was impoverished and sun was scorching hot, we didn’t feel welcome so about as quickly as we came, we left.  Back to Adowoso back to Accra.  

 

Stalemate

This entry is less specific to Ghana than to life in general and what has occupied my thoughts for some time now.  Maybe writing it out, sharing it with those of you who have taken the time to read the snapshots of my experiences will help me to figure things out in some way. 

 I’ve come to this point in my life where the decisions that have been carrying me forward are no longer being made for me.  The track that has bound me, kept me stable, and guided me this far is slowly ending and where has it brought me?  It’s brought me to a void, a deep abyss and I’m standing frozen at the edge peering into the nothingness reluctant to take a step forward.  I am confronted with this empty space and it’s my responsibility to do something with it.  I have been given the tools to build a bridge and I have to strike the first nail.  Initiative is the word I’m searching for, not ambition as I once thought.  Initiative to take that first step into the unknown, initiative to construct the plans of my future.  It sounds so simple then why do my feet refuse to move forward like I’m paralyzed in a dream my body unwilling to cooperate with my conscious mind.  I am standing in wet concrete and if I shake it off now I’ll escape, but the longer I hesitate the more immobile I will become until my legs are bound forever in this cast of doubt and anxiety. 

 I have been given so many options in which to move and yet they render me more confused than ever.  When there is only darkness how do you decide to step forward.  How do you feel the path when you can’t see it?  I must have a flashlight in my bag somewhere, but I only seem to fumble around in it without being able to pull it out.  Society gives us the blueprints to design our futures, but what if you reject them in preference for your own.  Have I learned creativity or has my education killed my imagination replacing it with formulas, definitions, and concepts that fit a predetermined system in which I’m even sure if I belong.  How do I know the right direction to travel when I’m not even sure what my destination looks like.  We all want to end up happy I guess, but what an abstract destination.  It has no location that I can think of in terms of space and time so I guess I’ll have to look further I guess we have to look further.

 The mortar is soft for now.  There is still hope.  We are still young.

Now Im Starting To Ramble...

There is something that I have been trying to put my finger on for a while now.  I don’t think it is unique to Ghana, but I have felt it more here than anywhere else.  I think I’ve been noticing a level of narrow mindedness and a lack of objectivity.  I would equate these characteristics with conservatism more than anything else.  It’s a situation where peoples minds seem so filled with rhetoric that they can’t even begin to imagine anything different.  I see it most in reference to things, lifestyles, habits that are not part of the widely accepted mainstream culture.  People view alternative lifestyles or choices with dismay, hatred, fear, or even disgust.  Two things in particular stand out in my mind marijuana and homosexuality.  When you ask someone what they think of smoking pot, why they don’t smoke and have never tried it they will tell you it makes you mad, violent, and crazy.  There are a lot of words that I would use to describe what marijuana does to you, but violent is most definitely not one of them.  I’m not trying to advocate the virtues of smoking weed I’m just trying to make a point about perception.  When you lack any personal experience with something it is hard to understand or believe anything that is contrary to what you have been taught.  Especially when you are not in the habit of asking questions.  When something is taboo the easiest way to prevent people from experiencing it is to teach them to be afraid.  It is fear that narrows the mind and fear that keeps people quiet fear of weed smokers and homosexuals, fear of a lifestyle that is different.  The people in positions of power, the ones who dictate the terms of culture focus on the negatives, draw out the darkest parts of whatever it is they feel threatens society and feed that evil to their disciples.  No wonder people are scared and threatened by homosexuality.  When gay people are portrayed as sex crazed maniacs who go about praying on innocent straight young men the concept of homosexuality does not look so friendly and acceptable.  It’s interesting to me how warped people’s perceptions can be when they lack objective information or the desire to get it.  I think about the gay people I know in the U.S and the healthy functioning relationships they are able to have and I imagine how mind blowing that might be for someone in Ghana.  

Benin Was A Flop

The plan seemed simple enough, yet I should have expected the complications that would soon render it impossible.  We were to board the bus at twelve o’clock midnight and drive to Benin for the Ghana vs. Benin soccer match.  A student group on campus organized the trip, and the person in charge fittingly referred to himself as Obama.  Ironic right. It’s not easy to round up sixty or so odd people and transport them across two borders, especially when you’re talking about West Africa.  Frankly, I was impressed.

 The first sign of trouble came when we received a text message informing us that we wouldn’t be leaving until 3:00 AM.  Ok fine.  I’ll just stay up until then and sleep on the ride to the game.  We show up at the central cafeteria, it’s about 3:15 and the majority of people already there are white.  Not surprised in the slightest.  Only one bus is there and I know there are supposed to be at least two.  About a half hour passes while we wait outside in the dark no sign of Obama or any of his representatives.  Eventually they load us onto the bus now it’s about 3:45 or so.  I sit down and pass out in my seat.  When I wake up the sun is beginning to rise and we haven’t moved an inch.  The second bus hasn’t arrived yet and people are still waiting outside, although I think a few have given up and gone back to their comfortable and welcoming beds.  At this point I am beginning to seriously doubt whether or not we are even going to leave the university.  By about 5:30 AM the bus is fully loaded and the driver starts up the big diesel engine and we leave, two and half hours behind schedule and leaving about half the group behind still waiting for the second bus.  I’m frustrated and slightly angry, but way too tired and incoherent to do much of anything so I just continue to get some kind of sleep while the bus bounces down the pothole strewn highways of Ghana.  The funny thing is that I still don’t even know for sure what time the game is starting.  I’ve heard 2:30, 3:00, and 4:30 from a number of different people.  Oh Ghana. 

 After driving for about three hours we reached Aflao, a border town between Ghana and Togo.  The driver pulls into the main station and we unload without every actually being told what is going on.  I get off, stretch my legs, exchange some money (cedis for cifa), and find a place to piss.  Everyone is just kind of walking around looking slightly confused or just sitting on the bus waiting to leave or hear any bit of information.  Finally, we pull out of the station and I beginning to think we might just make it.  Not five minutes later we are stopped again, this time at the actual border and I am told we are dealing with immigration services.  Uh oh.  All I was told to bring was my student ID card because the immigration details were all being taken care of for us.  I brought a copy of my passport and birth certificate just in case (my real passport is with immigration in Ghana, which is a whole different story).  Someone collects our identification and returns with immigration forms, which I am told to fill out.  Ok, I wasn’t expecting to have to deal with this and I can feel things beginning to fall apart.  Oh by the way, the other bus of people still hasn’t arrived in Aflao and we’ve been there for close to two hours.  Before the forms are collected one of the event organizers makes an announcement which I gather to say something like, we had a ministry escort to take us across the border who has left because we are too late and now if you want to go to Benin you will have to purchase single entry visas across both borders.  The cost will be close to one hundred cedi in total.  Deep breathe.  Should have been expected.  Seemed too good to be true.  Fuck. 

For the first time I take a look around me and realize we are parked about two hundred feet from the beach.  I look out the window and see white sand and turquoise blue water.  It’s a beautiful day and I am in the midst of a place worlds apart from anything I could have ever imagined three months ago.  Some people want to go check out the beach swim and hang out so I get down from the bus to join them.  We start to walk over, but even these plans are soon foiled.  Everyone keeps warning us the beach is unsafe, Aflao is a border town riddled with crime and theft.  You should just stay on the bus. Don’t go to the beach.  I think of Tijuana.  Well, I’m going to at least have a look.  It’s fairly crowded with people swimming, pulling in massive fishing nets, sleeping, hustling, or just looking sketchy.  The sweet smell of urine is floating in the breeze and I decide to leave my sandals on.  We are quickly ushered back to the bus and told we are leaving to go back to campus.  About 30 minutes out we meet the second bus and segregate ourselves.  Obrunis on one and Obibinis on the other, and off we go once again bouncing down the broken road music blasting the entire way.  

Empowerment

How do you empower people who have been rendered helpless? That is the question that I keep coming back to. Over the last two months I have had countless conversations all with the central theme of development. That is to say development in general: economic, social, and political because my sense of development cannot stand unless it is supported by all aspects of society. Conversation after conversation we always come back to the idea of empowerment. That is, individuals, communities must have the ability to fight for the changes they see necessary and their voices need an outlet, they need to be heard. It’s not enough for the government to make empty promise in the form of policy initiatives, average citizens need to be at the heart of any kind of movement towards national development. I always come back to the America during the 1960’s. I know it’s a bit cliché at this point, but it really was such a powerful time in our history. It was a time when ordinary citizens took responsibility for their country and their future into their own hands and changed the system, created a new status quo. It was a perfect example of empowerment. What were the conditions that fostered the civil rights movement, the women’s rights movement, and the environmental movement? How does a country like Ghana replicate such a revolution under its own terms?

Sometimes, the more you think about it the more impossible it seems especially because development is a nonlinear and multifaceted concept. My contemplation has led me to believe a few things on this subject and first and foremost corruption must not be tolerated. There is a serious problem when the president of a third world country is given two houses, four cars, exemption from taxes, and whatever else he wants, while a good number of his people cannot read or write. The corruption is not centralized in the highest reaches of government it is diffused among bureaucrats and police at every level. The police salaries in Ghana are so low that bribes are not only tolerated but expected to make up where legitimate pay falls short. Yet people simply say, well that’s just the way things are. Shit, get angry! Demand change. Stop relying on God to solve all of your problems while those in power continue to squander money and fail to stick behind policy. If a democratic government is what you are working with then institutions are key in my opinion. Institutions set the stage for behavior, and when institutions are strong and correct they have the ability to direct a government and its people in an appropriate and positive way. In my opinion that was central to the revolutionary movements of the 1960’s in America. The necessary institutions were in place to direct behavior and allow for change. The issue becomes complicated when you realize that maybe a government doesn’t want to get the institutions right; doesn’t want to expel corruption when that corruption is stuffing the pockets of the elite. When you think about it like that the question of development becomes even more grim and farther out of reach.

I’m not trying to be cynical or negative. I’m just trying to open a discussion and face reality.

Starting To Feel At Home

When I first came to Ghana I was blinded by the overwhelming “newness” of it. All I could see were the macroscopic differences between here and home. At that point there really was a drastic distinction between Ghana and my home. I was only able to see things skin deep so to speak and I was incapable of picking up on the subtleties of life. It’s been about two months now and I am feeling settled. Sometimes without thinking I refer to my room and campus as home. Then I catch myself and realize this is my home for now. I care about people here; I hope people care about me. I have a routine, I have responsibilities, and I have a life. What is it that defines “home”? It has to be more than the house I grew up in because I haven’t lived there permanently for more than three years. I think home is where you choose to invest your time in people and they are invested in you as well. Home doesn’t have to be such a concrete entity. Sometimes it is more of a feeling, an emotion, a sense, a vibe, or whatever you want to call; just something more abstract, something that can exist virtually anywhere. Ghana will never be my home in the same way that California is, my roots aren’t here, but on a different level I feel grounded here and I feel welcome here. I’m beginning to know the ins and outs, I have people to call on and I’m sure that if I were ever to come back I would have a place to stay. I am in the process of developing myself and part of my life and Ghana is the setting in which that is happening. I am functioning within this environment I am not just visiting and holding my breath until I return back to my proper home. No, I am here and I have had to learn how to survive, or do more than just survive, while breathing this humid air everyday. Although I have a ticket back, there is an end date to my stay, a definite moment when I will be leaving this place I think it will remain my home at some level. In that sense I am happy to admit that I have multiple homes and they don’t cease to exist in the absence of my presence.

 Now, back to my thought on observation, which ties into my understanding of one’s home. The “newness” has worn off a bit and I have begun to dig a bit deeper into this place. I have been able to develop a few relationships with Ghanaian friends that have moved beyond the superficial level. It is at this point that I have started to feel comfortable and settled in my life abroad. There is something about sharing personal thoughts and opinions with the people around you that draws you in to a place. I am learning that there are certain basic emotions that are universal and the issues around expressing or explaining those emotions are global as well. It’s interesting to me that half way around the world, in West Africa of all places, I would have a friend confide in me his suppression of jealousy, anger, and insecurity, and he was unsure if I would understand his position. I realize now that the incapacity to face our deepest fears, which usually lie within ourselves, does not discriminate, I am starting to believe that it is part of human nature. We tell ourselves that we have control we plan our lives so that we have some security, but the world can be random, unfair, and unpredictable. There is no control only a false sense of it. Maybe, suppressing insecurity is just another attempt at proving to ourselves that we have control and admitting it would just be too dangerous. In a place like Ghana where many people are merely surviving strength comes from the strength to manage poverty and I am not sure if that entails acceptance or denial, but I think the line is very thin. My friend is not living in poverty, but much of his culture is marked by it, so his inability to express himself does not surprise me at all. It is these kind of relationships that make a place feel like home to me and I feel lucky to have many.