Did Someone Say Watermelon?

The Little Things in Life

Monday, July 10, 2017 (Yes, yes I know. This was a long time ago, but here it is!) - This morning a woman came by my compound selling slices of watermelon. It’s hard to convey the shear joy that came over me when Ma Memuna called into my room “watermelon”. I came bounding out face lit up like a small child on Christmas morning who still believes in Santa Clause. I handed the woman my 20p (equivalent to about a US nickel) and picked a big, beautiful, juicy piece of fruit the kind of piece that is cut the long way so it’s extra big. Watermelon now in hand I start standing up as the woman tells me I have paid enough for two pieces and handed me one more. What!?!?!? BEST DAY EVER!!!! I haven’t eaten fruit in two days (not by choice), a fact that I only know because I am missing it so much and now I’m double fisting two wonderfully ripe pieces of watermelon as I do a little happy dance in our courtyard as Ma Memuna and the watermelon lady smile.

Future Leaders Reading Club

This wonderful village I live in is small and rural where the weather is hot and the people are humble. It is a place filled with culturally rich customs, celebrations, and dances with day-to-day life revolving around farming. With everyone’s focus on the fields, education has sat patiently on the back burner. An understanding of the importance of education has been developing in the community with each generation. Although the numbers are still low, the village now has more boys and girls attending its Primary School and Junior High School than ever before and fewer missing classes to work on the farm. Many students are eager to learn, practice what they have been taught, and crave more outlets to acquire new knowledge. Reading comprehension has been one of the greatest struggles for our students and has become a concern for not only these young learners, but for some of the community, Parent Teacher Association, elders, chief, and the district. With the support of the students and teachers my counterpart, Mohammed, and I started a reading club.

For our first meeting, ten students came together in the Community Library, a beautiful green building put up with the support of the previous volunteer, Adrienne (Woot Woot!). We sat around one of the big tables and chose our meeting times. After a discussion about what each of the students wanted to be when they grew up the kids decided on their club name. Very appropriately this group of some day nurses, teachers, doctors, and the future president of Ghana chose to be called the Future Leaders Reading Club. With meetings three times per week we had lessons that focused on vowels, consonants, diphthongs, and the likes along with sentence structure and reading for understanding. At the end of each lesson we spent time reading either as a group or individually. On one particular day with eight of our future leaders in attendance, I got to witness a light bulb turn on over each of their heads. That day we were going over the words ‘title’ and ‘author’ before diving into a classic Dr. Seuss book. To have the information sink in I wrote a short story in front of the group to convey that I was the author and we came up with a title together. At that point we ended up putting ‘One Fish Two Fish Red Fish Blue Fish’ aside and worked our way sentence by sentence through ‘The Young Girl’ to figure out what I had written about. We explored each new word in a variety of different ways (mainly through acting and experiential learning) and by the end everyone had grasped what the story was about. To further convey their level of understanding the kids decided to work together to act out this short story of a girl going to farm, being distracted by a goat, tripping over a rock, and being helped up by a boy who walked her back home. I was so thoroughly impressed by each of them as they worked to not only read the story, but to take their comprehension to the next level and demonstrate everything they had absorbed through a different medium.

By the end of the lesson you could see that I wasn’t the only proud one in the group. They were proud of themselves. Their faces were all smiles and their confidence was high. They had understood a story. They had understood each sentence. They had understood each word. This is not something that is an everyday occurrence for these students and today it has given each of them much joy.

So without further ado… I give you

The Young Girl

by Laamihi and the Future Leaders Reading Club

The young girl went to the bush. In the bush she saw a goat. The goat was running through the cornfield. When she was looking at the goat, she did not see the rock in front of her. The girl tripped on the rock and scraped her knee. A boy saw the girl fall. He helped her up and they walked home together.

The End

Reconnect – Hugs, Pools, and Prescriptions

July 31, 2017 – I arrived back to site yesterday after being away for two weeks. The group of volunteers that I am apart of, called the FanYolos – named by our trainers right before we swore in as volunteers, had come back together for our reconnect conference in Kumasi a couple of weeks ago. Reconnect conference was wonderful for many reasons. The conference marks the end of ‘site integration’, referred to as ‘site restriction’ by some, which is the first 3 months in our assigned communities. In this time a volunteer’s goal is to work on integration, connections, learn about our community, and find our footing at site. Volunteers are not allowed to spend a night away from site, which is very challenging for some because in many respects it can get lonely from time to time in those first 3 months. I can’t say that lonely is quite the feeling that I had, but I sure did go through moments of missing friends and family, hugs, food, coffee, and parts of me that culturally I can’t express to my local friends. I love the people in my village and have very much enjoyed my integration period, but I won’t lie, I am happy that I have made it through. It’s kind of like the feeling of getting my first car. Its not necessarily the going somewhere that excites me (travel is no cakewalk here), its just the freedom of knowing that I can. Throughout integration I learnt a bit about the importance of touch in my life and what its like to be without it. I am a hugger through and through, my friends know this about me very well. At site I don’t have a person to hug (which sounds pretty sad reading that back, but culturally I haven’t quite figured it all out yet. I don’t see Ghanaians in my town hugging so I follow suite). In our Muslim community I have found that handshakes are more connection based. Most of the time there is no actual shake involved, instead you grasp hands like you are going for a handshake and sometimes it is fast, touch hands and release, and other times the handholding can go on for quite sometime (almost too long… I’m not the biggest fan of handholding until my hand gets sweaty). Regardless of how long the hand holding lasts, once you release you touch your hand to your forehead or chest. I really enjoy the end of this handshake when you go from having a physical connection with someone to then bringing that connection to your heart. Some day I’ll ask about the significance of this style of handshake, but for now, for me, it almost feels like I am being more present and connected with those around me as we put the connection we have had into our hearts, our body, our spirit. As much as I do enjoy this, it still isn’t quite the same as a hug. Reconnect conference brought some good huggers back into my life for a bit, which solidified how important touch is to me. Man did those hugs feel good.

Upon arrival at the hotel in Kumasi, I didn’t skip a single beat to make my way directly up to my room, change, flap my arms in excitement as I got into my bathing suit, and head right to the pool! My roommate Fletcher (who has been my roommate whenever the FanYolos are together tracing all the way back to staging before we even reached Ghana) had already arrived and taken a dip. At the pool it’s like I never stopped walking, I took my t-shirt off, dropped my towel on a chair, and walked directly into the deep end… glasses still on. There are some things Fletcher and I don’t have to actually talk about anymore after spending so much time together. They were right there by the side of the pool, hand out to collect my glasses before I even came up for air. Golly did that water feel AMAZING! I have always enjoyed swimming, but can’t say it’s my favorite activity, but man oh man I have been dreaming about getting into that pool ever since I found out there would be one at our reconnect hotel. It was heaven. Have you ever seen a picture of a water drop that looks so full and fresh as it makes its way down to splash into a body of water below? Well as I ducked my head under the pool surface it felt like I was suspended in one of those drops. Like the water was my world and all my body needed was the calm, quiet, and coolness that it brought. I was completely blissful. The next day the conference officially began and it was great. We went over a lot of information that had been given to us during training, which was fantastic. During training volunteers are overloaded with great information and resources, but with such a high volume of info coming in in such a short amount of time it becomes overwhelming almost to the point of not knowing where to begin. After being at site for 3 months and getting to know the community, I could ask pertinent questions when receiving this information for the second time and I was able to identify specific resources that could be helpful for projects in the village. My confidence was up and I was feeling much more prepared to return and get to work. Mohammed was also able to attend the conference, which was truly great. Counterparts from all over Ghana were there making it a nation wide conference. Pretty cool I’d say and very helpful and important to have one of my partners in crime collecting information with me especially because when its all said and done Mohammed, Adams, and the rest of the community will be the ones to carry the torch, not me. One afternoon after sessions let out for the day, some of the counterparts decided it was time for them to take a dip. Most Ghanaians I have come across aren’t big swimmers or more commonly aren’t swimmers at all. Especially in the North its not something that is taught to kids at a young age or any age for that matter. This might not be the worst thing because here in Ghana many ponds, lakes, rivers and the likes have Schistosomiasis, teeny tiny parasitic worms that are carried by a specific kind of fresh water snail. The worms infiltrate the body and cause all sorts of havoc, which can result in many different unpleasantries such as peeing blood. I have heard in some communities that do in fact have a local “fresh” water swimming hole it was once believed that boys would also menstruate because they would regularly pee blood. TMI? No, you all can handle it! So back to swimming in the chlorinated pool. We had a blast. I tried giving a little swimming lesson to a few counterparts, which ended up helping out one of them in particular. The biggest thing he seemed to take away was that you are able to breathe out when your head is underwater. It’s always so fascinating and kind of a gift in some ways to remember or learn what it is like to be a novice at something that you have been doing since childhood. Sure I can remember bits and pieces of swimming lessons with Janelle, the swim instructor for the kids on my block growing up, but in those memories I could already swim, maybe not well, but I could do it. I don’t remember being scared of water (I’m still scared of some things that live in water…) or what it feels like to blow bubbles for the first time. What fun it was to hang out with these guys in the pool, blow bubbles, splash around, try out some strokes, and all in all just have a good ol’ time. Mohammed had been swimming once or twice before and adopted a style of moving through the water that we all got a kick out of, including him. He would duck his head under, do a lovely breaststroke with his arms, but then completely inefficiently pump his legs as fast as he could forward and back like he was doing horizontal high knees underwater. How fantastic!

Throughout the week in Kumasi I was battling a cold, which I tried willing away with positive energy, hydration, and some ibuprofen, but it turns out that doesn’t work all of the time. It got worse… and then a little worse… and then a little better… and then became a full-fledged sinus infection. Oy. At the end of reconnect we made our way back to Tamale where I had to stay at our Peace Corps sub office for an extra week. I had friends taking care of me as I realized more and more that I am fairly stubborn about my health and an awful patient. My friend Bryan cooked meals for me (how kind and what an amazing cook he is!). I persistently tried to help him cook with my fever still spiked and even as he continuously tried to remove me from the kitchen to have me sit and relax. One of the moments that actually pushed me to understand that I was indeed quite sick was when he was sautéing garlic and onions and I couldn’t smell a darned thing. What a sad moment… I love the smell of garlic and onions. My friend Sallie, a nurse, was also keeping tabs on me and had me do a face steam bath in a small metal mixing bowl with boiling water and an orange towel draped over my head. It took her numerous tries to get me to actually do it… as I said I’m not the best patient… it’s not my best quality, I just really don’t enjoy admitting to myself when I am sick, quite foolish, but that’s how it goes. The steam bath actually felt pretty nice. It’s a good thing I have good friends.

At one point the Peace Corps doctor who was treating me by text message from Accra told me to go to the local clinic to see a doctor. The doctor drew up some blood tests and very matter of factly informed me I had malaria and typhoid fever. He said “Welcome to Ghana” in an unsarcastic and kind of inviting way, like someone might say when you get off of a plane… “Welcome to Ghana! Here’s some fufu, beautiful fabrics, shea butter, typhoid fever, and malaria. You’ll love it here!” Well shoot dang! I left the clinic with a goodie bag filled with medications to treat these local killers and promptly let my PC doctor know the diagnosis. I believe his text read ‘ignore that’ in reference to the diagnosis and then another came in right after that which said ‘don’t take any medications from them’. What a peculiar day that was, getting yoyoed around with serious ailments. It turns out that since I received the typhoid vaccine as one of the many shots given to me in preparation for arrival in Ghana I will come up positive for low-grade typhoid whenever tested. I’m not sure what happened with the malaria diagnosis though. My PC doc had me do a rapid malaria test back at the TSO (Tamale Sub Office) and it was negative. Woot Woot! A couple days later with antibiotics finally onboard I was very happy to be heading back to site and also to get my sense of smell back in working order! Walking to my compound after getting off of the bus to my village, I ran into Ma Memuna, my landlady. She greeted me with a smile, a slightly raspy voice saying my local name, and arms wide open ready for a hug. It wasn’t some kind of lackadaisical hug either it was the real deal. Who would have thought? Maybe hugs will be a part of my life at site after all.

Boys Don’t Cry… Well boys do but men don’t

My counterpart, Adams, is learning how to sew. He told me the other day that he is working on buying a couple of sewing machines for two of the girls in his family. Like many kids in town, these two girls stopped their education at a young age and were not pushed to continue by their parents. Adams has taken it upon himself to try to give them options in life by means of needle and thread. Through learning a skill they will be able to possibly break free of the rollercoaster of social norms for women… marry young, work on the farm, have babies young, keep working on the farm, plus do house work, plus raise the kids, plus cook for everyone, plus etc. Through learning how to sew these two girls will have a bit more power to define their lives as they choose. Adams too stopped his education at a young age and it lead him to be passionate about encouraging kids to stay in school, to pick the other path. He went on to become a carpenter, handy man, jack-of-all-trades, and now I am watching him sitting behind a sewing machine with his strong callused hands matching up the edges of a lovely fabric in his first go at making covers for couch cushions. As we sit, him working diligently and me just observing, we don’t talk for a bit. The goats and sheep having evening conversations outside accompany the sound of the foot-powered sewing machine and the gentle breath of a focused man. The sunlight coming in to the open front container tailor shop in the middle of town starts to tuck behind the trees. A man comes and goes, collecting a small amount of white cloth left aside. Adams tells me ‘they are making a dress’. He goes on to let me know the dress is for a child for when she meets their ancestors. This confused me for a moment and then I realized the child had died. Adams said it was his sister’s baby who was only a couple of weeks old. We went on talking. I asked how people mourn in the community as I failed to detect sadness in his voice.

A: Prayers are said, community members visit the family’s home

Z: Yes, but will people be sad?

A: Yes, people will be sad

Z: Do people cry? I haven’t seen an adult cry.

A: Yes

Z: Will the mother cry?

A: Yes, the mother will cry. The mother’s sisters might cry because they are sad for the mother.

Z: Will the father cry?

A: Oh, that I cannot tell. If both the man and the woman are crying what then will happen?

Z: Do men cry in this community?

A: No.

Z: Why not?

A: If a man were to cry it would not be good for him.

Z: Will he be made fun of?

A: Yes (said with a smile and chuckle).

Z: Have you cried?

A: I felt tears in my throat when Adrienne (the last volunteer) was talking about Ma Memuna before she left, but I did not let them out.

Z: Did you swallow your tears?

A: (A chuckle) Yes.

Z: It’s similar where I am from…

When did this start? When did society start saying that it’s not ok for men to cry? Why is this the case in so many different communities all over the world? It seems to have woven its way through continents, countries, and cultures creating generations of holding back tears in the pursuit to abide by this unwritten rule of masculinity. I know this is not the case for all men. I was raised in a family that was accepting of tears from any gender and I know there are many more who feel the same way. I am just so curious how this wide spread common quest of tearless stoicism came to be. So for all you men (or women) out there who feel like you don’t have a judgment free shoulder to cry on, I’ve got two if you need them.

Sports, Sports, Sports

Knock knock… My screen door rattles with the force of youth athletes and small children… “Please, Madam, may I borrow your ball.” Almost daily I receive eager visitors hoping to play with the classic black and white soccer ball my dad sent along with me when I was heading off to Ghana. There are times when I will toss on my quickly disintegrating sneakers and go play with them, times when they will head out on their own, and times when the ball is already at the school football pitch being well loved by another group of kids. What started as a new ball became nicked, scratched, and then torn and ripped. I have sewn shut burst seems and pumped it back up time and time again. The kids don’t care what it looks like just that it can be kicked.

“Madam…” the kids say as they make the motion of throwing a frisbee. The new sport has been catching on especially with a couple of the kids who are always hoping that I took the time to put it into my dirty orange backpack that I tote around all over town. We play catch while waiting for club sessions to start, when they see me coming home from the library, or if they catch my eye and make the throwing motion while I’m sitting with the group of men I typically hang out with in the late afternoon. There are two kids in particular who have really taken to it. The boy, Adam, is quiet and has a sneaky kindness about him. It’s hard to explain, but you can see it in his eyes, his subtle actions, and mostly mature reactions (when I say I don’t have the frisbee with me he keeps smiling and just nods very peacefully). The girl, Mariam, constantly grins in a way that shows her kindness and moves her recently growth spurted limbs with gusto, excited to be equally included in a sporting activity. One evening Adam, Mariam, and I were throwing the disc around by the ataya base in front of the ataya base men. Adam and I were using one hand to catch and throw and Mariam was sandwiching it between two and sometimes would successfully make a one handed catch. I would praise both of them each time they made a clean catch and a balanced throw. I told the ataya base men why I was giving them praise after Mariam had surprised herself by making a one handed catch. A man called Chairman quickly gave Mariam a very excited compliment coupled with a big smile the next time she made a really nice catch. It was incredible. Her posture, facial expression, and determination changed immediately. Mariam went on to actively catch and throw with a confidence that grew exponentially from that one positive comment from Chairman, an adult male community role model. I have never seen such a drastic change in someone based on one comment. It makes me wonder what would happen if more girls received positive affirmation in school, in sport, throughout the day, etc. What a world that would be!

(Mariam the frisbee machine!)

“It’s an American football.” The boys’ eyes grew so big that I thought they might pop right out of their heads. “Ma-dam, Ma-dam, Ma-dam” they say while inspecting the brand new shape in front of them… “Here, let me show you” I go to the other side of my compound with the Jr. sized football sent over by a couple of the dodgeballers (thanks Brackens!!!). I throw a somewhat wobbly toss over to Fatou and Hafiz. They laugh and make excited shrieks as they try catching the spiraling egg. We throw it a few times in the classic overhand football toss and then I quickly change things up… Rugby. My true sportting love (sorry mom). We throw around until the boys had to leave. A few days later I grabbed the ball and walked down the main street on my way to the school park (aka soccer pitch… aka scrub brush and untrimmed grass area). As I walked, my posse grew until we had enough for a good little rugby practice. We played catch, ran lines, and tried learning about the concept of passing laterally or backwards… Still working on that one…

“Madam, we are tired” The girls exclaim after one sprint from their positions to the net back to the service line and then back to their positions on the dirt and rock volleyball court. Being coached is a bit of a foreign concept for the girls in our small village. They are given barely any opportunities to participate in organized sport and when they are given a chance to practice or compete it only happens for about a week prior to competitions. I went to watch them play in matches against other teams in the district and as I cheered them on I couldn’t help but to listen to how they were being coached. The schoolteachers (all men) turn into the coaches and more than not treat the girls as if they should have come out of the womb knowing how to play football (soccer) and volleyball. They would bring praise at times and would say it was ok when mistakes were made, but usually those comments came after a barrage of “Ah! What are you doing?” “Why?” “These girls can not learn!” “Ah! I just told you to… and you are still doing…” and so on and so on. The men constantly were trying to coach the girls or tell the girls a myriad of different things they should do to improve their game, but of coarse it was too little (or in many ways too much at one time) too late. I spoke with one of the coaches about getting the girls to practice more often so that they could prepare for competition and it seemed to be well received, but so far I haven’t seen much/any change in that respect. Hopefully there will be more opportunities in the near future. I had two girls come to my house the other day “Good morning Madam!” “Good morning!” “May we borrow your ball?” “Only if you have a game with just girls.” “OK”… That afternoon I made my way over to the school and there they were, a field full of young women playing football, smiles on their faces and boys standing to the side watching. What a site.

(Tong JHS girls playing soccer against a team from Karaga, the district capital. Side Note: When playing volleyball against a different school in Karaga the kids from that school said that we were “OK for a village school”… Rough!... We then proceeded to win the game!)

Alizumma Prayers

The call to prayer echoes throughout the community five times per day. It has turned into not just a signal of prayers for me, but instead an indicator of time.

5:00am (dawn): ‘Nope. Keep sleeping. One more hour.’

1:00pm: ‘Gosh, no wonder why it feels so hot right now… Time for a snack… and maybe a nap.’… or… ‘1pm! Already! Yikes baby weighing has run long today. No wonder why I’m hungry. I wonder if Ma Memuna left food out for me.’ … ‘Do I want coffee?’

3:00pm: ‘Time to gear up for afternoon activities with the kiddos!’ … ‘Peace Club in 20… better eat something… Game face.’ … ‘Do I need coffee? No no no. Water. Drink more water.’

~5:45pm-ish (dusk. depends on the season): ‘Mmm a little quiet time at the ataya base’ … or… ‘How do these kids still have so much energy?’ “Yes, yes. I’m coming. Let me put my bag down. I’ll get the playing cards.”… or… the kids pump their arms forward and back. “OK. Yup. Lets do some pushups.”

~6:30pm-ish (depends on the season): ‘Dinner time’ … ‘Ma Memuna will be home soon. Have the kids finished their chores?’ … ‘Time to start winding down and respectfully migrate towards my room.’ … or… ‘Eat fast! Back to the library! Get the game face on for evening clubs, drawing/spelling/math competitions, prep meetings…’ … or… ‘Man I’m tired… My feet are so dirty (my feet are always so dirty). Time to bathe and sleep.’

Throughout the community you can see people praying together. Some pray outside in small groups and others make their way with prayer beads in hand to one of the mosques scattered throughout the village. Before going to pray, ablution is performed with water poured from colorful plastic kettles, staples at the community’s typical hangout spots and in all of the compounds. Men wear zaba/prayer robes or trousers and a shirt and women colorful dresses or Ghanaian print chinchini (fabric) worn as skirts (their usual daily attire) and a sarga/head covering (either a hijab or scarf). The central mosque, pink and white with a big tree towering close to it’s turret marked with a moon and star, sits in the middle of town a few steps off of the main dirt road. On Fridays at 1:15pm the whole community comes together for Alizumma prayers (Friday prayer) at the central mosque. When I am available I join them. Wearing my Peace Corps print chinchini and an off white green thread embroidered headscarf borrowed from Ma Memuna I walk to the mosque. I still have not quite figured out the best way to tie the chinchini to give my legs more freedom to take bigger steps. My feet have to instead work overtime as I walk with tiny rapid strides hoping that I don’t come across anything I have to step over (small rocks, sticks… I didn’t say it had to be something big… I’m really wrapped up in this thing). We leave our namda (sandals) outside the door and I follow the women into their section of the mosque. Four rows of prayer mats line the length of the room and I take a spot towards the back. Women slowly file in and I soon become nestled into a sea of beautiful colors. The rainbow truly has nothing on what is seen in Ghanaian print clothes and head coverings. The saturation of colors is so deep and bright and the prints are bold and exciting. For lack of better words it simply makes me happy. Shoulder to shoulder with my neighbors I take note from their movements as I go through the motions of the prayers. As someone who is not Muslim and not religious I use the time and the movements to meditate on some of my favorite mantras. ‘I choose love’ typically goes on repeat as I sink into the calm and comfort of being surrounded by community while I think of the different people in my life both at home and in Ghana. During one of the prayers, we sing. The vibrations of the men’s voices through the dividing wall joining with the women’s voices, including my own, washes over my body and moves through me energizing and refreshing my cells making my whole being hum with sweet, uninterrupted, peaceful joy. As we start moving towards the door, I am stopped every few steps to hold hands with elder women before we release to then touch our hands to our foreheads and then our hearts. Their smiles, broad and genuine, show the joy they have in seeing me at their mosque, taking part and learning about their religion and the customs that are so embedded in their lives and beings. Feeling lucky to be a part of this community, I go outside and am greeted by a group of children who have organized all of the shoes to be facing away from the mosque allowing the women to step right into their sandals and be on their way. After prayers I walk home with the rest of the women who live on the West side of the village. The group is beautiful and strong. Ma Memuna and her friends are older and respected making me feel like I am rolling with a pose of powerful celebrities and I am their awkward star struck niece trying to stay cool so that I don’t embarrass them. They move slowly, which bodes well for my still struggling abridged stride, and the vibrant colors of their head coverings and skirts juxtaposed to the earthy red/brown of the dusty road is truly a wonderful site. We are carrying our blessings home, which must be working because although as I said I’m not religious I certainly feel blessed every day to be a part of this community.

Ag. Updates

We’ve got take off everybody! The lettuce is growing beautifully as are some of the bean varieties, cucumbers, and tomatoes. The corn has also taken root and shot up… The only problem is that I planted the corn too close to the fence... It made the donkeys quite happy. You live and you learn!

Alright, the garden definitely got the best of me! The cucumbers, beans, and tons of tomatoes took over when I was away from site for a week. When the tomatoes were just wee little things I was so excited that they were there that I didn’t want to thin any of them out… That was my bad! Again, you live and you learn!

We’ve got produce! Beautiful produce! Smilya has helped with the whole process. Collecting compost materials, building the fence, constructing the beds, organizing seed location, planting, weeding, watering, and now… HARVESTING!

We made salad… and I thought it was a ok!… Smilya, Ma Memuna, and Mariam didn’t have the same taste for the raw lettuce. Granted I didn’t have any kind of really tasty salad dressing on there so we were having lettuce with a little vegetable oil (no olive oil… Oy!), salt, pepper, and some other seasonings. I’m still convinced that I could make salad lovers out of all of them with the right dressing. One thing that everyone loved though were sliced raw cucumbers. I shared pieces with my compound family and walked around town cutting off slices for everyone I came across. Most people really enjoyed the refreshing raw veggie and started asking if I had any with me when they would see me around. Eating raw vegetables is something that Ghanaians are not known for. Most vegetables are cooked to the extreme, put in soup, and cooked some more. When vegetables are cooked like that they lose a lot of their nutrients, which made it even more fun watching people get excited about washing and eating the cucumbers right from my garden. Maybe some people will grow their own next rainy season!

So I might not have had success with growing corn… Darn you donkeys!... But it turns out Hafiz didn’t eat all of the popcorn kernels he bought and in fact was able to plant what he had and harvest the goods! He, very kindly, gave me a few ears of his corn. One day he came over and asked if I had used them yet. I hadn’t. I was letting the kernels get extra dry. He let me know that he had tried making some popcorn a couple of weeks back and it didn’t work very well. So we decided to give it ago with the corn he gave me. Success! Maybe it needs that extra drying time. Still, you live and you learn! We had a good ‘ol time and the popcorn was definitely delicious! He doesn’t have enough to start up his popcorn business this year, but at least he has had one successful round of growing, harvesting, and frying up a tasty treat.

Ti di ma! Come eat with me!