At the beginning of the semester I was enrolled in Twi, which is one of the languages spoken here. I think I went to three classes and then realized that I knew how to say about three words and that I was mispronouncing all of them, so I dropped that class and decided to spend my Wednesdays at Beacon House, which is an orphanage in Accra. Can I also just add that three words is pretty much all you need because as soon as people hear you attempting to speak Twi they will 1. laugh 2. laugh some more 3. get really excited and ten correct you and then ask you five thousand more questions that we will never know the answer to because you have no idea what they are saying. Anyways. This week was the first time that Maggie and I went and I seriously wish that we could just spend the semester interning and doing volunteer work because classes just do not compare.
So Beacon House is, literally, a big house where about 30 kids from the age of 3 months to 14 years are living. All of the kids are special needs in that they've been abused in some way - not all are orphans as some have been abandoned or taken from their families for different reasons. We heard some pretty awful stories of what these kids have gone through and Beacon House really is doing an amazing thing and saving these kids lives. They told us that in the northern part of Ghana a lot of families accuse their children of being witches if they do anything that seems out of the ordinary, like being able to stack your fingers one on top of the other (which I used to do all the time!). So to save these children they have to be taken out of their homes and usually out of the area they are living so they are not still near their families, which is why a lot of children are sent south to Accra. The first hope is to eventually reunite the children with their families, but if that isn't possible (which it usually isn't) the next step is to try and place the child with a Ghanaian family. The problem with that is that in Ghana the concept of adoption is relatively new and most Ghanaian families will not adopt HIV positive children, so those Ghanaian families who do adopt usually move to another city so that they can present their adopted child as their biological child. The next step is finding an international family to adopt the children. There are also five or six HIV positive children but the people at Beacon House wanted to make it clear that they aren't treated differently and that you can only tell their status when the children leave three times a day to take their anti-retro viral drugs. The kids have house mothers and aunties that take care of them but because there are so many of them the kids are really in need of someone who can give them personal attention. Pretty much, they just want to be hugged and cuddled with for a couple hours and when we met the kids that became quite obvious.
As soon as we walked outside and were introduced a few of the braver kids ran up to us and grabbed our legs or our hands and within a minute they were asking to be picked up and were giving us hugs. And that is how we spent three hours - we read books and talked to the kids but for the most part they just wanted to sit on our laps and be carried around. As soon as you put one kid down there was another reaching up for you and of course you cannot say no because the kids are the most adorable children I've ever seen. They each have their own personality - some are shy and quiet while others are in your face screaming and laughing. When I was reading to one of the little girls she was sitting on my lap but after a while she just curled up into a ball on my legs while she listened to the book - mehhh my heart was melting. The kids could not get enough of me and Maggie's hair and while Maggie had some older children working on braids for her, I had a three year old who decided a knot would look oh so special - it was incredibly painful. They also were all over the sunburn on my back which still kills from Monday's Kwame Nkrumah centenary and it delighted them to poke my skin and see the change from white back to red. More obruni provided entertainment.
Awkward moments - the kids were all over the jewelry I was wearing. The crappy, made of yarn and embroidery floss bracelets I wear, my cheap earrings, and the one ring that I have on all the time. All of them wanted me to give them a bracelet or take off my earrings and give it to them - my first reaction was "No, I can't, they're mine!" but Maggie steered me in a better direction by pointing out that the kids were wearing earrings too and did they want to give me theirs? No, they did not. The psychology major is so much better at articulating herself than I am. The bracelet that really got to them was the one with the plastic beads that spells out my name - one girl got so upset that I wouldn't give it to her she started crying and then tried to hit me (don't worry, I was able to deflect it). When we promised her that one day we would make bracelets with her and she could have her own she just said that she didn't believe we would come back and that we'd never do it...I really just wanted to take off my bracelet and give it to her but I don't think Maggie would have approved of that.
Every time we would stand up the kids would ask if we were leaving and if we were going home, so when we finally were going home their next question was when we were coming back. "Tomorrow? Are you coming back tomorrow?" SEE why must I go to school?! Let me go to Beacon House everyday. When we were saying goodbye one girl walked up to me and asked me if I could bring her a picture of her family when I came back...and I did not even know how to respond. I just gave her a hug which is pretty much all I can do. Happier note to end the blog - all the kids were all smiles and hugs and waves and wouldn't stop calling out goodbye until we had literally walked out the door. So in my three hours at Beacon House, I got thrown up on by a baby, my hair pulled, my sunburn poked, and it was amazing. I can't wait to go back.
Saturday, September 26, 2009
Thursday, September 24, 2009
can you wink with both of your eyes? you are in the CIA
So this weekend was my first weekend back from London and I wanted it to be wild and crazy and full of events...and then the girls in my dorm decide it is the perfect weekend to watch all of the Harry Potter movies. All of them. NYU in Ghana students are...so wild. But Saturday we went to a hotel and used their pool and sat outside all day and it was lovely except for the fact that I felt like I got absolutely no sun. WELL that certainly changed come Monday.
Monday was Kwame Nkrumah's (first president of Ghana, Pan-Africanist, huge huge hugeeee African figure) one hundredth birthday so it was an official holiday and school was cancelled and everyone was like show up at eight in the morning you cannot be late. So we arrived at eight thirty in the morning and arrive at Independence Square, and no one is there. Festivities at Independence Square do not start until night time. So we decide to walk to Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park and along the way pass the usual people - beggar children grabbing our hands and men approaching us. Before I walked in a rasta told me, "Shake my hand. It's nice to be nice." Wise words from the Rastafarian. So everyone is all excited and wearing our red yellow and green ribbons, except for Holley because she is a sour puss and decided not to take one, and we walk in at nine in the morning...and no one is there. Because festivities do not start until one in the afternoon. We have four hours to kill. And on this day it was blazing hot and for once there is not a single cloud in the sky and none of us have worn sunscreen. Lovely.
I really feel like I experienced more in the four hours we spent waiting for things to start than the two hours we spent watching actual activities. First of all, for some reason, so many people thought it was really hilarious to take pictures of the awkward obrunis standing around getting red. Several times we caught people standing ten feet away from us taking pictures on their cell phones or, more awkwardly, thirty feet away taking a picture on their camera, then moving to another spot to take another picture at a different angle. At one point a guy approached Maggie to show her the picture he had just taken - he told her she had a nice face and without hesitating she said, "I DON'T want my picture taken." We also got the most random people who would come up and talk to us - one older man came up and started telling us how he used to live with people from the CIA and how they taught him that if you can do alternating winks, you are in the CIA.
Before all the actual activities started there were also a bunch of dance performances and musicians, a group of rollerbladers who were going up and down the street being rowdy and causing a ruckus, and then there were these men on stilts. It was madness -they were probably about twenty feet off the ground but they kept bending down and leaning back and dancing and I was sure at any moment one of them was going to fall onto the cement and the celebration would take a nasty turn. At one point when we were walking around we ended up in the area where all the stilt men were getting ready - it was like being surrounded by a herd of giraffes. They were walking over us and thought we were so hilarious and insisted we take pictures of them and with them and kept shouting down to us. I know that we are obrunis and stick out, but I also feel like our awkwardness gets us even more attention - when all this was going on we literally became part of the festivities and were surrounded and watched by the Ghanaians who stared and laughed at us.
Another highlight of the day - when we got kicked out of the place we were sitting because it was actually reserved for Ashanti chiefs (oops!) we went and sat with these school children who turned out to be so hilarious and surprisingly sassy. I was sitting next to Holley when all of a sudden she jumps because apparently her shirt had rode up a little too high and the children thought it would be best to reach over and pull it back down. They started asking us all our names and where we were and for our phone number so they could call us. When they found out Maggie spoke some French they got all excited and started asking her questions and then tried talking to us in Twi. Pretty much the rest of the time though they really enjoyed making fun of us. They would hear us talking in our American accents and then imitate us - we'd be chatting and then hear our words repeated - FOOOOOOOD (followed by hahahahaha), MODEL (hahahahah). They also thought that I was hilarious whenever I laughed and would then follow my laughter with their own - except, as Holley pointed out, they were laughing AT me, not with me. They taught Holley really fun hand games where they'd say something like "my boyfriend got me ice cream i got sick sick sick mama call the doctor quick quick quick" or something like that but then the fun part was after the song when they'd go, "Change your style! Change your style!" and pose each time. Those girls must be reading some fashion magazines because their poses were straight out of Vogue.
So finally at one the activities start and there were choirs and dancing performances, and then there were these solidarity speeches, all of which said pretty much the same thing and all of which were very appropriately reminiscent of Kwame Nkrumah's ideas and of his speeches. A lot of talk of Africans and members of the diasporic community coming together and uniting as one. So for the group of obrunis hanging around making jokes and turning the color of a tomato, it was a little uncomfortable. A lot of the people were talking about how this centenary can be the new revival of Pan-Africanism and how we need to continue the ideas of Kwame Nkrumah and develop an African personality and identity. The exception to this group was a woman who was obviously Western educated because of her accent who focused on the contribution of women during the time Kwame Nkrumah was in power - and then she moved on to how all the West did was exploit Africa and its resources and how it is all our fault for the problems Africa is facing today. Understandable but still...AWKWARD. Then we got to hear the president speak which was quite exciting - John Atta Mills is quite a small man! I would guess not more than 5'5". At one point Holley decided to be a dramatic American and squat on the ground from exhaustion, causing a man standing near us to literally run and go get here a chair because, naturally, we are more important than the President and need some of the attention. So after six hours of in the sun and with our skin on fire we decided to take ourselves back to our air conditioned dorms and finish up the Harry Potter marathon...at least there we don't have to worry about paparazzi shots.
Monday was Kwame Nkrumah's (first president of Ghana, Pan-Africanist, huge huge hugeeee African figure) one hundredth birthday so it was an official holiday and school was cancelled and everyone was like show up at eight in the morning you cannot be late. So we arrived at eight thirty in the morning and arrive at Independence Square, and no one is there. Festivities at Independence Square do not start until night time. So we decide to walk to Kwame Nkrumah Memorial Park and along the way pass the usual people - beggar children grabbing our hands and men approaching us. Before I walked in a rasta told me, "Shake my hand. It's nice to be nice." Wise words from the Rastafarian. So everyone is all excited and wearing our red yellow and green ribbons, except for Holley because she is a sour puss and decided not to take one, and we walk in at nine in the morning...and no one is there. Because festivities do not start until one in the afternoon. We have four hours to kill. And on this day it was blazing hot and for once there is not a single cloud in the sky and none of us have worn sunscreen. Lovely.
I really feel like I experienced more in the four hours we spent waiting for things to start than the two hours we spent watching actual activities. First of all, for some reason, so many people thought it was really hilarious to take pictures of the awkward obrunis standing around getting red. Several times we caught people standing ten feet away from us taking pictures on their cell phones or, more awkwardly, thirty feet away taking a picture on their camera, then moving to another spot to take another picture at a different angle. At one point a guy approached Maggie to show her the picture he had just taken - he told her she had a nice face and without hesitating she said, "I DON'T want my picture taken." We also got the most random people who would come up and talk to us - one older man came up and started telling us how he used to live with people from the CIA and how they taught him that if you can do alternating winks, you are in the CIA.
Before all the actual activities started there were also a bunch of dance performances and musicians, a group of rollerbladers who were going up and down the street being rowdy and causing a ruckus, and then there were these men on stilts. It was madness -they were probably about twenty feet off the ground but they kept bending down and leaning back and dancing and I was sure at any moment one of them was going to fall onto the cement and the celebration would take a nasty turn. At one point when we were walking around we ended up in the area where all the stilt men were getting ready - it was like being surrounded by a herd of giraffes. They were walking over us and thought we were so hilarious and insisted we take pictures of them and with them and kept shouting down to us. I know that we are obrunis and stick out, but I also feel like our awkwardness gets us even more attention - when all this was going on we literally became part of the festivities and were surrounded and watched by the Ghanaians who stared and laughed at us.
Another highlight of the day - when we got kicked out of the place we were sitting because it was actually reserved for Ashanti chiefs (oops!) we went and sat with these school children who turned out to be so hilarious and surprisingly sassy. I was sitting next to Holley when all of a sudden she jumps because apparently her shirt had rode up a little too high and the children thought it would be best to reach over and pull it back down. They started asking us all our names and where we were and for our phone number so they could call us. When they found out Maggie spoke some French they got all excited and started asking her questions and then tried talking to us in Twi. Pretty much the rest of the time though they really enjoyed making fun of us. They would hear us talking in our American accents and then imitate us - we'd be chatting and then hear our words repeated - FOOOOOOOD (followed by hahahahaha), MODEL (hahahahah). They also thought that I was hilarious whenever I laughed and would then follow my laughter with their own - except, as Holley pointed out, they were laughing AT me, not with me. They taught Holley really fun hand games where they'd say something like "my boyfriend got me ice cream i got sick sick sick mama call the doctor quick quick quick" or something like that but then the fun part was after the song when they'd go, "Change your style! Change your style!" and pose each time. Those girls must be reading some fashion magazines because their poses were straight out of Vogue.
So finally at one the activities start and there were choirs and dancing performances, and then there were these solidarity speeches, all of which said pretty much the same thing and all of which were very appropriately reminiscent of Kwame Nkrumah's ideas and of his speeches. A lot of talk of Africans and members of the diasporic community coming together and uniting as one. So for the group of obrunis hanging around making jokes and turning the color of a tomato, it was a little uncomfortable. A lot of the people were talking about how this centenary can be the new revival of Pan-Africanism and how we need to continue the ideas of Kwame Nkrumah and develop an African personality and identity. The exception to this group was a woman who was obviously Western educated because of her accent who focused on the contribution of women during the time Kwame Nkrumah was in power - and then she moved on to how all the West did was exploit Africa and its resources and how it is all our fault for the problems Africa is facing today. Understandable but still...AWKWARD. Then we got to hear the president speak which was quite exciting - John Atta Mills is quite a small man! I would guess not more than 5'5". At one point Holley decided to be a dramatic American and squat on the ground from exhaustion, causing a man standing near us to literally run and go get here a chair because, naturally, we are more important than the President and need some of the attention. So after six hours of in the sun and with our skin on fire we decided to take ourselves back to our air conditioned dorms and finish up the Harry Potter marathon...at least there we don't have to worry about paparazzi shots.
Thursday, September 17, 2009
i see them...swarming
My first days back in Ghana – oh my goodness I was such a grumpy ‘I miss London’ girl. Seriously. I went to Tesco before I left and stocked up on chocolate, microwaveable meals, cookies – I even went to Pret and got an extra TBM sandwich to bring back to Ghana with me and eat in front of all my friends. Terrible. I don’t really care though because all of them are busy posting photos of the amazing weekends they had while I was gone, so I will keep complaining.
Seriously though, you cannot blame me for being a little grumpy. Going from Africa to the UK back to Africa in the time span of a week is a mind trip – you have to switch your entire thinking back and forth. I went from being an Obruni to an American, from clutching onto my purse like it is my child wherever I go to being able to listen to my iPod when I walk down the street (a HUGE no-no in Accra), from eating fufu and plaintains to eating…whatever I want, from bartering with cabs to having a meter system and a night bus and the metro, and from ‘going out’ to reggae on the beach to going out to pubs and nightclubs that do not have their own ‘local’ vodka. And I could drink the tap water! Amazing. So when I got off the plane in Accra, if I didn’t know I had to get back into the obruni mindset, I was reminded by my reception in the airport. A young tall white girl traveling by herself at night in Accra – not so smart. When I walked outside to wait for my driver (yes, I arranged to have a driver, do not judge me) I got so many stares and saw so many men nudging each other and pointing, I felt like a circus freak. Which is how I feel most days, but that is besides the point. A fellow obruni who was hanging out with the Ghanaians even approached me asking if I had a ride, where I was going and if I needed help because, he said, as he looked around suspiciously, he could see the men ‘swarming’ around me. Uh huh, and you are one of them creepy obruni, so do not expect me to run thankfully into your arms.
Moving on, Tuesday was my first day at WAAF, and it was awesome. I felt like such a grown up because they gave me a desk with a computer to work at. Every time I typed I felt like a child who doesn’t know how to type or even read but is at her mom’s office and wants to seem grown up. What they’re going to have me and the other intern work on is the Peer Education program they have – they train twenty students at five different schools on the basics of HIV/AIDS - prevention, transmission, treatment, testing - and these students are supposed to educate the other students in the clubs that have been set up at these schools, called Passion Squads. Since they did the training the students just haven’t been having club meetings so our job is to go to the schools, figure out times for the meetings to happen, and then attend the meetings and help the peer educators lead them. We’re also creating and conducting questionnaires to see what information the students are missing or not getting in terms of HIV/AIDS. One of the things that came out of the last questionnaire was that a lot of students believe the disease can be contracted by ‘deep kissing’, so we need to make sure the students are getting the right information. We’re supposed to be coming up with creative ways to help the students learn and also to get them excited about attending meetings, so any suggestions would be much appreciated.
Yesterday we went to the first school to meet with the teacher in charge of the Passion Squad, and once again, it was awesome. The school is three long buildings that surround a huge dirt opening. When we arrived – two young blonde white people walking across this red-dirt field – the students went crazy. All of them were screaming ‘Obruni! Obruni! Hi Obruni!’ and waving and smiling and laughing, grabbing our hands or running up and poking us and then laughing hysterically and running away. I still felt like a circus freak, but the coolest circus freak in existence. The teacher we were meeting, Victoria, was so nice – she was holding a three-month-old little girl named Esther who was adorable, and when I did the required oohing and aahing over her Victoria immediately handed her over and let me hold her for the duration of our meeting. Taking notes really wasn’t necessary, it was much more important to play with this baby. Seeing all of the kids so excited and happy to see us made me so much more enthusiastic about working at WAAF – I thought I wanted an office job, but really I could spend all day hanging out with these kids, even if it’s to talk about AIDS and how deep kissing is not dangerous.
After I came back from the school, Maggie and I went back to Makola market because it has been a week without any new clothes from Marjorie and that needs to change. I thought that I somewhat knew my way around the market after having been there a few times, but I was proven wrong yesterday. Maggie and I wandered a bit after our first stop for fabric and when we saw a small road – which some might call an alley – we decided to wander down it and see where it took us. Well, it took us into this whole other realm of Makola market. I felt like this alley was the equivalent of the wardrobe leading us to Narnia. The space to walk went from the entire road to about two feet with people walking both ways, and the amount of people selling things quadrupled. Even walking felt like an obstacle course - a lot of times the path would become rocks or boards over holes that you would have to maneuver across. You were completely surrounded by things and people and stands and more people – it was ridiculous. When I imagine a market this is what I originally thought of, and yesterday we actually found it. And the other thing about where we were was that there was no exit – you had to keep walking straight because there was just no way to get out, and I felt like we were getting further and further and deeper and deeper and we were never going to escape.
Of course we got the stares we usually do, and the calls of ‘obruni!’ and ‘white!’, but it was also my first real experience of people reaching for us and touching us and grabbing our hands. Maggie was proposed to and men would also call out, ‘My wife!’ and then reach for us. Another man saw me, grabbed my hand, and asked ‘Are you from England?!’, and I was so flattered that I let him grab my hand and then faced the predicament that he didn’t want to let go. Luckily, I had Mama Maggie walking behind me who, without slowing her pace, gave his hand a giant heave away from mine and kept us going on our way. At one point we reached what I can only describe as a shoeland of sorts – for a good couple of minutes on our walk through this magical place the only thing being sold was shoes. Piles, and piles, and piles, and piles, of shoes. All kinds of shoes! Some pairs were tied together, some weren’t. The men selling them were just chilling around or on top of their piles – it was honestly really strange. I don’t know how we escaped from this place or if I could ever get back there again – I don’t know if it was even real, but it was amazing. I wish that I had brought my camera, or as Maggie mentioned, I wished that I could just have a boob cam on me at all times because taking pictures really does not do the experiences we have justice.
Seriously though, you cannot blame me for being a little grumpy. Going from Africa to the UK back to Africa in the time span of a week is a mind trip – you have to switch your entire thinking back and forth. I went from being an Obruni to an American, from clutching onto my purse like it is my child wherever I go to being able to listen to my iPod when I walk down the street (a HUGE no-no in Accra), from eating fufu and plaintains to eating…whatever I want, from bartering with cabs to having a meter system and a night bus and the metro, and from ‘going out’ to reggae on the beach to going out to pubs and nightclubs that do not have their own ‘local’ vodka. And I could drink the tap water! Amazing. So when I got off the plane in Accra, if I didn’t know I had to get back into the obruni mindset, I was reminded by my reception in the airport. A young tall white girl traveling by herself at night in Accra – not so smart. When I walked outside to wait for my driver (yes, I arranged to have a driver, do not judge me) I got so many stares and saw so many men nudging each other and pointing, I felt like a circus freak. Which is how I feel most days, but that is besides the point. A fellow obruni who was hanging out with the Ghanaians even approached me asking if I had a ride, where I was going and if I needed help because, he said, as he looked around suspiciously, he could see the men ‘swarming’ around me. Uh huh, and you are one of them creepy obruni, so do not expect me to run thankfully into your arms.
Moving on, Tuesday was my first day at WAAF, and it was awesome. I felt like such a grown up because they gave me a desk with a computer to work at. Every time I typed I felt like a child who doesn’t know how to type or even read but is at her mom’s office and wants to seem grown up. What they’re going to have me and the other intern work on is the Peer Education program they have – they train twenty students at five different schools on the basics of HIV/AIDS - prevention, transmission, treatment, testing - and these students are supposed to educate the other students in the clubs that have been set up at these schools, called Passion Squads. Since they did the training the students just haven’t been having club meetings so our job is to go to the schools, figure out times for the meetings to happen, and then attend the meetings and help the peer educators lead them. We’re also creating and conducting questionnaires to see what information the students are missing or not getting in terms of HIV/AIDS. One of the things that came out of the last questionnaire was that a lot of students believe the disease can be contracted by ‘deep kissing’, so we need to make sure the students are getting the right information. We’re supposed to be coming up with creative ways to help the students learn and also to get them excited about attending meetings, so any suggestions would be much appreciated.
Yesterday we went to the first school to meet with the teacher in charge of the Passion Squad, and once again, it was awesome. The school is three long buildings that surround a huge dirt opening. When we arrived – two young blonde white people walking across this red-dirt field – the students went crazy. All of them were screaming ‘Obruni! Obruni! Hi Obruni!’ and waving and smiling and laughing, grabbing our hands or running up and poking us and then laughing hysterically and running away. I still felt like a circus freak, but the coolest circus freak in existence. The teacher we were meeting, Victoria, was so nice – she was holding a three-month-old little girl named Esther who was adorable, and when I did the required oohing and aahing over her Victoria immediately handed her over and let me hold her for the duration of our meeting. Taking notes really wasn’t necessary, it was much more important to play with this baby. Seeing all of the kids so excited and happy to see us made me so much more enthusiastic about working at WAAF – I thought I wanted an office job, but really I could spend all day hanging out with these kids, even if it’s to talk about AIDS and how deep kissing is not dangerous.
After I came back from the school, Maggie and I went back to Makola market because it has been a week without any new clothes from Marjorie and that needs to change. I thought that I somewhat knew my way around the market after having been there a few times, but I was proven wrong yesterday. Maggie and I wandered a bit after our first stop for fabric and when we saw a small road – which some might call an alley – we decided to wander down it and see where it took us. Well, it took us into this whole other realm of Makola market. I felt like this alley was the equivalent of the wardrobe leading us to Narnia. The space to walk went from the entire road to about two feet with people walking both ways, and the amount of people selling things quadrupled. Even walking felt like an obstacle course - a lot of times the path would become rocks or boards over holes that you would have to maneuver across. You were completely surrounded by things and people and stands and more people – it was ridiculous. When I imagine a market this is what I originally thought of, and yesterday we actually found it. And the other thing about where we were was that there was no exit – you had to keep walking straight because there was just no way to get out, and I felt like we were getting further and further and deeper and deeper and we were never going to escape.
Of course we got the stares we usually do, and the calls of ‘obruni!’ and ‘white!’, but it was also my first real experience of people reaching for us and touching us and grabbing our hands. Maggie was proposed to and men would also call out, ‘My wife!’ and then reach for us. Another man saw me, grabbed my hand, and asked ‘Are you from England?!’, and I was so flattered that I let him grab my hand and then faced the predicament that he didn’t want to let go. Luckily, I had Mama Maggie walking behind me who, without slowing her pace, gave his hand a giant heave away from mine and kept us going on our way. At one point we reached what I can only describe as a shoeland of sorts – for a good couple of minutes on our walk through this magical place the only thing being sold was shoes. Piles, and piles, and piles, and piles, of shoes. All kinds of shoes! Some pairs were tied together, some weren’t. The men selling them were just chilling around or on top of their piles – it was honestly really strange. I don’t know how we escaped from this place or if I could ever get back there again – I don’t know if it was even real, but it was amazing. I wish that I had brought my camera, or as Maggie mentioned, I wished that I could just have a boob cam on me at all times because taking pictures really does not do the experiences we have justice.
Sunday, September 13, 2009
i have reconnected to my roots - my WASP-y roots, that is
Most people who know me know me as a London enthusiast – I declare my love for this city on a regular basis. Ask me why, though, and my answer will usually be something along the lines of – I don’t know I just do so stop talking. So with this little London vacation I tried to pinpoint why it is that I love this city so much, and what I’ve up with is…a very lengthy post.
• History. Do I really need to elaborate? I’m going to anyway. Let’s not play around – England has a pretty bomb history which you can see just by walking down the street - those little blue landmark circles on the side of buildings that tell you where Sigmund Freud used to live or where Charles Dickens used to hang out. It’s ridiculous – everywhere you go some monarch or writer or great thinker has been before. My favorite is Tudor history – Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Mary, Elizabeth. While I was here I bought The Lady Elizabeth by Allison Weir and let me tell you – there is nothing that compares to reading about Elizabeth I and knowing and recognizing the places that are mentioned because FOUR HUNDRED YEARS LATER, they’re still there. This week we went and visited the Tower, and to get to see where Anne Boleyn was beheaded, or where Thomas More and Jane Grey were brought in through Traitor’s Gate- amazing. Yes, I am a dork, and I love every minute of it. It’s just an experience you will not get anywhere else. I love America (well…sort of), but I just don’t think that reading about the Gold Rush while visiting California will give me the same chills. Sorry.
• The accents. And the people who speak them. The following will be a series of personal statements that many will disagree with. People with accents sound smarter. American accents are ugly, especially compared to British accents. I know this because several times when I have been in London I have been told, by Brits, that they hate American accents. And even when I’m being insulted, I don’t really mind because I love listening to their voices. Another example from a situation that happened this week – construction workers and women (in this case the women were me and my friend). American and British construction workers are similar in this situation, but I would much rather hear, “Forget the cab, love, why don’t you call me?” than anything that Manhattan construction workers have offered up in the past two years.
• Skins. This is just one thing, but it is one absolutely fantastic thing. For those who have never seen an episode of Skins (as it is a television show), I pity you. The characters, the dialogue, the music – it just all adds up to perfection. Go do some youtube work.
***I know that Skins is not set in London, it is set in Bristol. However, it is still my favorite.***
• Music. Here is another command – go to iTunes and see what the number one song is in the United States. Last time I checked it was Miley Cyrus’ song, Party in the USA. When I saw this I officially lost all faith in humanity. And this is why my iTunes store is set for the United Kingdom. I’m sorry, but Americans just seem to like horrible music. People in London do not. I’m not saying that I have excellent music taste, but I think that is slightly (more than slightly) better than that of the average American. The live music is also amazing – I’ve seen so many fantastic shows and discovered so many new artists that have become favorites by accidentally showing up at clubs where someone is performing – Florence and the Machine, I am referencing you.
• Food – specifically, TBMs. English food is…not good. Any other type of food IN England? Delicious. Indian and Thai especially, and my meat eating friends also really seem to enjoy all of their roasts and such. I wouldn’t know about that. The number one food love of my life, French fries (or chips if we are in England speak), are also incredibly amazing and cheap (Chicken holds a special place in my heart for its one pound box of chips). And TBMs (tomato basil mozzarella on a baguette) I have not had a sandwich in…three weeks. I not only rediscovered my roots but I rediscovered my love for these wonderful little sandwiches – I think I ate one everyday during my week in London. I do not like cheese, I do not like tomatoes, but gosh those things really get me going. Favorite moment of the week – eating a TBM in Regent’s Park while reading The Lady Elizabeth.
• The London Lite. For those who don’t know what I’im talking about, the London Lite is a daily tabloid/newspaper that they give out for free. And when I say give out I mean shove in your hand – everyday people wearing these bright yellow jackets try to give out as many of these as they can in as little time as possible. There are several other papers that are given out – London News, the Metro – but the London Lite is my favorite and I will tell you why. In one issue, I can see pictures of celebrities absolutely trashed leaving nightclubs that I actually recognize (because – another great thing about London – I am OF AGE!), read about the latest football riot in West Ham, the girl that was attacked on Pentonville Road (coincidentally, the same street that I lived on for four months) learn about the newest nightclubs and bars and what is going on that night – such as the first anniversary of Matter (yesss), how tall people are happier, and finally, I can read about the blind date that the London Lite set up for two Londoners because, well, they are just that nice. Just glorious.
There’s many things I haven’t touched on - perhaps this marathon post will become a two-parter, but I think this is a fine beginning. If it is not obvious, I am an incredible snob and think that a group that I am not and never will be part of is far better than everyone else. Such is life. Even though I will never be able to call myself British, the feeling that I get whenever I am in London is enough to leave me incredibly homesick for the city whenever I’m away from it. Yes, it’s expensive, and yes, they have a reputation for bad teeth. I don’t care. I love London because it makes me feel like a classier version of myself – until I start speaking, that is.
• History. Do I really need to elaborate? I’m going to anyway. Let’s not play around – England has a pretty bomb history which you can see just by walking down the street - those little blue landmark circles on the side of buildings that tell you where Sigmund Freud used to live or where Charles Dickens used to hang out. It’s ridiculous – everywhere you go some monarch or writer or great thinker has been before. My favorite is Tudor history – Henry VIII, Anne Boleyn, Mary, Elizabeth. While I was here I bought The Lady Elizabeth by Allison Weir and let me tell you – there is nothing that compares to reading about Elizabeth I and knowing and recognizing the places that are mentioned because FOUR HUNDRED YEARS LATER, they’re still there. This week we went and visited the Tower, and to get to see where Anne Boleyn was beheaded, or where Thomas More and Jane Grey were brought in through Traitor’s Gate- amazing. Yes, I am a dork, and I love every minute of it. It’s just an experience you will not get anywhere else. I love America (well…sort of), but I just don’t think that reading about the Gold Rush while visiting California will give me the same chills. Sorry.
• The accents. And the people who speak them. The following will be a series of personal statements that many will disagree with. People with accents sound smarter. American accents are ugly, especially compared to British accents. I know this because several times when I have been in London I have been told, by Brits, that they hate American accents. And even when I’m being insulted, I don’t really mind because I love listening to their voices. Another example from a situation that happened this week – construction workers and women (in this case the women were me and my friend). American and British construction workers are similar in this situation, but I would much rather hear, “Forget the cab, love, why don’t you call me?” than anything that Manhattan construction workers have offered up in the past two years.
• Skins. This is just one thing, but it is one absolutely fantastic thing. For those who have never seen an episode of Skins (as it is a television show), I pity you. The characters, the dialogue, the music – it just all adds up to perfection. Go do some youtube work.
***I know that Skins is not set in London, it is set in Bristol. However, it is still my favorite.***
• Music. Here is another command – go to iTunes and see what the number one song is in the United States. Last time I checked it was Miley Cyrus’ song, Party in the USA. When I saw this I officially lost all faith in humanity. And this is why my iTunes store is set for the United Kingdom. I’m sorry, but Americans just seem to like horrible music. People in London do not. I’m not saying that I have excellent music taste, but I think that is slightly (more than slightly) better than that of the average American. The live music is also amazing – I’ve seen so many fantastic shows and discovered so many new artists that have become favorites by accidentally showing up at clubs where someone is performing – Florence and the Machine, I am referencing you.
• Food – specifically, TBMs. English food is…not good. Any other type of food IN England? Delicious. Indian and Thai especially, and my meat eating friends also really seem to enjoy all of their roasts and such. I wouldn’t know about that. The number one food love of my life, French fries (or chips if we are in England speak), are also incredibly amazing and cheap (Chicken holds a special place in my heart for its one pound box of chips). And TBMs (tomato basil mozzarella on a baguette) I have not had a sandwich in…three weeks. I not only rediscovered my roots but I rediscovered my love for these wonderful little sandwiches – I think I ate one everyday during my week in London. I do not like cheese, I do not like tomatoes, but gosh those things really get me going. Favorite moment of the week – eating a TBM in Regent’s Park while reading The Lady Elizabeth.
• The London Lite. For those who don’t know what I’im talking about, the London Lite is a daily tabloid/newspaper that they give out for free. And when I say give out I mean shove in your hand – everyday people wearing these bright yellow jackets try to give out as many of these as they can in as little time as possible. There are several other papers that are given out – London News, the Metro – but the London Lite is my favorite and I will tell you why. In one issue, I can see pictures of celebrities absolutely trashed leaving nightclubs that I actually recognize (because – another great thing about London – I am OF AGE!), read about the latest football riot in West Ham, the girl that was attacked on Pentonville Road (coincidentally, the same street that I lived on for four months) learn about the newest nightclubs and bars and what is going on that night – such as the first anniversary of Matter (yesss), how tall people are happier, and finally, I can read about the blind date that the London Lite set up for two Londoners because, well, they are just that nice. Just glorious.
There’s many things I haven’t touched on - perhaps this marathon post will become a two-parter, but I think this is a fine beginning. If it is not obvious, I am an incredible snob and think that a group that I am not and never will be part of is far better than everyone else. Such is life. Even though I will never be able to call myself British, the feeling that I get whenever I am in London is enough to leave me incredibly homesick for the city whenever I’m away from it. Yes, it’s expensive, and yes, they have a reputation for bad teeth. I don’t care. I love London because it makes me feel like a classier version of myself – until I start speaking, that is.
Sunday, September 6, 2009
i am no longer an obruni...now i'm an obnoxious american
Never did I think that a visit to an airport could give such an impression that I am compelled to write about it. This was before I went through Kotoka International Airport in Accra.
I’m traveling to London for a week and missing about everything you could imagine in Accra (I hope it’s cloudy everyday and all of your air conditioners break – just kidding..sort of…I miss you all already) so I’m making a solo trip through Kotoka. Small Sammy (our driver) was nice enough to give me a ride to the airport, and when we got there, being the naïve girl that I am, I asked him if there were separate drop offs depending on the airline. He stared at me for at least a minute and I have never felt more like a spoiled American – the answer is no. This is not JFK, this is not Heathrow, this is Kotoka. When I got inside I could see why –there were probably about five flights that were going out that night. Thus begins the experience of Kotoka.
You get stopped about every twenty feet in this airport. It was like traffic on the highway – you finally think you’re able to start moving and then you stop again. Not to offend the workers, but I honestly think it was because people are curious and just want to look through passports. Sir…you just watched me get my passport and boarding pass checked by three other people in the span of 100 yards…I got so many hisses getting to my gate because I had walked by some employee who I had not noticed.
Everyone thinks that I am incredibly sketchy in this airport. Or they’re just nosy. I gave my driver’s license to one of the security people because I didn’t have my passport out, and they thought that it was fake. They asked what it was and when I told them it was my driver’s license, they scoffed and then ran it through a scanner after examining it front and back. They also looked at my passport for about five minutes and then said ‘BLUE? Your eyes are not blue!’. Yes, actually, my eyes are blue. More laughs. I don’t know if this was on purpose but they also put me in a check in line where every single person in front of me either had 800 children or 800 bags to check in (come on people, really? I was able to be underweight for the first time ever, I think you could do the same) and when I was finally able to check in, the man could not stop asking me questions about what I was doing in London and Accra. And then repeating and laughing at all of my answers. He also really enjoyed looking through my passports at all the stamps I’ve gotten.
Security at Kotoka is AWESOME. I hate having to go through security and take out my laptop and take off my shoes and awkward wait in line with strangers and we are all barefoot and nervous our stuff will get stolen if we leave it a the end of the line for too long. Not necessary here – I told the man I had a laptop – ‘that’s fine!’. And it gets to stay in the backpack. You also get to keep your shoes on…lovely. America should be so chill. But then I left my watch on because I am an idiot and security beeped and I had to be searched anyway.
There are two gates at Kotoka airport. Just two. You would think it is incredibly small but actually, the two gates have about 1000 seats in each boarding area and it is incredibly annoying to walk through a mile of hallways to get to the gate.
That is all for the close analysis of Kotoka…I’m sure you have really enjoyed it. By the way – watching the Tudors at the airport is incredibly uncomfortable. And incredibly inappropriate.
After note – I thought that coming to London I would finally blend in and not be pointed out for being an Obruni. But walking through the airport and the streets of London to get to my hotel wearing a custom made shirt from African fabric and shorts in sixty degree weather kind of killed that.
I’m traveling to London for a week and missing about everything you could imagine in Accra (I hope it’s cloudy everyday and all of your air conditioners break – just kidding..sort of…I miss you all already) so I’m making a solo trip through Kotoka. Small Sammy (our driver) was nice enough to give me a ride to the airport, and when we got there, being the naïve girl that I am, I asked him if there were separate drop offs depending on the airline. He stared at me for at least a minute and I have never felt more like a spoiled American – the answer is no. This is not JFK, this is not Heathrow, this is Kotoka. When I got inside I could see why –there were probably about five flights that were going out that night. Thus begins the experience of Kotoka.
You get stopped about every twenty feet in this airport. It was like traffic on the highway – you finally think you’re able to start moving and then you stop again. Not to offend the workers, but I honestly think it was because people are curious and just want to look through passports. Sir…you just watched me get my passport and boarding pass checked by three other people in the span of 100 yards…I got so many hisses getting to my gate because I had walked by some employee who I had not noticed.
Everyone thinks that I am incredibly sketchy in this airport. Or they’re just nosy. I gave my driver’s license to one of the security people because I didn’t have my passport out, and they thought that it was fake. They asked what it was and when I told them it was my driver’s license, they scoffed and then ran it through a scanner after examining it front and back. They also looked at my passport for about five minutes and then said ‘BLUE? Your eyes are not blue!’. Yes, actually, my eyes are blue. More laughs. I don’t know if this was on purpose but they also put me in a check in line where every single person in front of me either had 800 children or 800 bags to check in (come on people, really? I was able to be underweight for the first time ever, I think you could do the same) and when I was finally able to check in, the man could not stop asking me questions about what I was doing in London and Accra. And then repeating and laughing at all of my answers. He also really enjoyed looking through my passports at all the stamps I’ve gotten.
Security at Kotoka is AWESOME. I hate having to go through security and take out my laptop and take off my shoes and awkward wait in line with strangers and we are all barefoot and nervous our stuff will get stolen if we leave it a the end of the line for too long. Not necessary here – I told the man I had a laptop – ‘that’s fine!’. And it gets to stay in the backpack. You also get to keep your shoes on…lovely. America should be so chill. But then I left my watch on because I am an idiot and security beeped and I had to be searched anyway.
There are two gates at Kotoka airport. Just two. You would think it is incredibly small but actually, the two gates have about 1000 seats in each boarding area and it is incredibly annoying to walk through a mile of hallways to get to the gate.
That is all for the close analysis of Kotoka…I’m sure you have really enjoyed it. By the way – watching the Tudors at the airport is incredibly uncomfortable. And incredibly inappropriate.
After note – I thought that coming to London I would finally blend in and not be pointed out for being an Obruni. But walking through the airport and the streets of London to get to my hotel wearing a custom made shirt from African fabric and shorts in sixty degree weather kind of killed that.
Friday, September 4, 2009
do not honk at me taxi...just because i am an obruni doesn't mean i can't walk
Everyone else here makes Ghanaian friends that I tag along with because I am too unapproachable to meet any friends on my own. Maggie being the nice, approachable, and nerdy girl that she is has made lots of friends (especially of the male variety...). One of these friends is Juliana, who lives down the street from us and also runs a shop with secondhand clothes. We visited her shop yesterday and it was quite an experience. All of her sisters and a ton of children were there and greeted us like we were the highlight of their day –there was lots of shrieking and hugs…I felt like Oprah. BTW...Whitney is apparently a very difficult name to pronounce so introductions took about ten minutes…not Richley, not Winny…no. Anyway...these women were crazy, which you are not allowed to say in Ghana because it is a huge insult, but I doubt anyone form Ghana is interested in the obruni perspective and will be reading this. Crazy in the best possible way – they were so loud and never stopped joking or laughing, and they kept sharing story after story with us. They also gave us cokes and I have been so caffeine deprived since I’ve gotten here that I loved them immediately.
Juliana’s sister at one point in our visit mentioned that she wants to marry a white man because apparently white men treat you better than black men do. This was her reasoning:
• All black husbands do is yell at their wives to cook and clean.
• Black men can beat their wives.
• White men will not beat their wives.
• White men are nice.
• White men take care of their women and families.
I wish I was kidding. We all tried to tell her that no, white men are not all nice, there are white men who will abandon their family/beat their wives, but they were unconvinced. They also told us that they like white people better because we are more respectful to each other – it is safe to say that there is a skewed perception of the States in the Ghanaian community. There is still the belief that all white people must have money, or that if they meet a white man or a foreigner that they’ll be able to stop working, come to America, and have a better life, and I don’t really blame these women for wanting that. It’s obvious that they are working ridiculously hard – running a business and having a family puts a huge amount of responsibility and pressure on them, and they still have a fantastic attitude and an incredibly friendly and generous personality. The only thing about this is that this means the kids are having a very different childhood than what we are used to seeing – the older kids very often are taking care of the younger kids and spending a lot of their time hanging out and helping out around the stand. No playgrounds, no toys, no afterschool activities. But I will tell you; I’ve never seen more adorable children than the ones running around Accra. I want to steal them all.
Tonight I am off to London so the posts will be a little different – hopefully I will find a white man to marry me. I heard they treat women the best.
Juliana’s sister at one point in our visit mentioned that she wants to marry a white man because apparently white men treat you better than black men do. This was her reasoning:
• All black husbands do is yell at their wives to cook and clean.
• Black men can beat their wives.
• White men will not beat their wives.
• White men are nice.
• White men take care of their women and families.
I wish I was kidding. We all tried to tell her that no, white men are not all nice, there are white men who will abandon their family/beat their wives, but they were unconvinced. They also told us that they like white people better because we are more respectful to each other – it is safe to say that there is a skewed perception of the States in the Ghanaian community. There is still the belief that all white people must have money, or that if they meet a white man or a foreigner that they’ll be able to stop working, come to America, and have a better life, and I don’t really blame these women for wanting that. It’s obvious that they are working ridiculously hard – running a business and having a family puts a huge amount of responsibility and pressure on them, and they still have a fantastic attitude and an incredibly friendly and generous personality. The only thing about this is that this means the kids are having a very different childhood than what we are used to seeing – the older kids very often are taking care of the younger kids and spending a lot of their time hanging out and helping out around the stand. No playgrounds, no toys, no afterschool activities. But I will tell you; I’ve never seen more adorable children than the ones running around Accra. I want to steal them all.
Tonight I am off to London so the posts will be a little different – hopefully I will find a white man to marry me. I heard they treat women the best.
Tuesday, September 1, 2009
"we like to maintain a good relationship with NYU"
So for part of my major I’m required to do an internship and being an African Studies major I figured it was smart to get that requirement done in Africa. First off, how NYU in Ghana sets us up with placements is ridiculous. We’re given a list of organizations (mostly NGOs) that WE choose from – first choice, second choice, third choice. That’s all we do. No submission of anything more than resume, not even to the organization itself, but to Victor, the internship guy at our academic center (who then is the middle man between us and these places), no interviews, no competition from other people. We get to handpick where we go. INSANE.
My first choice, which I got (because I go to NYU and am entitled to it), was WAAF, the West Africa Aids Foundation. I will begin the telling of this day by saying that I was in a foul mood. I had an 8 am class, it was ridiculously hot (but not sunny) and while my friends were going to stuff their faces with delicious desserts in Osu (yes you, Holley and Maggie), I had to wait around the dorm until it was time to go to the academic center to then go to WAAF for my interview. This is another example of Ghanaians sense of time – the interview was at 1:15, so we were supposed to leave at one. I arrived at 12:45 and then, at one, found out I had to wait another hour because the interview had gotten pushed back. I waited an hour, then I waited some more, and then I found out that we would have to take a cab (which I and the other person going for an interview had to pay for) because the vans were busy. We also had the most ridiculously irate cab driver that desperately needs some anger management classes. I have never heard someone honk their horn so much during a single ride, and this man was also slamming his hands on the car, making hand gestures which I’m sure in Ghana are considered obscene, and sticking his head out the window screaming at people who cut him off or who were going too slow. I was ready to go home before we got there.
After paying for the cab and running from the car so that this cab driver would not run over me for walking too slow, we were introduced to the people of WAAF. The woman who we talked to couldn’t have been nicer. She told us how much she had enjoyed working with NYU students, how they'd had great experiences working on projects with them in the past, how they had had to turn many people away because…and I had been waiting for this… ‘we like to give priority to NYU students’. Uh huh…I’m sure you do. BECAUSE NYU OWNS THE WORLD. I have no shame in saying that I am completely unqualified to even be walking around this facility, let alone interning and being allowed to put this on my resume. I have absolutely no experience in public health. I work at daycare centers and at reading camps and as a nanny. I’m not going to flatter myself into thinking that I am a really valuable candidate – in the real world this would never happen, but luckily I do not have to live in the real world for another two years. Anyway.
We got a tour of the hospital that WAAF shares space with and pretty much as soon as I walked in my mood turned around. The clinic is very basic but it is doing and has done some amazing things - the space is very small so reception is outside on the front deck and there’s just one room for initial reception – testing for AIDS, recording vital signs, and for the treatment of small injuries (with supplies donated by students and volunteers). There’s also a (very small) pharmacy with basic medicines and the anti-retroviral drugs used to treat HIV. These drugs are available for five cedis (about 4 dollars), but we were told that a lot of people cannot even afford this price. They have a laboratory on site where they test the blood that they’ve taken to see if it is positive or negative -we got to go in there even though there were several signs saying it was off limits – but we are Americans and nothing is off limits. The men’s ward had only three beds and the women’s wards had about six – there was no one in either ward and when I asked why we were told that the people who do need overnight care don’t come for it because they can not afford to pay for it – the clinic will treat them until their closing time and then send them home unless a patient is in critical condition. At one point the clinic was treating around 200 people – there was so many patients that they overflowed the space and many had to lie on the floor or on mats, but lack of money seems to be limiting what they can do now. Which I can change because years of daycare experience have taught me what to do – NOT. But seriously…I will remember this as a time I am very grateful to go to such a faceless school as NYU. Sorry to all the people who actually deserve to work there…
Quite a serious post so here's a song we have been hearing EVERYWHERE (don't worry Holley, it's not Ashawo)... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqNUH7uw418
My first choice, which I got (because I go to NYU and am entitled to it), was WAAF, the West Africa Aids Foundation. I will begin the telling of this day by saying that I was in a foul mood. I had an 8 am class, it was ridiculously hot (but not sunny) and while my friends were going to stuff their faces with delicious desserts in Osu (yes you, Holley and Maggie), I had to wait around the dorm until it was time to go to the academic center to then go to WAAF for my interview. This is another example of Ghanaians sense of time – the interview was at 1:15, so we were supposed to leave at one. I arrived at 12:45 and then, at one, found out I had to wait another hour because the interview had gotten pushed back. I waited an hour, then I waited some more, and then I found out that we would have to take a cab (which I and the other person going for an interview had to pay for) because the vans were busy. We also had the most ridiculously irate cab driver that desperately needs some anger management classes. I have never heard someone honk their horn so much during a single ride, and this man was also slamming his hands on the car, making hand gestures which I’m sure in Ghana are considered obscene, and sticking his head out the window screaming at people who cut him off or who were going too slow. I was ready to go home before we got there.
After paying for the cab and running from the car so that this cab driver would not run over me for walking too slow, we were introduced to the people of WAAF. The woman who we talked to couldn’t have been nicer. She told us how much she had enjoyed working with NYU students, how they'd had great experiences working on projects with them in the past, how they had had to turn many people away because…and I had been waiting for this… ‘we like to give priority to NYU students’. Uh huh…I’m sure you do. BECAUSE NYU OWNS THE WORLD. I have no shame in saying that I am completely unqualified to even be walking around this facility, let alone interning and being allowed to put this on my resume. I have absolutely no experience in public health. I work at daycare centers and at reading camps and as a nanny. I’m not going to flatter myself into thinking that I am a really valuable candidate – in the real world this would never happen, but luckily I do not have to live in the real world for another two years. Anyway.
We got a tour of the hospital that WAAF shares space with and pretty much as soon as I walked in my mood turned around. The clinic is very basic but it is doing and has done some amazing things - the space is very small so reception is outside on the front deck and there’s just one room for initial reception – testing for AIDS, recording vital signs, and for the treatment of small injuries (with supplies donated by students and volunteers). There’s also a (very small) pharmacy with basic medicines and the anti-retroviral drugs used to treat HIV. These drugs are available for five cedis (about 4 dollars), but we were told that a lot of people cannot even afford this price. They have a laboratory on site where they test the blood that they’ve taken to see if it is positive or negative -we got to go in there even though there were several signs saying it was off limits – but we are Americans and nothing is off limits. The men’s ward had only three beds and the women’s wards had about six – there was no one in either ward and when I asked why we were told that the people who do need overnight care don’t come for it because they can not afford to pay for it – the clinic will treat them until their closing time and then send them home unless a patient is in critical condition. At one point the clinic was treating around 200 people – there was so many patients that they overflowed the space and many had to lie on the floor or on mats, but lack of money seems to be limiting what they can do now. Which I can change because years of daycare experience have taught me what to do – NOT. But seriously…I will remember this as a time I am very grateful to go to such a faceless school as NYU. Sorry to all the people who actually deserve to work there…
Quite a serious post so here's a song we have been hearing EVERYWHERE (don't worry Holley, it's not Ashawo)... http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=uqNUH7uw418
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