But because of this I see more. On my first trip to Ghana I was so overwhelmed with what I was seeing—thatched roofs and mud huts and half-naked children running around—that I could barely understand these things. I couldn't recognize the details and the defining characteristics of each of these villages. I didn’t notice the subtle differences in the tribal scars on men’ and women’s faces. I didn’t notice the road signs and the names of towns as we went in and out of them. I wasn’t paying attention to the commerce—this village sells tomatoes, that one sells fish, etc. But this time around I almost felt overwhelmed by all the pieces I was seeing. I’m not spending so much of my energy just trying to see everything. I'm now working on processing it. Which is way harder, for the record.
But it also gets harder to leave. Coming back to the United States pretty much just makes me angry. Standing in the Kotoka airport (in Ghana) before departure, I actually considered getting out of line. I thought up approximately one hundred and one reasons why I couldn’t go back just yet. I was already beginning to craft the email in my head to my office explaining what happened (see there was this goat...and a flat tire…and an unexpected funeral party…and a marriage) and why I was going to need a few more hundred dollars wired to me. Knowing this was absurd and that I already had appointments on my calendar back in Baltimore, I continued to stand in the longest line ever, feeling sorry for myself.
There are always a lot of Americans in Ghana. I guess Ghana has become a fairly easy place to navigate, being all Anglophonic and politically stable and democratic and what not, and the missionaries come in by the boatload (although I’m not sure there are many people left to convert). Standing in this bulging, unruly queue, I hear a familiar sound behind me. American accents. I turn to the small group of Americans who were looking around Kotoka for signs on what to do—because airports in developing countries have hundred of unspoken rules and approximately three signs, and those are usually in another language, despite being English speaking and politically stable and democratic and what not.
This group behind me is southern (I'm guessing Texas or maybe Alabama, based on the tone) and I’m also guessing, based on their monogrammed backpacks, gold cross necklaces, and rolling floral suitcases, that they’ve been here charged with God’s work. And I'm not hating on the work these good people do (or did), but at some point you get tired of congratulating people on their "hard work" when you don't see a place as desperate anymore. It's like when people do mission work in Baltimore. I get it. I just don't necessarily like it.
I’m usually dead on with these American spottings—the random Peace Corps volunteer, the best-of-intentions-missionary, the curious professors, the overly-zealous ex-pats, etc., each time becoming more and more conscious of my growing irritation towards the “American” in “Africa” (kindly ignoring that I, too, am American). This is sometimes easy to forget when you’ve convinced yourself you aren't really American.
Standing and waiting and moving up a few feet every 20-30 minutes, I'm growing anxious about leaving Ghana. I just left my "family" and giant plates of food and 3 beers I didn't have time to finish. I didn't get enough time with my "big sisters" Christine or Skinny or my "niece" Woewoe. I'm already thinking of the things I didn't scratch off my list in the eleven days I was there. I decide to be chatty instead of being depressed. I casually ask the group, “How long have you been here? Have you loved your visit?” Inside my head I’m not really listening, and frankly I’m not sure why I even asked because I can’t say that I really particularly cared to know when and where and why this group has been traveling in this place I’ve become almost protective of; ready to attack anyone who dare say they had a miserable time in West Africa. I learn that the group has been visiting the Volta region of Ghana, and as I suspected, working with a mission group. One gentleman in particular says, “It’s been great but I’m sure ready to get home!” His statement is simple enough, and completely innocent, but I translate it to: “Get me the hell out of this uncivilized place!” I resist the snarling noise that seems to come from inside me, like a rabid dog, and I forcefully smile at him, nodding in a sympathetic way, hoping he can’t sense that I’m struggling to empathize. And the fact that I completely put words in his mouth that he didn't say (because he probably wouldn't say hell).
And it’s not that I'm upset with these people who have probably been doing really good work. It's not that I resent the missionaries. These communities have embraced Christianity with a zealousness that's almost unnerving. God has done his work in Ghana. Churches from around the world have built schools and they support hospitals and provide medical care throughout this continent. But if you really spend some time here, you start to see the gaps. You start to see the thousands of unfinished projects started by people with good intentions. You start to see the false hope spread by people with valid passports and multiple entry visas that allow them to travel in and out of these communities, when the going gets tough. You start to see the loss of tradition at the hand of western dominance. Which is not to suggest that Africa shouldn't be allowed to have things like potable water, Facebook, and Blackberrys. This statement is merely to suggest that development and globalization comes at a cost.
So his eagerness to get home leads me to believe that he hasn't seen this place yet. And I'm not holding that against him. In fact, I’ve had that feeling standing in this airport. My body drained from a week-long bout of traveler’s diarrhea and some bizarre stomach bug I can’t seem to shake; my soul shaken from what I’ve seen and felt and heard, desperate for some kind of normalcy, like a McDonalds or a grocery store or a flushing toilet. But this time, I couldn’t be further from understanding his emotion. I mean, I love a good flushing toilet, and I could kill a McChicken sandwich right about now, but I’d rather stay, frankly. I’m sure I can find a chicken later, kill it, clean it, and make it into a sandwich.
When we land in the US, the Americans from the line wave at me in passing, and I can sense that they’re beaming to be back in the shiny, sanitized, orderly United States. I, on the other hand, am grumbling at the sparkling floors and the big, clean windows and the excessive signs in English (I get it! I can read it!). The shiny brushed nickel barricades that force everyone to get in neat, orderly lines (whether I like it or not) are making me irritable. I’m mad at the petulant Customs agents for not smiling ever and for yelling at a group of Ghanaian teenagers who are in the US for the first time (welcome, kids). I’m irritated that I can probably safely sit down on the toilet seat, because it has probably been cleaned and sanitized, on an orderly schedule, every 2 hours, since it was made functional. I’m looking at the rotating luggage belt with disdain—what makes YOU so special!? So what? You go round and round. Want a shiny, clean American award? Grumpy. Like as if I were in DisneyWorld kind of Grumpy.
I’m feeling cross and tired and missing the sounds of goats and chickens and a sea of languages I don’t understand. There is no one standing outside of the airport waiting to haggle me. There is nothing exciting happening. There is no ocean and no fishermen and no singing and no obnoxiously loud gospel music playing 200 decibels too high. `Just a lot of boring, expressionless people yelling at their kids to walk faster while they play their handheld video games. I guess I won't be singing any patriotic songs today.
Each time I take this journey, I get more and more attached. Each time I become less and less afraid of what makes this place so different. Each time I push myself a bit further outside of my comfort zone. And today I’m having one of those moments where I think to myself, I could maybe do this. Like for real. Because this airport is freaking bananas. (Did I mention that bananas are better in West Africa, too?)
Do you ever have those moments where you’re staring at something, and you’re questioning yourself and God: Is this a sign? Am I supposed to DO something right now?
Since I’ve been back I’ve been looking around my life wondering, what holds me to this place? What is it about my job that I love? What about Baltimore? My friends? What would happen if I just took a giant leap? Not for a lifetime, but maybe a year or two. What would happen if I actually moved to West Africa?
Because something happens to me over there that I can’t quite describe. It’s like the restless part of me settles down and I get downright spiritual. The “things” I think I need to be happy are challenged and I always find myself opening my heart a bit wider with each person I meet and each experience I have. And it’s not all peaches and roses and flowering bushes. Africa is Hell. I remember. I get it. Cities lack infrastructure, governments lack decency, the economy lacks liquidity. People suffer from hunger and poverty. HIV/AIDS and other diseases are rampant. Health education and women's rights are generations behind the West. But it’s like reminding me that Baltimore’s murder rate is high. Yeah. I know. I heard a gunshot last night. What of it?
I guess we'll wait and see where life takes me. But for now, when I dream, this is what I see:
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