Disturbing Disappearances

I have been perturbed by a handful of unrelated events lately. Figured I might as well lump them all into a single post.

The Trees It must be two weeks ago now, the house that backs on the property next to our compound started chopping down all of its trees. They had quite a number, and they seemed quite old as well, tall with thick trunks, making plenty of shade. This is the same property where they burnt charcoal for the first few weeks I was here, so it occurred to me that they might be planning on turning all of their beautiful trees into fuel. It just sat there for over a week though, with branches and debris piled on the lot and the covered sewer that I use as my sidewalk, forcing me to walk in the road and risk being run over by taxis who would certainly continue honking to gain my custom while they did so. Then, finally, two days ago, a truck came and carted most of it away. Who knows to where. There are still a few big unsightly stumps scattered throughout the property, and my sidewalk/sewer has an annoying covering of leaves and twigs, but beyond that, no evidence remains of the lot’s past greenery.

The President President Kufuor disappeared.

Rosh HaGhana

So yesterday and today were Rosh Hashanah, the two-day holiday also known as “Jewish New Year.” Jewish holidays are considered to begin at sunset the evening before the first day, so we typically welcome them with festive dinners. Rosh Hashanah is one of my favourite holidays, and I didn’t want to let it pass by just because I don’t know any Jews in Accra. So, I invited a few friends to join me for a holiday dinner.

I decided to do my best to cover as many traditional bases as possible in the meal, even if no one else would be familiar with the traditions. Rosh Hashanah, like all Jewish holidays, has a number of symbolic foods (or qualities of foods) associated with it. Examples most people are familiar with are the latkes we eat at Chanukah (fried in oil to evoke the oily miracle the holiday celebrates) and the matzah we eat at Passover (unleavened like the cakes baked in a hurry by the Jews as they fled Egypt during the exodus).

During Rosh Hashanah we want our foods to have the qualities of sweetness (to ensure a sweet new year) and roundness (to symbolize the annual cycle that is ending/beginning). So we take sweet round apples and dip them in sweet honey, along with special round challah with added sweet raisins. We also eat a sweet vegetable dish called tzimmes, usually containing carrots, sweet potatoes, and more raisins and honey. For dessert we eat round honey cake, which I also usually bake with apple in it. And, of course, we drink wine. None of these things is particularly challenging to prepare or find in any of the previous places I have lived. In Ghana, though, Rosh Hashanah was going to take a little creativity.

I am Not a Well Girl

To be fair, I am much weller than I was yesterday or the day before. (Don’t even question if “weller” is a word; I’m sick, ok?) Sitting here at my laptop (running on battery, the electricity’s off tonight), I am still coughing hard enough to disturb the candle on my desk, and probably my next door neighbour as well. No, he can’t hear me, the house next door’s generator is blasting too loud for anyone to here anything that goes on in here. Maybe I should try a primal scream or two? Or would that be a little too Sally Bowles?

Anyway, the not well thing. Saturday afternoon I had a mysterious cough, mysterious in that I wasn’t congested and didn’t feel in any way sick. I chalked it up to a reaction to inhaling mould spores from my shoes (still growing fuzz) or the ceiling in my old room. By about eleven that night, though, I had almost hawked up a lung more than once, and my neighbour Mia (with whom I was out for dinner and drinks) wisely dropped me off at home before going for another drink with someone we had met.

The next morning I was positively ill with a nasty head and chest cold: coughing, sniffling, running the occasional low-grade fever.

Long Hair Day

Those who know me know the extremes of length my hair has passed through in the dozen years since I first cut it (at the age of 14, for those not familiar with my personal hairstory). Since last summer, my appearance has been characterized by my addiction to having my hair as short as looks good, in alternation with the shaggy results of its speedy growing. It had taken me years to find a hairdresser who cut it short the way I wanted it, so when I left Washington I decided I would let it grow while in Ghana. No point going on a hairdresser hunt for a 7-month stay.

I knew it would go through an awkward growing out stage. When one of my Canadian friends got cornrows put in her hair, and told me how much fake hair had been used to create her braids, it occurred to me that braids and extensions might be the ideal way to deal with my growing out hair.

I Have Spots!

There isn’t much more to say about them really. I woke up yesterday morning with spots on both feet and calves. They mysteriously stopped at my knees, and just as mysteriously didn’t itch. They couldn’t be mosquito bites with that lack of discomfort. And bedbugs didn’t make sense, as I’d been sleeping on the bed for a month (in a sleeping bag liner on top of a sheet) already, with no such developments. Today they itch, and as a result of my scratching are more red and swollen than they were, but I’m assuming once I manage to leave them alone they’ll fade away. Or I’ll get malaria. Or another dread disease. I dunno. I think they’re just spots. But if they get more exciting I’ll let you know.

Boiled Shoes

I just boiled a pair of shoes. I feel a bit like Uncle Buck drying clothes in the microwave.

Before I got here Mark had warned me that my room (which he lived in when his wife was here) had a mould problem. Ato assured me that the landlady had assured him that the problem had been dealt with, and so I moved in. Nonetheless, Friday morning I went to put on the black slippers I bought in China, only to find them growing pale green fuzz. Yuck.

I’m a Celebrity, Get me Out of Here

Ok, so I’m not a celebrity, but I’m starting to know what it feels like to be one (I think). And I’m not a fan. New addition to my list of things not to do in life: become a household name with a recognizable face.

Basically, going anywhere that isn’t my apartment (and this includes my office) results in some combination of the following: shouts of “obroni!” (also spelled/pronounced “obruni,” meaning “white person”) or just plain English “white lady!”, unsolicited conversations with strangers, requests for my phone number, hisses and kissing noises, inquiries about the whereabouts/existence of my husband/boyfriend, attempts to test my knowledge of local languages by asking how I am or what my name is in Twi or Ga, taxi cab horn honkings, remarks on my physical appearance (“cute girl,” “hairy,” “have you gained/lost weight?”), taps on the shoulder and grips of my wrist, marriage proposals, etc.

Rurban Accra

 

Anyone who’s been in India with me (or seen the photographs of my trips—ok, I know, there are probably more of the former than the latter), knows that I’m more than a little obsessed with the cows in the cities. There’s something about seeing something so rural so at home in an urban environment that just tickles me, time and time again. There aren’t any cows wandering the streets of Accra (and I didn’t see any in my one rural foray to date), but there are plenty of other “rurban” phenomena, and I thought it would be a good idea to catalogue them here.

We may not have cows, but the farm animal niche is certainly occupied, mostly by chickens and goats. I am frequently awoken by a rooster’s call. A hen with a big brood of chicks lives just around the corner from me, and the other day I saw a woman minding a whole flock of white fowl across the street from my office. (What do you call a woman responsible for a herd of chickens? A chickherdess?)