The final countdown

Well, the countdown has begun. Only a handful of days left before my Ghanaian adventures come to an end. I will be boarding my Lufthansa flight on Wednesday evening, and after what promises to be an absolutely lovely 24 hours in transit (oh, how I loooove intercontinental travel, especially 8 hour layovers in the middle of the night), I will be back in Montreal on Thursday afternoon. I’m feeling quite the range and mix of emotions at the prospect of leaving Accra and coming back to Canada. Though incredibly excited to see my family and friends, I’m also very sad to be saying goodbye to all the amazing souls I have been fortunate to cross paths with while in Ghana.

I’m also expecting to experience some serious reverse culture shock on the way back… How strange it will be not to have random strangers reminding me of my skin color on the streets, no groups of rabidly affectionate children jumping into my arms to welcome me back to the neighborhood every evening coming home from work, no chickens running around in the gutters, no goats eating trash on the side of the road…How I will miss the colors, the smells, the life, the music, the heat, the constant bustling of Accra, trotro drivers shouting out their destinations over the buzz of traffic, tiny shops scattered all over the streets, their shelves spilling over with cans and beauty products and displays of artificial hair for brading, women with babies on their backs and elaborate displays of jewelry or fruit perched atop their heads. How I will miss the pace of life, where no one rushes, where everyone takes the time to greet each other, to eat, to sit, to wait, to watch, to listen without worrying about the million other things they ought to be doing instead. And above all, how I will miss the people, at times annoying (the Don Juan de Tuna types most particularly) but above all friendly, curious, open, funny and so very kind.

What an amazing experience it’s been…and how I will miss this place.

But I must also admit that amidst all this nostalgia, I’m still excited to come home, to see you all --oh faithful hominid subjects-- and to share with you my many stories, memories and pictures over a yummy steaming latte.

And in the meantime, there are four more days to take full advantage of. As has been the case for the last two weeks or so (which also explains the blog-silence of late), the next moments promise to be full of activities, goodbye visits, eating out, being treated to copious amounts of Ghanaian cuisine, dancing, walking about and making my peace with my impending departure…finding solace in the resolution that I will be setting foot back here sooner than later.

So my darlings, I send you my last greetings from mostly sunny albeit increasingly rainy Ghana (the rainy season is well on its way) -- and I look forward to catching up with you soon…in person!

Much love to you my precious
Sophie

ps: dont have time to explain the pics, but I still wanted to include them...a brief overview of the last few weeks...I look forward to sharing the details (and lots and lots of other pictures) upon my return

You can run but you can never hide

Few of you know this about me, but in a past life, I sold knives. Okay, it wasn’t so much in a past life as it was during my teens (which does feel like another life at times…thank goodness!). But the knife selling part remains true, a slight blemish on my otherwise saintly existence (as my parents emit a snort of amused skepticism). It was the summer of my seventeenth birthday, and hungry for independence (and more importantly pocket money), I decided to look for a job. My friend Marc-Antoine who had worked at a placed called Vector Marketing (in retrospect the name itself should have served as a warning) recommended it to me, while also recommending me to the big boss at this said marketing company. So it is that with absolutely no experience under my belt, and what was most probably a bizarre haircolor and style (as my parents emit a sigh of relief that this phase has finally passed), I headed for my first interview. I don’t remember how it went exactly, but I guess I didn’t too badly since I ended up getting the job (mind you, I would realize subsequently that pretty much anyone capable of doing the penny-cutting demonstration (yes, our scissors were that strong!) stood a significant chance of being hired at Vector Marketing).

And so it is that there and then, I became the newest bright-eyed and bushy-tailed Cutco knife salesperson on the block. As the oracle (aka my mother) had forewarned, Vector Marketing turned out to be a lot more like a cult or a pyramidal scheme than it was a marketing company… It came complete with a philosophy centered on motivational posters (the kind that feature people reaching the top of a really high mountain just as the sun rises), monthly motivational sales meeting in Cornwall, Ontario, and recruitment of potential clients through personal connections and snowballing (or door-to-door harassment for the more ambitious ones). Oh and you had to buy your own demonstration kits too and supply your own pennies to cut through for the demonstrative climax.

Basically, as a Vector Marketer, I went around with my kit under my arm and visited family, neighbors, my friends’ mothers and my mother’s friends to share with them the magic of Cutco kitchen, sewing and/or fishing and hunting knives. There were different sets, different colors of non-rusting allied-metal cutting tools, sold exclusively through Vector and varied enough to satisfy the modern day woman who no longer has hours to spend chopping up vegetables for the evening stew, the avid boar hunter or anyone inclined to want to cut pennies with a pair of scissors (let me tell you it’s a pretty popular party trick…especially after a few martinis). Basically, Cutco offered a knife for everyone in the family, from little cousin Timmy to Aunt Matilda to old Grandpa Bubba. And to ensure continued motivation of the troops, Vector marketers were paid on sliding-scale commission whereas the more you sold, the more you earned.

Realizing pretty quickly that I wasn’t cut out (no pun intended!) for this type of career, I ended up cutting (insert drumroll here) my Cutco career pretty short, lasting all of one month. Mind you that month proved enough to require me and a significant number of family members, neighbors, friends’ mothers and mother’s friends to receive medical attention for cuts of varied intensity (those knives were sharp and I have the bagel-cutting scar to prove it…which, by the way, required six stitches). Having disliked pretty much every moment of my Vector Marketing experience, it was with an incredible amount of relief that I gave my resignation to our head knife-guru and closed that chapter in my life. There were recurring nightmares and periods of high anxiety, but after a few years I finally managed to make my peace and let it go.

Until yesterday, that is. I had come to meet an amazing American HIV/AIDS activist/educationalist/researcher at his home in a suburb of Accra, and after a lengthy chat, ended up being invited for supper with his partner and their son. As we were putting away the dishes in the kitchen, I saw something that made my blood run cold. There, tucked away on the counter stood a block of wood with the Cutco label proudly emblazoned into it, seven of those familiar knife handles sticking out inconspicuously (I would recognize them for miles…after all, I’ve been using the knives from my demo kit for the past 10 years!)

I’m not sure what it means and how it came to be, but somehow, Cutco knives had managed to follow me all the way to Accra. Stumbling upon these mementos of a not-so-distant past I wanted to forget, I produced a small screech, and asked my gracious hosts how they had come about these damned objects. It turns out that their nephew—bless his soul—was also indoctrinated into the Church of Cutco, and apparently brought a few family members down with him. They too cut themselves and bled bitter Cutco blood in their kitchens, and it is with a few tears in our eyes that we showed off our war-wounds and exchanged battle stories. It was painful, but ultimately cathartic, as facing a past trauma often is. I guess it’s true what they say, you can run from your past, but you can never really hide from it.

Now how can I possibly follow up this anecdote (quite reminiscent of a Seinfeld episode might I add…whereas essentially, it’s a blog about nothing). Well I guess by letting y’all know that things are and continue to be well. Research is coming along wonderfully and I’m getting pretty excited at the idea of coming home, digesting the experience and writing up my dissertation (once a geek, always a geek). I’ve been spending some quality time with my peeps, and even finding a bit of down time here and there to indulge my newest addiction to Harlequin novels (and I’ve totally cracked the code such that I feel ready to become a romance novel writer if things don’t work out too well with the whole PhD thing). I’m really sad to see my time in Ghana running out, but also really really excited at the idea of coming home, seeing my beloved family and friends again and walking in the streets of my beautiful Montreal with a latte in my hands (as lattes are the only items that I’ve truly really missed when it comes to edible/drinkable stuff). But there are still four weeks left before the regal return of the Baboon Queen to her kingdom and faithful hominid subjects…and a busy four weeks it promises to be, with lots of research tidbits to finish up, goodbyes to make, social shindigs to attend and to organize and of course, [insert valley-girl accent here] shopping to do! I will miss Ghana terribly, but I am also pretty sure that I’ll be coming back here sooner than later. After all, if the Cutco incident has taught me anything, it’s that nothing is really ever over for good in this life… there’s always room for an epilogue.

I miss you all my lovelies.
Philosophically yours,
Sophie

Ps: J’ai hate de vous revoir mes poulets!!!!!!

For your viewing pleasure...

Hello my precious

Hope this latest entry finds you all well. I must announce from the get-go that for unforeseen political and personal reasons, I have decided to launch into a boycotting-of-the-blog campaign. No, in fact --and in all honesty— it’s just that I haven’t really felt inclined to write as of late. Nothing serious or personal though...but a bit of a dry spell when it comes to blog-related inspiration. So instead of letting words speak, I’ve decided to (take the easy way out and) devote this latest entry to an almost entirely pictorial rendition of my adventures.

Suffice it to say that I am well, though it is with mixed emotions that I realize I only have one month left here in Ghana. Still, I can’t wait to see you all as I have and continue to miss you so very much!

I’ll be back soon with a more comprehensive chapter.
Until then, take care my darlings,
A bientot mes poulets!

The way to a woman's heart...

Is through a can of tuna? I have heard of and at times even been offered the more traditional tokens of love in the form of flowers and chocolates and teddies (of the bear and neglige kind), but a can of tuna? Well, this is what happened to me yesterday, as I was buying some juice at a kiosk in a tro-tro station. A man came up to me and asked me whether I was that girl who worked for the Peace Corps, to which I replied in a yeah-like-I-haven’t-heard-that-one-before-manner, “no, you must have me confused with another obruni.” Not at all discouraged by my sly remark, the man then proceeded to explain that he wanted to become my “friend” (of the more-than-just-friends kind) and offered to buy me a can of tuna as a testament to his undying love. I politely refused. Surprised that I would decline such a heart-felt proposition, he then offered to buy me a hard-boiled egg. The charmer! Of course, I was almost tempted to accept because hey, he certainly merits a few points for originality, but reason triumphed over emotions (and/or sense of humor), and I bade farewell to my Don Juan de Tuna, continuing on my merry way with the firm conviction that I had just lived through a wonderful introduction to a blog entry.

Strange seduction techniques aside, all continues to be well. I had an amazing time at the beach last weekend. After an uneventful and surprisingly rapid tro-tro trip, Melinda, Chantal and I arrived at the Safari Beach Lodge on Friday afternoon, meeting up with Jacques, Gislain and Brad who had come in the day before. Though the girls left on Monday, I extended my stay until Tuesday, heading back to Accra with the boys. I was thus treated to four full days of complete and absolute decadence, gorging on James’ incredible cooking, frolicking in the waves and reading magazines in a hammock…all of this done in the company of my lovely friends. The lodge remains as I had remembered it, a little piece of paradise overlooking a breathtakingly beautiful ocean and it offers some much needed peace and quiet after the craziness that is the Ghanaian capital.

It was rather hard to come back to Accra, might I add, and I suffered through another painful bout of beach withdrawal. But a week after the fact, I am now healed and fully reintegrated into my little routine, which is good since there isn’t that much time left for me here in Ghana. With only seven weeks to go, I’m seeing the end fast approaching and realizing that I still have quite a few things that I want to accomplish before heading back to Canada. So the next little while promises to be quite busy, with work and interviews to do for my research, a few projects to finish up for SWAA, some extensive shopping to complete and of course, some more quality moments to be had with my friends in Accra. Though I am very happy here and I know that I’m going to miss Ghana a lot when I leave, I’m also starting to feel pretty excited at the idea of coming home and seeing my family and friends again. How I have missed you all!

But for now, there are more adventures to be had and more strange Ghanaian cruising techniques to be discovered.

So until next time my darlings, I wish you all the best and send you much love from sunny Ghana.

Gros bisous mes poulets
Sophie

About the pictures, in no particular order: the postcard-perfect sunset at the Safari Beach Lodge, Gislain and I after a hard day at the beach (I just want an excuse to show off my tan...apologies to all those snow-bound folk in Montreal), a picture that my sister took a while back at the 37 tro-tro station (where the man tried to seduce me with the can of tuna), an adorable little girl when we climbed Adaklu mountain, Elizabeth, Melinda and I after conquering the said mountain (see, it is steep!), an apple-seller on the street

And they called it puppy love…

You must be curious to find out what could possibly lead me to disrupt the otherwise peaceful balance of my blogging schedule and dare to both miss a Friday and post on a Wednesday (oh my, the sacrilege!). Well, my darlings, the answer is clear and simple: I am in love.

We had met a few months back, but it’s only over the past few days that our relationship has really caramelized into something more serious and meaningful. His name is Alfred. He’s originally from Mexico, and was living in Canada before coming to Accra. He’s cute as a button, smart as a zipper (?), loves food and has the most beautiful big brown eyes you’ve ever seen. Sure, he’s also in a relationship, but I don’t really mind because I’ve also gone and fallen head over heels for his significant other, Philomene, equally as charming and beautiful. We’ve been spending our days and nights together, watching movies, cuddling and just enjoying each other’s company. Now before you go and start getting all these crazy (and possibly dirty) ideas, I should probably specify that the object(s) of my affection are four-legged (each) and probably weigh a whopping combined total of 30 lbs, if even. They are Jacques and Gislain’s chihuahas, though I’m considering staging an elaborate dog-napping scheme, such that they will in fact become MY chihuahas.

Their friend Brad visiting from Ottawa, Jacques and Gislain have set off on a cross-Ghana caravan tour, leaving a mansion and two precious little creatures to be cared for. Being the generous and giving souls that we are, Melinda and I volunteered to take on the daunting task of house/Chihuahua-sitting. Sure, it’s not easy, but someone’s gotta do it. And so it is that since this week-end, we’ve left the comfort of our little rooms and grimy under-stocked kitchen to settle into a two-storey/three bedroom complex, complete with pimped-out kitchen, washing machines (bye-bye buckets!) and entertainment room (large television, huge DVD collection and even an X-box, though the estrogen levels in my body prevent me from fully appreciating the excitement of this latter gadjet). Add to this the loveliest, most well-behaved, low-maintenance and affectionate puppy-dogs, and you end up with something quite close to heaven (Belinda Carlisle was right).

And the worst part in all of this, is that after a strenuous week looking after their luxurious home and charming chihuahas, we get to go and meet up with Jacques, Gislain and Brad at the Safari Beach Lodge. Yes, the same Safari Beach Lodge where I rang in the New Year, under a starry sky overlooking the ocean, belly filled with James’ amazing Texan fine-dining (yes, apparently there is such a thing). We’ll be going from Friday to Monday, though I am considering offering my services as bucket-laundry-woman (I’ve developed quite an expertise in the last months) and staying there permanently. I’m sure my parents and supervisory committee will understand.

So needless to say that life is and continues to be rather sweet. And for the cherry: my itchy-skin-sister Pamela has given me some hardcore cortisone cream to treat my leprosy, and I am a few scabs away from being completely rash-free! If it weren’t for those fifteen pounds I’ve gained since being on the Accra-Beach diet (pretty much the anti-thesis of the South Beach diet), I’d be pretty excited at the prospect of spending the weekend parading around in my bikini.

So my lovelies, I will be back in touch next week with a full report of my beach-side adventures.

Until then, I send much love from this little piece of heaven on earth.

Gros bisous mes zoiseaux xxx
Sophie

Feel the Burn

Note to self: Hiking in Ghana hurts. It hurts on a number of levels. First, though it may not be Sulfur mountain, or the Three Sisters, or Brokeback mountain as for that matter (and god knows I kept my eyes open for a stranded Heath or Jake along the way…better yet both…), Adaklu mountain is pretty damn steep. Sure, it’s also beautiful and covered in lush vegetation and crowned with some impressive boulders at the top, but above all, it’s really really steep. Combine this with the fact that I have not been swimming, nor walking very much as for that matter, and that my measly little yoga routine thrice a week is the only think that has kept my muscles from fully atrophying in Ghana, and you end up with the perfect recipe for a sore obruni. And sore I was, not only during the said hike, but for a good five days following the ascension.

Oh, and did I mention that it’s really hot in Ghana? Yes, my lovelies, now add searing noon-sunshine, tropical humidity and 35degree weather to the steep mountain and inactive jello-body and voila, ‘tis the story of my weekend hiking adventures in the Volta region. The worst part in all of this is that just as we had plugged through the first third of the hike, up to a small village in the mountain, sitting on a bench for a good hour panting and sweating profusely, we saw a few women go by, flip-flops on feet, baby on back and log or heavy basket on head. They had come up the same way as we, ridiculous boot and backpack-wearing mountain conquerers, and somehow had barely broken into a sweat. Put us all to shame. Well not all of us actually, because Elizabeth has been going to the gym in Accra and was thus able to merrily prance up the mountain. Meanwhile, the three whiny stepsisters struggled to drag themselves up a never-ending 45degree incline, cursing and tripping along the way. Partly out of envy, partly for revenge, and partly because I think it’s quite witty, I nicknamed her Sporty Spice, a label I intend to use from now on. Ha! Sticks and stones (and big ass mountains) may not break your bones, oh but for the bitter pain of being associated to mediocre pop stars from the 90s (plus Sporty Spice was like no one’s favorite!) Ha, fit Elizabeth, take that!

All right, bitterness and burning muscles aside, we had a lovely weekend. Though painful, the hike was wonderful and allowed us to sit at the top of Adaklu mountain and overlook the vast expanse of the Volta region, in all its green freshness. We stayed in a really nice hotel, complete with pool and rooftop restaurant/bar, where we ate some yummy food and celebrated St-Paddy’s day in style (ie had a great excuse to drink beer). And I must admit it was quite nice to escape from Accra and enjoy a little getaway with the lady-friends…good for the body (okay maybe not) and certainly much appreciated by the soul.

And so it is that sore-legged but otherwise unharmed, I began another busy week, filled with interviews and other exciting research-related endeavors. I’ll spare you the details though, because I don’t feel a blog is an appropriate place to discuss such matters (ie I’m lazy and I don’t feel like talking about my work right now). Suffice it to say that all is on track, that I’m feeling inspired and motivated, and ready to take full advantage of my last two months and a half in Ghana (how quickly time flies).

There will be no lady-getaways this weekend, no crazy treks up a mountain in oven-like temperatures. Instead, there will be eating and drinking with friends, and some good ole fashioned lying in bed reading the last Harry Potter book while gorging on Kingsbite chocolate. What more can a girl ask for, really? A Jake or a Heath might be nice, I guess...or better yet both ;-)

I miss you my darlings.
A tres bientot
Sophie

Death to the Sinus: A poem in four parts

Forgive me friends, for I bloggeth inconsistently. It’s certainly not from lack of interest or things to say. Quite the contrary, I’ve been itching to get back to ghanagogo for a few days now (and I mean itching quite literally seeing that my body has been and continues to wage an ongoing war with an invasive heat/eczema rash…but on that charming note I digress). It's not that motivation has been absent, but rather that various obstacles have come to stand in the way of my blogging escapades...and so dear readers, please allow me the honor of listing them off to you, in no particular order:

-I’ve been busy: Quite suddenly and somewhat out of the blue, I’ve been hit by a major tidal wave of activity and stress. I’ve had many meetings and interviews for my research, projects to accomplish for SWAA, not to mention all that domestic stuff that also contributes to keeping a young lady’s calendar full. I’m certainly not complaining because this indicates that my work is progressing and that I might indeed be able to write a dissertation somewhere down the line. But it also means that hours devoted to more leisurely pursuits have been radically reduced (and as my fellow grad students will attest to, any other scenario would be quite worrisome indeed. What? Free time? Is that Latin or something?)

-I’ve been sick: In addition to my full upper body rash (which I’ve affectionately and perhaps not so politically correctly come to refer to as “my leprosy”), my poor organism has been assailed by yet another unidentified bug. It might have been a throat infection, which turned into a cold, which turned into a sinus infection, but it’s hard to keep up with the body’s many states in a context where at least a third of my time is spent feeling a tad bit off. I guess this mild respiratory infection should come as no surprise though, seeing that I inhale massive quantities of sand, dust, exhaust fumes, burning plastic fumes (plastic recycling…who needs it?), pollution and other foes of the sinus on a daily basis. Nevertheless, I must admit that I’m starting to get a bit sick of these constant infections. Quite literally. And to wonder whether there is such a thing as a sinusectomy…

-I’ve been celebrating Ghana’s 50th birthday (which may also have contributed to my body’s demise, though well worth it ultimately). Last Tuesday and Wednesday were national holidays, and so we had plenty of time to take advantage of the many festivities happening throughout Accra. Melinda and I went to Independence Square on Tuesday morning, for a parade and a presidential address. We didn’t see any of it though, cause with 10,000 bodies present… well, need I say more? But it was absolutely amazing, because our morning was spent in an incredibly festive atmosphere, with thousands of shiny happy people proudly displaying their Ghanaian reds, yellows and greens to mark this symbolic event. I felt like I was part of history. And best of all, Melinda and I were fortunate enough to spend our morning with Tim and 25 kids from the primary school where he teaches, making the whole thing only that much more exciting and magical. They were so happy to be there and to have us with them, lavishing their obruni guests with endless hugs and songs and smile after smile. Absolutely precious.
Amazing atmosphere and company aside, after a few hours in the heat, in the sun and in a massive crowd, Melinda and I had shrivelled up into cranky old raisins, ready to hold up the nearest supermarket to steal their stash of ice cream. It was time to go. Not particularly interested in experiencing incarceration in Ghana (Midnight Express anyone?) we opted for a more legal approach to thirst and hunger quenching, grabbing a bite to eat at a local fast food joint. After a well deserved --if not necessary-- shower, we met up with Tim and Mercy to head over to an afternoon BBQ at Laurence and Florent’s house (some CUSO friends). We relaxed in their lovely garden, drank a few beers, ate a bit of goat, and did a bit of salsa (Mercy kindly taking it upon herself to teach us the basics). And to finish off our lovely (but tiring) golden jubilee day, we headed over to Country Kitchen for some yummy Ghanaian grub, which in all its fried and oily goodness was exactly what our bodies needed before crashing and sleeping for a good ten hours.

-And finally, I’ve been traveling (okay, not really, but I’m traveling later on today, so I’m using this as an excuse to segue into my conclusion). Yes, the time has come again to escape Accra for a couple of days and so it is that Melinda, Elizabeth, Tracy and I are venturing off to the Volta region for a bit of down time with the lady-friends. E and T are in charge of itineraries and plans so I can’t really divulge much information as to the what and where of the weekend. But I do know that Saturday we’re hiking on a mountain (okay maybe more like a really tall hill by Rockie standards) and Sunday, we’re visiting a waterfall. Aaaahhhh….nature, fresh air and no burning plastic…my sinuses are quivering with excitement!

So my darlings, on that note, I bid you adieu until next week, when I look forward to filling you in on the details of our merry adventures in the Volta region and of what promises to be another hectic and productive week.

I miss you all and send you lots and lots of love. (No hugs and no kisses though, as I may very well be contagious).
Sophie