Family and Friends, Ma Ha!
What do you know… another week has flown by. First things first, I’d
like to give an update on the Charity situation. I hope I didn’t
sound so heartless in my last email or like I’m trying to overplay the
complications, because they are serious in terms of responsibilities
to my group, the field studies program, and my own research—and that
still doesn’t even include the whole “what is the best thing to do to
help?” question. Still, this Charity thing has haunted me. The day
after I emailed you my school friends were walking me home when
Charity, who has been unable to eat since she can’t pay her fees,
shoved a crumbling biscuit in a faded wrapper in my hand before
parting ways. Why? Why is she giving me a biscuit?
I talked to my group, to my host mom who works at the school, and
after all that prayed about it and decided that for whatever reason I
needed to pay the $120 for her school fees. Maybe it is like that
starfish story, I don’t know. I’m not doing it for the accolades or a
great story for some self-righteous trip or anything like that, and if
there was an anonymous way to do it I would have done that, but it is
out, and I really hope things will work out because I still feel like
I did the right thing. They have so far.
One of my favorite parts about the week was “General church” service
for the school. Everyone comes from every range of faith. (Oh, and
don’t even worry, it starts at 7, so that involves waking up at five
to get ready and walking there, all you nine o’clock church haters).
This church was something like the best sacrament meeting of my life
and one of my many high school punk rock concerts. You arrive
exhausted, breathe in the music, abandon your inhibitions, and dance!
I’m the backbench kind of church person. Long ago, I used to be that
kid who opened my bedroom window to sing for the neighbors, but that
got trampled by a more mature Sunday decorum: Sit Down > Fold your
Arms > and be Quiet. Happily, that window singing kid resurfaced in
me- reminding me of the days when I didn’t care what I looked
like—which is why I think I needed that meeting, reminding me that the
root of “reverent” is the word “revere.” Not to discredit our way of
worship, but I can’t help but admire the way these teenagers do it.
Not a person sitting, hands flying in the air, a few wailers, some
fainters, a soloist with a crackling second-hand microphone, a lot of
dancers churning up the crowd, a bongo accompanying the steal drums,
an electric keyboard, everyone wearing white, everyone in their own
world, and not a soul cared that I am no dancer.
Research wise, things are going great. I might have told you about
the day I did 20 interviews… it is crazy. Lots of educational crises
at the moment I am wading through, but it has been a great experience.
The kids are in their finals week equivalent right now, but I love
how they do it. They drag their desks out of the classroom and spread
out under the trees to take their tests. How romantic is that? I set
a few of my friends up with their first email and Facebook accounts,
so we’re all really excited about that, and I’m cooking spaghetti for
them this Sunday as a farewell dinner. You know, I’m beginning to
think that “good-bye” is the greatest of oxymorons. There is nothing
“good” to be said about a “bye” in favorable circumstances. You
travel and meet new friends, people who have permanently changed your
life, burry an irretrievable shard of your heart in the dirt, sulking,
searching yourself, “Why do I have go to back?” Everyone knows the
likelihood of meeting again, silencing these thoughts because what
could be more dour than an “I’ll never see you again, my dear friend”
parting? I might prefer silence.
So yes, I am a bit off this week with the close of school coming on.
I find myself withdrawing from my friends and my group, more irritated
than usual when the posts holding up my mosquito net fall in on me in
a dead sleep, or when my homework refuses to disappear, or when I step
on rusty goat poop crusted nails (yeah, that was awesome). So yes.
Stressed out Rachel is coming back, and I’m not sure how much I can
blame it on the Larium malaria medicine I’m on. I am still a walking
contradiction. Maybe I’m not so different after all. Or, maybe I can
cut myself a break and be okay with being a little sad to say goodbye.
Or bad-bye. Or whatever it should be called. I like the way the
French say it.
Loves,
Rach
Business Name: The Future is Uncertain Hair Salon
Marriage Proposal: Broken English this time. “I want to marriage that.”
PS- anyone have any recommendations for places to go in London? Never
knew how much I missed a good solid session of Google….
Saturday, July 24, 2010
General Church
Hello everyone!
Research is good. Health is great. This week? Awesome.
I think my favorite part was “General Church” service at the secondary school. This church was something like the best sacrament meeting of my life and one of my many high school punk rock concerts. You arrive exhausted, breathe in the music, abandon your inhibitions, and dance!
Of course, I am the backbench kind of church person. I was perfectly content watching, furiously jotting down notes to expand into my field journal. Shelley wouldn’t have it. She yanked me from my seat and threw me into the center of the “mosh pit.” Long ago, I used to be that kid who opened my bedroom window to sing for the neighbors, but that got trampled by a more mature Sunday decorum: Sit Down > Fold your Arms > and be Quiet. Happily, that window singing kid resurfaced in me- reminding me of the days when I didn’t care what I looked like—which is why I think I needed that meeting. The root of “reverent” is the word “revere,” isn’t it? Not to discredit our way of worship, but I can’t help but admire the way these teenagers do it. Not a person sitting, hands flying in the air, a few wailers, some fainters, a soloist with a crackling second-hand microphone, a lot of dancers churning up the crowd, a bongo accompanying the steal drums, an electric keyboard, everyone wearing white, everyone in their own world, and not a soul cared that I am no dancer.
I didn’t have very good notes for that day, but somehow that doesn’t really seem quite as important.
Ava
Research is good. Health is great. This week? Awesome.
I think my favorite part was “General Church” service at the secondary school. This church was something like the best sacrament meeting of my life and one of my many high school punk rock concerts. You arrive exhausted, breathe in the music, abandon your inhibitions, and dance!
Of course, I am the backbench kind of church person. I was perfectly content watching, furiously jotting down notes to expand into my field journal. Shelley wouldn’t have it. She yanked me from my seat and threw me into the center of the “mosh pit.” Long ago, I used to be that kid who opened my bedroom window to sing for the neighbors, but that got trampled by a more mature Sunday decorum: Sit Down > Fold your Arms > and be Quiet. Happily, that window singing kid resurfaced in me- reminding me of the days when I didn’t care what I looked like—which is why I think I needed that meeting. The root of “reverent” is the word “revere,” isn’t it? Not to discredit our way of worship, but I can’t help but admire the way these teenagers do it. Not a person sitting, hands flying in the air, a few wailers, some fainters, a soloist with a crackling second-hand microphone, a lot of dancers churning up the crowd, a bongo accompanying the steal drums, an electric keyboard, everyone wearing white, everyone in their own world, and not a soul cared that I am no dancer.
I didn’t have very good notes for that day, but somehow that doesn’t really seem quite as important.
Ava
My Itinerary
This is a poem I wrote based off of the form of "My Paris" by Ted Hughes.
My itinerary
Is printed out and ready.
My plane is waiting on the runway, restless and roaring,
Impatient for departure. It obeys a schedule.
One I must return to. And I will.
It sounds heartless, but I will.
Am I so unhappy here? The red roads, linking my worlds,
Meandering, running nameless like soft rivers under my feet
(The ones so very tired of concrete,
Asphalt freeways and paved sideways)
That rusty path. It has
No set “this way,” and won’t tell if you step off
Every so often.
Besides, the people, places and the sea of faces are
Waiting. The ones who will save me from
My poisonous laurel wanderings.
My lotus eaters- My sirens
That threaten to steal me away for good. My envisioned life
Is not so plotted as my to-do lists,
My class and bus schedules. Those have to be that way,
They do not know the difference.
And if they could fly away to strange and distant lands
Maybe they too would not march to the mechanical clock.
I can run and run. I have not yet discovered
That calendar branded to my nomadic
Feet. Never tried
To look down or learn to dance with that beast
My ball and chain!
I never knew how complicated home could be.
Never knew it could be an in-between.
A state of mind. A no place.
So of course I ran
As if training for some eternal marathon
In someone else’s schedule—one I have tried to swallow.
I’ve been there, putting on the same coat
And hat, shutting out winter
Only to trap in my chronic cold condition
That sleeps beneath my weathered date book
Rooting itself, like a cork screw,
Collecting the weight of 9-5
Piercing the subconscious of my life.
So do not suppose that I care that the roads are a little bumpy here,
That the crinkled tin shacks are displeasing to me
Lining dusty hungry roads, red rivulets, untamed in their riverbeds-
Their rocky ways that taxi’s and buses could never make way,
Railed on their schedules, to-do lists,
And the road will laugh, make them abandon
Their cozy lightless spaces, make them saunter along the path,
Teach them to trust their feet by making them trip
On their expectations and concrete plans
As if we could make plans-
To endure life, (until retirement) or live forever.
To establish trust funds that we’ll never spend.
Do good for the sake of a grad school resume,
And die hunting for something that rhymes
With our social security numbers.
Yes I will board that eager plane
And transition in the turbulence, into my other life
My self the sea of faces knows me as,
A girl too young to settle down,
Too old for these dangerous dreams
That lure me away across black seas, shivering
When life threatens to turn into another winter
Where it stings to be outside and my feet grow stiff,
Frozen in the freshly plowed roads.
But my feet won’t forget. Wherever they go
These meandering roads, invisible on Google maps,
Winter by winter
They’ll wait for my next plane ticket,
So tired of living
Like a social security number.
Gipsy
My itinerary
Is printed out and ready.
My plane is waiting on the runway, restless and roaring,
Impatient for departure. It obeys a schedule.
One I must return to. And I will.
It sounds heartless, but I will.
Am I so unhappy here? The red roads, linking my worlds,
Meandering, running nameless like soft rivers under my feet
(The ones so very tired of concrete,
Asphalt freeways and paved sideways)
That rusty path. It has
No set “this way,” and won’t tell if you step off
Every so often.
Besides, the people, places and the sea of faces are
Waiting. The ones who will save me from
My poisonous laurel wanderings.
My lotus eaters- My sirens
That threaten to steal me away for good. My envisioned life
Is not so plotted as my to-do lists,
My class and bus schedules. Those have to be that way,
They do not know the difference.
And if they could fly away to strange and distant lands
Maybe they too would not march to the mechanical clock.
I can run and run. I have not yet discovered
That calendar branded to my nomadic
Feet. Never tried
To look down or learn to dance with that beast
My ball and chain!
I never knew how complicated home could be.
Never knew it could be an in-between.
A state of mind. A no place.
So of course I ran
As if training for some eternal marathon
In someone else’s schedule—one I have tried to swallow.
I’ve been there, putting on the same coat
And hat, shutting out winter
Only to trap in my chronic cold condition
That sleeps beneath my weathered date book
Rooting itself, like a cork screw,
Collecting the weight of 9-5
Piercing the subconscious of my life.
So do not suppose that I care that the roads are a little bumpy here,
That the crinkled tin shacks are displeasing to me
Lining dusty hungry roads, red rivulets, untamed in their riverbeds-
Their rocky ways that taxi’s and buses could never make way,
Railed on their schedules, to-do lists,
And the road will laugh, make them abandon
Their cozy lightless spaces, make them saunter along the path,
Teach them to trust their feet by making them trip
On their expectations and concrete plans
As if we could make plans-
To endure life, (until retirement) or live forever.
To establish trust funds that we’ll never spend.
Do good for the sake of a grad school resume,
And die hunting for something that rhymes
With our social security numbers.
Yes I will board that eager plane
And transition in the turbulence, into my other life
My self the sea of faces knows me as,
A girl too young to settle down,
Too old for these dangerous dreams
That lure me away across black seas, shivering
When life threatens to turn into another winter
Where it stings to be outside and my feet grow stiff,
Frozen in the freshly plowed roads.
But my feet won’t forget. Wherever they go
These meandering roads, invisible on Google maps,
Winter by winter
They’ll wait for my next plane ticket,
So tired of living
Like a social security number.
Gipsy
Saturday, July 10, 2010
Email Home- "Gmail Lives!"
Hello my people,
It has been a long time. I have so much to cover, and I hardly know
where to start. The beginning, I have heard, isn’t such a bad place.
Before going on our mid semester retreat I had an amazing focus
group. I taught the kids how to write a sonnet. Out of the forty
something kids only one had ever written a poem. With all the
football excitement (Ghana would be playing the US that night), that
was the theme of our class poem. It was really fun, and I think they
actually enjoyed it, which is really all that matters. I am doing
another lesson on limericks today. As far as research goes, I am
making some really good friends and getting the information I need. I
feel overwhelmed. So much to do, so much to learn, and so little
time. This is the beginning of the end.
I think the world cup deserves a paragraph. Watching the Ghana vs US
game was difficult. Our group was divided between cheering for Ghana
and US. I had to cheer for the US, but the whole time we were
watching the game I couldn’t help but think of that sonnet my class
wrote. I wanted us to win, but in the end, I was much more satisfied
that it was Ghana. It is an African world cup, and it is such a big
deal here. For the past week when we have told people we are from
America people have said, “Hey! We scored you!” I prefer it that
way; otherwise that conversation would have been a lot more awkward.
When Ghana lost though, I’ve got to say it was the most heart breaking
game I have ever watched. I’m not sure I have ever gotten so into a
match, including our classic BYU vs UofU games. There was this
penetrating eerie silence that fell over the whole continent that
evening. Still, the reaction of the people was incredible. Rachel
Morrison texted her landlord, “Well, that was heartbreaking.” The
response? “Do not be sad my dear, God has brought us this far, and we
have done our best.” This is a very typical Ghanaian commentary on
the loss. In fact, they even get surprised that we are still upset
about it. I guess that is fine for something like football, but I am
more impressed when it extends to some more daunting issues… religion,
death, discrimination—you name it. These people have some serious
patience and perspective that I am trying to tap into.
And now for the mid semester retreat, what an adventure! The first
half we spent tro-troing to the middle of nowhere. Our tro tro out of
Kumasi was interesting. My pending sickness finally got the better of
me. I spend 1 of the 4 hours of the bumpy ride leaning out the window
to puke over the side. At least the view was pleasant. Nothing but
jungle for miles and miles, it looked like the Lion King come to life.
We played in a waterfall, canoed down the White Volta looking for
hippos (which was unsuccessful, but I did see a hippo track, a
chameleon, and caught a turtle if that counts for anything) in Bui,
and went to a monkey sanctuary in Fiema.
We couldn’t seem to find a tro tro out of the monkey sanctuary, and
after waiting a few hours a truck pulled up. It isn’t really
hitchhiking if you have to tip a little bit now, is it? That is what
I thought. We piled in and road for an hour or so to our next
destination. It was absolutely intoxicating, having nothing more than
a bag on my back tying me down. There was no fuss about what to wear
tomorrow; it is whatever I didn’t wear today. I haven’t hitchhiked
since Hawaii, and I forgot how liberating it feels. To not have much
more than a vague direction, “that way,” and some far off destination
as an end goal like a pretext, knowing that the getting there is most
of the fun. Inconvenience is just a bad synonym for adventure. To
not always be in a sprint to your next appointment. To take time to
breath, to laugh for no reason, and to live deliberately. This is why
I am here. This is my road. Call it unconventional,
irresponsibility, or one of my personal favorites, “a phase,” but this
placelessness, this bizarre wanderlust—this is where I find solace.
This is my fix.
We stayed at many places of all degrees of shady, but we had a blast
and bonded as a group, even in the most disgusting accommodations.
I’m glad we did that first though, because I’m pretty sure that it
wouldn’t have been such a fond memory if we had done Cape Coast first.
Maggie, my field facilitator, is the daughter of the mission
president in Cape Coast, so we were able to stay at the mission home
for our three days there. I can’t even tell you how nice our stay
was. We had air conditioning, and clean sheets! I think I forgot how
good a hot shower feels, or the texture of my skin when it is not
saturated in bug spray. They treated us so well, and we were so
grateful to eat yogurt, corn flakes, pizza, and even bacon for a few
meals! It was evident that this princess land would definitely make
the transition back into “reality” a little difficult, but I think it
got us all a little bit more excited for home. We had a great stay
there. The slave castles were terrible and humbling, the beach
familiar and friendly, and the canopy rope bridge walk at Kakun was
something you would see straight out of a movie.
But the time came to go home. Home, what a peculiar word. By home we
meant of course Wiamoase, but even Kumasi had a strange flavor of
familiarity… Yet when we got back eight hours later I quickly became
irritated. We were deeper into the rainy season. There were 100 bug
corpses that had found their final resting place in my bed (we cleaned
up 7 dustpans worth of dead ants out of our room alone the next day).
I plugged my nose as I hesitantly jumped into the cold bucket shower
again, and the old insecurities and frustrations with our projects
were there waiting for us.
So what does this all mean? To miss you, my people, is a given, but
I’ve come to find that I miss hamburgers and those hot showers. A
sink that I can drink out of. And so home I will return, in the
bitter sweetness of it all. I am so happy with my experience thus
far. If I can get what I need research and wise, keep up on my
fieldwork, and learn all that I still can, then I will be more than
happy getting off the plane and resuming my old life as a slightly
different, more conscious, hopefully better, Rachel.
Business name: “Victoria’s Secret Fast food”
Marriage proposal: “I like this one,” Pointing at me like a desirable
new watch or shirt. “Give her to me.”
And the Internet is being really bad, so if I do not respond to
personal emails this week, I will get to them as soon as I can. :)
It has been a long time. I have so much to cover, and I hardly know
where to start. The beginning, I have heard, isn’t such a bad place.
Before going on our mid semester retreat I had an amazing focus
group. I taught the kids how to write a sonnet. Out of the forty
something kids only one had ever written a poem. With all the
football excitement (Ghana would be playing the US that night), that
was the theme of our class poem. It was really fun, and I think they
actually enjoyed it, which is really all that matters. I am doing
another lesson on limericks today. As far as research goes, I am
making some really good friends and getting the information I need. I
feel overwhelmed. So much to do, so much to learn, and so little
time. This is the beginning of the end.
I think the world cup deserves a paragraph. Watching the Ghana vs US
game was difficult. Our group was divided between cheering for Ghana
and US. I had to cheer for the US, but the whole time we were
watching the game I couldn’t help but think of that sonnet my class
wrote. I wanted us to win, but in the end, I was much more satisfied
that it was Ghana. It is an African world cup, and it is such a big
deal here. For the past week when we have told people we are from
America people have said, “Hey! We scored you!” I prefer it that
way; otherwise that conversation would have been a lot more awkward.
When Ghana lost though, I’ve got to say it was the most heart breaking
game I have ever watched. I’m not sure I have ever gotten so into a
match, including our classic BYU vs UofU games. There was this
penetrating eerie silence that fell over the whole continent that
evening. Still, the reaction of the people was incredible. Rachel
Morrison texted her landlord, “Well, that was heartbreaking.” The
response? “Do not be sad my dear, God has brought us this far, and we
have done our best.” This is a very typical Ghanaian commentary on
the loss. In fact, they even get surprised that we are still upset
about it. I guess that is fine for something like football, but I am
more impressed when it extends to some more daunting issues… religion,
death, discrimination—you name it. These people have some serious
patience and perspective that I am trying to tap into.
And now for the mid semester retreat, what an adventure! The first
half we spent tro-troing to the middle of nowhere. Our tro tro out of
Kumasi was interesting. My pending sickness finally got the better of
me. I spend 1 of the 4 hours of the bumpy ride leaning out the window
to puke over the side. At least the view was pleasant. Nothing but
jungle for miles and miles, it looked like the Lion King come to life.
We played in a waterfall, canoed down the White Volta looking for
hippos (which was unsuccessful, but I did see a hippo track, a
chameleon, and caught a turtle if that counts for anything) in Bui,
and went to a monkey sanctuary in Fiema.
We couldn’t seem to find a tro tro out of the monkey sanctuary, and
after waiting a few hours a truck pulled up. It isn’t really
hitchhiking if you have to tip a little bit now, is it? That is what
I thought. We piled in and road for an hour or so to our next
destination. It was absolutely intoxicating, having nothing more than
a bag on my back tying me down. There was no fuss about what to wear
tomorrow; it is whatever I didn’t wear today. I haven’t hitchhiked
since Hawaii, and I forgot how liberating it feels. To not have much
more than a vague direction, “that way,” and some far off destination
as an end goal like a pretext, knowing that the getting there is most
of the fun. Inconvenience is just a bad synonym for adventure. To
not always be in a sprint to your next appointment. To take time to
breath, to laugh for no reason, and to live deliberately. This is why
I am here. This is my road. Call it unconventional,
irresponsibility, or one of my personal favorites, “a phase,” but this
placelessness, this bizarre wanderlust—this is where I find solace.
This is my fix.
We stayed at many places of all degrees of shady, but we had a blast
and bonded as a group, even in the most disgusting accommodations.
I’m glad we did that first though, because I’m pretty sure that it
wouldn’t have been such a fond memory if we had done Cape Coast first.
Maggie, my field facilitator, is the daughter of the mission
president in Cape Coast, so we were able to stay at the mission home
for our three days there. I can’t even tell you how nice our stay
was. We had air conditioning, and clean sheets! I think I forgot how
good a hot shower feels, or the texture of my skin when it is not
saturated in bug spray. They treated us so well, and we were so
grateful to eat yogurt, corn flakes, pizza, and even bacon for a few
meals! It was evident that this princess land would definitely make
the transition back into “reality” a little difficult, but I think it
got us all a little bit more excited for home. We had a great stay
there. The slave castles were terrible and humbling, the beach
familiar and friendly, and the canopy rope bridge walk at Kakun was
something you would see straight out of a movie.
But the time came to go home. Home, what a peculiar word. By home we
meant of course Wiamoase, but even Kumasi had a strange flavor of
familiarity… Yet when we got back eight hours later I quickly became
irritated. We were deeper into the rainy season. There were 100 bug
corpses that had found their final resting place in my bed (we cleaned
up 7 dustpans worth of dead ants out of our room alone the next day).
I plugged my nose as I hesitantly jumped into the cold bucket shower
again, and the old insecurities and frustrations with our projects
were there waiting for us.
So what does this all mean? To miss you, my people, is a given, but
I’ve come to find that I miss hamburgers and those hot showers. A
sink that I can drink out of. And so home I will return, in the
bitter sweetness of it all. I am so happy with my experience thus
far. If I can get what I need research and wise, keep up on my
fieldwork, and learn all that I still can, then I will be more than
happy getting off the plane and resuming my old life as a slightly
different, more conscious, hopefully better, Rachel.
Business name: “Victoria’s Secret Fast food”
Marriage proposal: “I like this one,” Pointing at me like a desirable
new watch or shirt. “Give her to me.”
And the Internet is being really bad, so if I do not respond to
personal emails this week, I will get to them as soon as I can. :)
And We're Back
Hello friends and family!
We are back from an exciting and much needed mid semester retreat. We did everything to sight seeing at Cape Coast, hiking, and canoeing the White Volta, to visiting a waterfall and the monkey sanctuary in Fiema. Now the research resumes.
Things are going really well. I’ve had some great focus groups, and I’ve finally got some friends at school. Michael takes good care of me. Whether he is translating, teaching me how to eat soup with my hands, helping me when I slide off the road (literally), or rallying up a class for my poetry lessons, I can always count on him. I’m getting answers to questions I didn’t even know I had. Even the disappointments have helped my project grow in the right direction.
My only fear now is not getting it all in. I can feel stressed-out-Ava coming back as we are inching closer to the end. I hate goodbyes. I hate that I am thinking about them already, so I won’t dwell on it. School ends at the end of this month, so I’ll put my energies there and the rest will hopefully fall into place.
Ava
We are back from an exciting and much needed mid semester retreat. We did everything to sight seeing at Cape Coast, hiking, and canoeing the White Volta, to visiting a waterfall and the monkey sanctuary in Fiema. Now the research resumes.
Things are going really well. I’ve had some great focus groups, and I’ve finally got some friends at school. Michael takes good care of me. Whether he is translating, teaching me how to eat soup with my hands, helping me when I slide off the road (literally), or rallying up a class for my poetry lessons, I can always count on him. I’m getting answers to questions I didn’t even know I had. Even the disappointments have helped my project grow in the right direction.
My only fear now is not getting it all in. I can feel stressed-out-Ava coming back as we are inching closer to the end. I hate goodbyes. I hate that I am thinking about them already, so I won’t dwell on it. School ends at the end of this month, so I’ll put my energies there and the rest will hopefully fall into place.
Ava
Ghana is one of the few places on earth where you can’t find a McDonalds, or so I thought.
The missionaries at the bus station clued us in, and Maggie’s dad, being the mission president of Cape Coast, helped make it happen. Here is how it works. You call up Kwame, tell him how many people are coming and about when you’ll be there, and he will go open up shop. This Kwame McDonalds had a lopsided pool table, orange soda, and pile of excessive napkins with every plate of fries and a burger, both as appealing as the model food they use in commercials. I bit and chewed it slowly, allowing the ketchup to run freely down my wrist, and if I closed my eyes tight enough, the blinking Christmas lights changed to the Wendy’s pick up sign, where a chunky, chocolate chip cookie dough vanilla frosty would be waiting for me, so sweet and grainy and cold.
After such a nice stay at the mission home, coming back to Wiamoase was a bit of a shock. Not just because of the 100 plus ant corpses that decided to take their last breath in my bed (7 dustpans full just on the floor), or the 4 AM’s free of disoriented rooster squawks, but I have come to find that I miss my hot showers. And yes. Hamburgers. Thick, cheesy, juicy hamburgers, soaked in a generous saturation of mustard and grease to compliment a pound of salty, value meal French fries (total 4.39 after tax). But for now I can content myself with bread. Yes. Bread with a healthy layer of off brand nutella or some derivative of peanut butter.
(Does anyone know if there is a Wendy’s in London?)
Gipsy
The missionaries at the bus station clued us in, and Maggie’s dad, being the mission president of Cape Coast, helped make it happen. Here is how it works. You call up Kwame, tell him how many people are coming and about when you’ll be there, and he will go open up shop. This Kwame McDonalds had a lopsided pool table, orange soda, and pile of excessive napkins with every plate of fries and a burger, both as appealing as the model food they use in commercials. I bit and chewed it slowly, allowing the ketchup to run freely down my wrist, and if I closed my eyes tight enough, the blinking Christmas lights changed to the Wendy’s pick up sign, where a chunky, chocolate chip cookie dough vanilla frosty would be waiting for me, so sweet and grainy and cold.
After such a nice stay at the mission home, coming back to Wiamoase was a bit of a shock. Not just because of the 100 plus ant corpses that decided to take their last breath in my bed (7 dustpans full just on the floor), or the 4 AM’s free of disoriented rooster squawks, but I have come to find that I miss my hot showers. And yes. Hamburgers. Thick, cheesy, juicy hamburgers, soaked in a generous saturation of mustard and grease to compliment a pound of salty, value meal French fries (total 4.39 after tax). But for now I can content myself with bread. Yes. Bread with a healthy layer of off brand nutella or some derivative of peanut butter.
(Does anyone know if there is a Wendy’s in London?)
Gipsy
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