Ghana - A Tale of Two Yards of Fabric Pt. 1

You know, I've sort of been a groupie my whole adult life, and I'm okay with that. For about 10 minutes in college I was a fraternity groupie, a useless endeavor that I quickly replaced by becoming what Penny Lane from Almost Famous aptly titled, "a band-aid." Several years and some hellacious heartbreaks later, I proudly became a business groupie, an activity which still keeps me regularly occupied and my heart rate a little on the high side.

It's not that I have a desire to live my life as a follower. You people know me better than that. It's that absorbing myself in groups whose lifestyle defines them in one way or another has allowed me to adopt here and there the parts that suit me. I can identify the Greek alphabet, discuss The Beatles, and name my favorite wine. I choose not to play beer pong, go 'on tour,' or vote Republican. You get the idea.

Anyway, this week I added a new section to this sad little resume I've created: Peace Corps Groupie.

About 2 years ago, my best friend Alisa and I (along with my sister), had become a little restless and decided it was time for a change. Krista and I seized a very odd opportunity and up and moved to Manhattan. Alisa stayed behind to complete her Peace Corps application, a process which eventually led to her current residence in the Western Region of Ghana. I knew I would have no choice but to experience any part of this that I could.

My flight left late last Friday. Armed with a bucket full of pills and an immune system full of every modern vaccine known to humankind, I tossed a magic Xanax down the hatch, and left my weary, hurricane-battered adopted city behind.

First few things you notice when you land in Africa: 1) it's HOT and humid. Duh. 2) Ghanians use some strange smelling industrial cleaners 3) Holy shit, I'm a ghost.

Believe you me, you are never so aware of the transcluscency of your own skin than when you are the extreme minority. Africans have truly beautiful, flawless color to their skin and it sort of makes you look at your own and wonder if something in your epidermal system just failed to operate as planned.

Alisa, decked out in a flowy skirt, headscarf and an amazing pair of locally-made Jerusalem Cruisers (think about it) met me right outside of baggage claim and led me to a row of very colorful taxis. Those of you who know Alisa, will appreciate when I tell you she is like a whole different race. Anyway, she began negotiating with the cab driver when I first noticed the most extraordinary thing: Alisa was rocking a HARDCORE African accent. She was speaking mostly English, it was just that I couldn't really understand it. Turns out when you speak to Ghanians, you kind of need to adopt their dialect and use of words or the resulting confusion will cause great agony for all involved. English is the official language of Ghana, but they also speak Twi and some other local languages depending on the region.

Now while I come from a background where there is no sense using 1 word when 10 will do, Ghanians speak and understand English in a very direct manner. They also don't waste time with the use of questions as a form of politeness. If you want something, no need to ask if you "may" have it. You say "please bring me a fork."

"Stop doing that," "I don't want that," "You go away now."

Apparently none of these are rude, though I left the use of the last one for Alisa. Some kids were pestering our group.

The first night we stayed in a place called "Comfort's Inn." (No relation). Alisa had pre negotiated the rate at 50 cedis a night ($25. Yea!) The next day we discovered that it was actually 80 cedis. I didn't mind, it was a nice place, but Alisa was pissed. She had a point too. The Peace Corps website referred the place for its volunteers passing through the capitol at 50, a number which was confirmed by Alisa via telephone. Apparently the website was outdated and the guy just agreed with whatever Alisa said because he couldn't properly understand her. I'm told this happens alot. Alisa and her agressive African accent raised all holy hell and got the price down to seventy. Frankly it was worth my 10 cedis just to watch the show.

"Sister. Sister. No. You do not understand. The man told me 50. I would not stay here if this was not the price. It pains me to pay more. Even 70 pains me!"

Now, a cab driver or a market salesperson might jack the price a cedi or two for white people because the figure they can afford it. However Ghanians aren't shady people at all. Even after Alisa laid 30 minutes of smack down (seriously, I wish I had gotten it on tape), we could clearly see this was an epic case of miscommunication. The only crime committed here was the tendency of some to say yes to something when they really don't have a damn clue what is going on.

That first night was great. It was just Alisa and I and a couple of Ghanian acquaintances. She brought me a real African dress that a tailor in her village made. I'm going to wear it to work and freak everybody out. We drank Ghanian beer (called Club, which I've come to understand is in a never ending advertisement battle with Star), ate tilapia and banku with our hands (Alisa dove right in, I had to wait for it to cool, like, 39 degrees), and bought some shit we didn't need from street vendors.

The adventure, and my real Peace Corps groupie status, wouldn't really kick in until the next day when we headed to the coast, and met up with several other volunteers. It would be here that I would learn about water sachets and plantain chips and mosquito nets. I've learned why white people standing while they wait makes Ghanians nervous, and how religion plays an extraordinarily large part in the naming of local businesses (as evident by the Jesus is Lord Tire Shop and the Give It All To God Altel Wireless Mobile Phone Store). Most important of all, I have learned that you cannot overstate the importance nor the incalculable uses for two yards of fabric.

To be continued...

(Seriously, how lame is 'to be continued?' I'm sorry. You get the idea though. Blog's not over).