When did she first realize this place felt like home? That she really felt home here? When did she really comprehend it?
It must have happened little by little. Kakra kakra, in twi. Of course there was the time in the beginning when she was simply falling love with everything and thought she'd never been so happy in her life. And of course there was the time after that, when things started to feel really hard and she started getting an idea of how little she could actually understand about how things were under the surface and how little she'd get to know about it during this short 9 months, and how little she would ever be able to understand it. And then there was the point when it all had just become her life, so that she couldn't imagine going to Finland and explaining "how it was in Ghana", because it wasn't "An Experience" or "An Adventure" or anything, anything else than her life, and how can you explain your everyday life to someone who's expecting to hear about adventures and exotic experiences?
But I guess what matters is, there were a lot of moments during all those times when she felt it would be natural for her to live here, maybe more natural than to live in Finland.
I don't know if that's enough to say she would have realized, comprehended what it meant what she was feeling. She simply felt that way.
I don't know if she still fully understands what it means to feel that way.
But what I know is, she had to come back to Finland, she had to stay there for years, and then she had to return to Ghana to really get hold of this feeling. To take it seriously. To start listening to it.
And that's another chapter of the story.
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Showing posts with label home. Show all posts
Dec 5, 2012
Sep 29, 2012
The Blurred Months
How to explain the three months of getting-used-to-it-all?
The months Salakka later remembers as a beautiful blur of people, places and moments, not at all as a clear, continuing story with chapters and causalities. In her memories, there is the scary, yet charming beginning, all the first times. And then there is the time later, when she already felt like home. In between them - only the blur, like someone put those months in a washing machine and the linearity was lost for good.
What she got used to, were things like this:
Heat - she didn't stop sweating, she got used to sweating all the time.
Markets had nothing to do with European supermarkets, of course. Here, market meant what it has meant originally: a wide area outside, full of small shops, stalls, sellers and even more people buying it all. There was literally everything from vegetables and meat to crabs and clams (still alive); from African fabrics to European clothes and shoes (mostly second-hand but also new); from local hand-made bracelets and beads to tat imported from Asia. It was completely chaotic, always too hot to breathe and, when Salakka got used to it, always as great to go there: to sink in the crowd and become a part of the chaos.
Hospitals were also something not western at all. The nearest hospital, the public one for this area, looked like a farm house when Salakka first saw it. She waited to get a hospital card, then to get to the nurse, then for the doctor, then to the pharmacy, then to pay for it all and finally to the nurse again. It always took at least three hours, usually five, and she had to go often, not only for herself but also to accompany some of the boys or other volunteers. Soon, the nurses and doctors in the local hospital knew her and asked: "Are you still here? When will you go to your country?". She sang local song with the nurses, making an twelve-year-old boy she had brought to check-ups totally embarrassed. She got a lift back home in her doctor's Volkswagen Beetle. And whatever health issues she had, they were finally solved, cured and healed.
Small adventures could happen anywhere, anytime. If it was raining heavily, it might suddenly be impossible for the guests to leave, so they had to start arranging a place to sleep (in total darkness of course, since the light was always off when it rained). Getting taken to a wedding and ending up serving food. Taking M to hospital when she was really sick, waiting for hours not knowing what was wrong with her. Being guided to a pharmacy by a local woman, passing through dark alleys that were actually too small to even be called alleys. Wandering in the center of Accra or in the chaos of the trotro-stations, asking the way from strangers several times, and always finding it finally, of course. Sitting in Auntie Yaa's room, massaging her, listening to what kind of men they should take (this could be quite an adventure, since Auntie Yaa was not shy to talk about everything).
There was a totally different way to do almost everything. There were many times when she laughed at something someone did, because people simply acted so different in so many situations. She also discovered this was a culture not at all as straight-forward as the European ones. There were things that were supposed to be kept undercover. For example, there was the time when C wanted to bring her rastafarian friend to visit the Home. She asked the pastor, if the guy could sleep one night there, since they hadn't found a room from a guest house. The pastor said yes, but later in the evening one of the small boys came to ask Salakka to talk to one of the big boys. What the guy had to say was: the pastor didn't want the rastafar to be in the church service on Sunday morning so the people would see him, so Salakka (as the "big sister") had to tell C to tell her friend that he had to leave at dawn. Outside there was a sign board saying: "A church where everybody is somebody".
The people she now lived with became essential. It's amazing how one can get so used to the people around, it starts to feel absurd, almost impossible to imagine living with the ones we knew before, the ones waiting back home. This is what makes it scary to think about going back, what brings the nightmares.
Like the one in which she was suddenly in Finland for a distant relatives' funeral. She was worried about when she'd get back to Ghana, but her family didn't listen to her questions about returning, no more than her stories from Ghana. She woke up feeling horrible, thinking she was in Finland, wanting to go back.
When she realized she was still in Ghana, the relief was incredible.
The months Salakka later remembers as a beautiful blur of people, places and moments, not at all as a clear, continuing story with chapters and causalities. In her memories, there is the scary, yet charming beginning, all the first times. And then there is the time later, when she already felt like home. In between them - only the blur, like someone put those months in a washing machine and the linearity was lost for good.
What she got used to, were things like this:
Heat - she didn't stop sweating, she got used to sweating all the time.
Markets had nothing to do with European supermarkets, of course. Here, market meant what it has meant originally: a wide area outside, full of small shops, stalls, sellers and even more people buying it all. There was literally everything from vegetables and meat to crabs and clams (still alive); from African fabrics to European clothes and shoes (mostly second-hand but also new); from local hand-made bracelets and beads to tat imported from Asia. It was completely chaotic, always too hot to breathe and, when Salakka got used to it, always as great to go there: to sink in the crowd and become a part of the chaos.
Hospitals were also something not western at all. The nearest hospital, the public one for this area, looked like a farm house when Salakka first saw it. She waited to get a hospital card, then to get to the nurse, then for the doctor, then to the pharmacy, then to pay for it all and finally to the nurse again. It always took at least three hours, usually five, and she had to go often, not only for herself but also to accompany some of the boys or other volunteers. Soon, the nurses and doctors in the local hospital knew her and asked: "Are you still here? When will you go to your country?". She sang local song with the nurses, making an twelve-year-old boy she had brought to check-ups totally embarrassed. She got a lift back home in her doctor's Volkswagen Beetle. And whatever health issues she had, they were finally solved, cured and healed.
Small adventures could happen anywhere, anytime. If it was raining heavily, it might suddenly be impossible for the guests to leave, so they had to start arranging a place to sleep (in total darkness of course, since the light was always off when it rained). Getting taken to a wedding and ending up serving food. Taking M to hospital when she was really sick, waiting for hours not knowing what was wrong with her. Being guided to a pharmacy by a local woman, passing through dark alleys that were actually too small to even be called alleys. Wandering in the center of Accra or in the chaos of the trotro-stations, asking the way from strangers several times, and always finding it finally, of course. Sitting in Auntie Yaa's room, massaging her, listening to what kind of men they should take (this could be quite an adventure, since Auntie Yaa was not shy to talk about everything).
There was a totally different way to do almost everything. There were many times when she laughed at something someone did, because people simply acted so different in so many situations. She also discovered this was a culture not at all as straight-forward as the European ones. There were things that were supposed to be kept undercover. For example, there was the time when C wanted to bring her rastafarian friend to visit the Home. She asked the pastor, if the guy could sleep one night there, since they hadn't found a room from a guest house. The pastor said yes, but later in the evening one of the small boys came to ask Salakka to talk to one of the big boys. What the guy had to say was: the pastor didn't want the rastafar to be in the church service on Sunday morning so the people would see him, so Salakka (as the "big sister") had to tell C to tell her friend that he had to leave at dawn. Outside there was a sign board saying: "A church where everybody is somebody".
The people she now lived with became essential. It's amazing how one can get so used to the people around, it starts to feel absurd, almost impossible to imagine living with the ones we knew before, the ones waiting back home. This is what makes it scary to think about going back, what brings the nightmares.
Like the one in which she was suddenly in Finland for a distant relatives' funeral. She was worried about when she'd get back to Ghana, but her family didn't listen to her questions about returning, no more than her stories from Ghana. She woke up feeling horrible, thinking she was in Finland, wanting to go back.
When she realized she was still in Ghana, the relief was incredible.
Sep 21, 2012
A New Life
First time in a trotro. First time at an African market. First time by the ocean. First time washing by hand, first time eating fufu and goat meat, first time at the dressmaker. First time experiencing an African thunderstorm (Salakka and M were sitting on the floor, holding each others' hands, too scared to sleep).
Life was suddenly so full of first times, beginnings, new things, it was as if having been born again. Like having to learn how to walk, how to speak, how to eat all over again.
It was great. As if ten thousand kilos had been lifted up from shoulders, all the old things - replaced by ten thousand new things to learn, which was interesting, satisfying, rewarding, and gave you a 100% guaranteed good night sleep after every day.
Salakka and the German girls, M and C, got to know the places, the habits, the people; the kids, the "big boys", Auntie Yaa, each other. C was the calm one, who didn't easily reveal her feelings, but could tell a lot of interesting and surprising things about herself in a long conversation. She had been to Togo before this, and African life was not as unfamiliar to her as it was for the others. Still, she also was new in Ghana and new in this home.
M was quiet yet emotional, and for her, being here was a big shock. It was hard for her to get used to living in a religious home, having to be home by a certain time in the evenings, not being allowed to live as freely as in Europe. But she had the warmest heart: she had a real calling to work with disabled people, and she was the one who cared for the animals like dogs and cats, which were not treated as nicely as the pets in Europe.
And then there was Salakka, the most talkative, also emotional and a bit lost with the new life in Ghana, but the same time quick-adapting and motivated to learn how to survive. Sometimes she was afraid to be too bossy, talking too much about herself, bringing too much of her own ideas for the work with the boys in this home. But the same time she felt good, free (despite the curfews etc) and that she was exactly in the right place.
The kids were another chapter. The youngest one, shy and funny at the same time, who spoke maybe three words of English and thus was not yet ready to start school. The five school boys: the joker; the enthusiastic; the attention-craving; the polite one and the one who was difficult to get close to, him having been so attached to some of the former volunteers who were now gone. Salakka found herself feeling it was not hard to love these boys - it might be a lot harder to depart from them in next June.
There was also a girl living with Autie Yaa who was part of their group. The teenagers were not officially part of their work, but if some of them needed a hand with homework, they wouldn't mind helping. The big boys, young adults still living here while studying or looking for work, were more likely to be their friends, at least some of them.
Pretty soon it became clear Auntie Yaa would be an important part of their lives here. She might have seemed scary on the first day, but later Salakka understood it was probably just one of her bad days, or maybe she, too, missed the volunteers who had just left her. After all, the volunteers were her daughters; her only daughters. Salakka, M and C were to be the next ones.
She brought them more dishes - plates, spoons, cups. "Take it to your room!"
She gave them eggs, bread, margarine and jam for breakfast. "Keep in in your room!"
She appeared with a huge sack of rice. "Take it to your room!"
It was funny, considering the size of their room. But then again, it was better to keep the things in than leave them in the kitchen - no matter how strict the rules might be, if someone was hungry, it wouldn't really matter who had put the food there, and there were many hungry mouths around.
After a month, they got another volunteer to stay in their room. Lillian, or Lilli as she wanted them to call her, was from Austria and had a great sense of humour. She loved the "take it to your room" -thing, and pretty soon she and Salakka had a long list of other possible ways to use it.
The arrival of Lilli also cleared out how they would work. M and C would spend their days in the home for the disabled people, as Salakka and Lilli would stay home and work with the boys, planning program for them after school to practice school subjects, learn other things or just spend time together.
On Lilli's second day, Salakka was the one who was supposed to take her to the office of their organization to sort things out. A month ago, she had sat in a trotro, unable to understand how things worked - and how she'd ever be able to survive here. Now, she took Lilli to the road side, where they picked a car to a bigger junction, where they picked another car to 37 station, where they picked another car to the office. Salakka remembered the name of the bus stop, the right road to the office (after a short thinking), the right gate to the right house. In the burning sunlight, they made all their way to the office, and though she didn't say it to anybody, Salakka felt a deep happiness; happiness for having learned everything it took to live the every-day life, gotten used to that life, and simply being able to live it so smoothly, so naturally, without a feeling of surviving anymore. She felt happiness for living here.
And it had only just begun. There were eight more months to come.
Life was suddenly so full of first times, beginnings, new things, it was as if having been born again. Like having to learn how to walk, how to speak, how to eat all over again.
It was great. As if ten thousand kilos had been lifted up from shoulders, all the old things - replaced by ten thousand new things to learn, which was interesting, satisfying, rewarding, and gave you a 100% guaranteed good night sleep after every day.
Salakka and the German girls, M and C, got to know the places, the habits, the people; the kids, the "big boys", Auntie Yaa, each other. C was the calm one, who didn't easily reveal her feelings, but could tell a lot of interesting and surprising things about herself in a long conversation. She had been to Togo before this, and African life was not as unfamiliar to her as it was for the others. Still, she also was new in Ghana and new in this home.
M was quiet yet emotional, and for her, being here was a big shock. It was hard for her to get used to living in a religious home, having to be home by a certain time in the evenings, not being allowed to live as freely as in Europe. But she had the warmest heart: she had a real calling to work with disabled people, and she was the one who cared for the animals like dogs and cats, which were not treated as nicely as the pets in Europe.
And then there was Salakka, the most talkative, also emotional and a bit lost with the new life in Ghana, but the same time quick-adapting and motivated to learn how to survive. Sometimes she was afraid to be too bossy, talking too much about herself, bringing too much of her own ideas for the work with the boys in this home. But the same time she felt good, free (despite the curfews etc) and that she was exactly in the right place.
The kids were another chapter. The youngest one, shy and funny at the same time, who spoke maybe three words of English and thus was not yet ready to start school. The five school boys: the joker; the enthusiastic; the attention-craving; the polite one and the one who was difficult to get close to, him having been so attached to some of the former volunteers who were now gone. Salakka found herself feeling it was not hard to love these boys - it might be a lot harder to depart from them in next June.
There was also a girl living with Autie Yaa who was part of their group. The teenagers were not officially part of their work, but if some of them needed a hand with homework, they wouldn't mind helping. The big boys, young adults still living here while studying or looking for work, were more likely to be their friends, at least some of them.
Pretty soon it became clear Auntie Yaa would be an important part of their lives here. She might have seemed scary on the first day, but later Salakka understood it was probably just one of her bad days, or maybe she, too, missed the volunteers who had just left her. After all, the volunteers were her daughters; her only daughters. Salakka, M and C were to be the next ones.
She brought them more dishes - plates, spoons, cups. "Take it to your room!"
She gave them eggs, bread, margarine and jam for breakfast. "Keep in in your room!"
She appeared with a huge sack of rice. "Take it to your room!"
It was funny, considering the size of their room. But then again, it was better to keep the things in than leave them in the kitchen - no matter how strict the rules might be, if someone was hungry, it wouldn't really matter who had put the food there, and there were many hungry mouths around.
After a month, they got another volunteer to stay in their room. Lillian, or Lilli as she wanted them to call her, was from Austria and had a great sense of humour. She loved the "take it to your room" -thing, and pretty soon she and Salakka had a long list of other possible ways to use it.
The arrival of Lilli also cleared out how they would work. M and C would spend their days in the home for the disabled people, as Salakka and Lilli would stay home and work with the boys, planning program for them after school to practice school subjects, learn other things or just spend time together.
On Lilli's second day, Salakka was the one who was supposed to take her to the office of their organization to sort things out. A month ago, she had sat in a trotro, unable to understand how things worked - and how she'd ever be able to survive here. Now, she took Lilli to the road side, where they picked a car to a bigger junction, where they picked another car to 37 station, where they picked another car to the office. Salakka remembered the name of the bus stop, the right road to the office (after a short thinking), the right gate to the right house. In the burning sunlight, they made all their way to the office, and though she didn't say it to anybody, Salakka felt a deep happiness; happiness for having learned everything it took to live the every-day life, gotten used to that life, and simply being able to live it so smoothly, so naturally, without a feeling of surviving anymore. She felt happiness for living here.
And it had only just begun. There were eight more months to come.
Sep 17, 2012
A bumpy road home
"Sister Salakka!"
'Salakka' was how some of the locals pronounced part of her full name, so what would be a more convenient way to call her from now on?
"Do you remember my name?" asked the boy. One of the small black boys, who all looked quite similar to her.
Err... No?! How could one answer that question?
"James?" Salakka guessed.
"No! I'm Gideon!"
"Of course. Sorry, I need a bit more time..."
That was true. Salakka had only been in the home since yesterday, and it was less than a week ago that she had come to the country. She didn't have to know all the names yet, though it would have been nice to recognize the faces. But her mind hadn't even gotten used to be surrounded by black people only.
After three days of "orientation" (one or two informational conversations, one twi lesson and one quite nice verbal exercise to exemplify cultural differences) she had been taken to her project, a children's home a bit further from the centre of Accra. They had taken her by car; the man from the organization drove, and the pastor - leader of the children's home - sat next to him. Salakka sat on the backseat, looking out through the windows, simply taking it all in. The small, disorganized-looking shops on the road sides; the street sellers, carrying everything possible on their heads ("Do you like pillows?"); the deep green of the big, beautiful trees and the long grass that surrounded the roads; the old vans now used as minibuses ("trotros") that were part of the unbelievable traffic chaos and the incredible noise. Everything was noisy, and it was so hot all the time that she never stopped sweating.
The road was a red dirt road. Really deep red, really dusty and everything but even. "It's a bumpy road", said the pastor and laughed together with the driver. Salakka also made an insecure little "hmh". It was actually easier to get used to not knowing how to behave than to the heat.
Finally, they had made it to the home, and Salakka had experienced a most pleasant surprise: after two years of work in a suburb school in Finland, she had seen a lot of difficult children, and had been sure the African street kids would be much worse. She had been wrong. This would never have happened in a Finnish school: the children ran to meet her, wanted to carry her bags to her room, to tell their names. She realized something she hadn't been able to imagine in advance: this was really a home.
Welcome home, Salakka.
For now, her mind and heart were too full of everything new to analyze anything. By seven o'clock, it was totally dark, and this was real darkness, complete and thick. A woman came to see her - a bit scary woman, who turned out to be the cook of the home.
The first thing she said was an angry bark: "Close the door! Mosquitoes!"
Salakka hurried to close the door and was happy she had gotten a mosquito net from a pharmacy the day before. Woah. A christian pastor leading the home and now this angry woman - and the mosquitoes. It was good her brain was too busy to start analyzing.
The woman gave her plates and cups to keep in the room. On a chair. There was not much else in the room: two bunk beds (both for two people; more volunteers would arrive in a couple of days) and a writing table.
That evening it demanded a huge amount of courage just to step out and go talk to people. She decided not to be the person who is too afraid to go out of her room, and sat a while out on the yard with some of the boys (in a miraculously warm evening; would she ever get used to this?!). Still, the evening was long and she was alone. She wondered if she could actually go to sleep at eight - and if she ever had, since her childhood.
To anyone planning to visit the equatorial areas: just for the info, only the climate makes you exhausted, not to mention the total change of, well, worlds. So for the first week, it's ok to go to bed early. Even at eight.
The next morning, one of the boys came knocking on her door before five, being sure she was late from waking their up. The boy had no idea of what time it was, and to Salakka it seemed absurd somebody would wake up more than half and hour too early when the waking time was 5:30 anyway. Two hours later, it was interesting that the same boy and his friends were able to be leaving the house late, having been up so long.
Soon, half-an-hours and other time-related stuff wouldn't be such a big deal anymore.
'Salakka' was how some of the locals pronounced part of her full name, so what would be a more convenient way to call her from now on?
"Do you remember my name?" asked the boy. One of the small black boys, who all looked quite similar to her.
Err... No?! How could one answer that question?
"James?" Salakka guessed.
"No! I'm Gideon!"
"Of course. Sorry, I need a bit more time..."
That was true. Salakka had only been in the home since yesterday, and it was less than a week ago that she had come to the country. She didn't have to know all the names yet, though it would have been nice to recognize the faces. But her mind hadn't even gotten used to be surrounded by black people only.
After three days of "orientation" (one or two informational conversations, one twi lesson and one quite nice verbal exercise to exemplify cultural differences) she had been taken to her project, a children's home a bit further from the centre of Accra. They had taken her by car; the man from the organization drove, and the pastor - leader of the children's home - sat next to him. Salakka sat on the backseat, looking out through the windows, simply taking it all in. The small, disorganized-looking shops on the road sides; the street sellers, carrying everything possible on their heads ("Do you like pillows?"); the deep green of the big, beautiful trees and the long grass that surrounded the roads; the old vans now used as minibuses ("trotros") that were part of the unbelievable traffic chaos and the incredible noise. Everything was noisy, and it was so hot all the time that she never stopped sweating.
The road was a red dirt road. Really deep red, really dusty and everything but even. "It's a bumpy road", said the pastor and laughed together with the driver. Salakka also made an insecure little "hmh". It was actually easier to get used to not knowing how to behave than to the heat.
Finally, they had made it to the home, and Salakka had experienced a most pleasant surprise: after two years of work in a suburb school in Finland, she had seen a lot of difficult children, and had been sure the African street kids would be much worse. She had been wrong. This would never have happened in a Finnish school: the children ran to meet her, wanted to carry her bags to her room, to tell their names. She realized something she hadn't been able to imagine in advance: this was really a home.
Welcome home, Salakka.
For now, her mind and heart were too full of everything new to analyze anything. By seven o'clock, it was totally dark, and this was real darkness, complete and thick. A woman came to see her - a bit scary woman, who turned out to be the cook of the home.
The first thing she said was an angry bark: "Close the door! Mosquitoes!"
Salakka hurried to close the door and was happy she had gotten a mosquito net from a pharmacy the day before. Woah. A christian pastor leading the home and now this angry woman - and the mosquitoes. It was good her brain was too busy to start analyzing.
The woman gave her plates and cups to keep in the room. On a chair. There was not much else in the room: two bunk beds (both for two people; more volunteers would arrive in a couple of days) and a writing table.
That evening it demanded a huge amount of courage just to step out and go talk to people. She decided not to be the person who is too afraid to go out of her room, and sat a while out on the yard with some of the boys (in a miraculously warm evening; would she ever get used to this?!). Still, the evening was long and she was alone. She wondered if she could actually go to sleep at eight - and if she ever had, since her childhood.
To anyone planning to visit the equatorial areas: just for the info, only the climate makes you exhausted, not to mention the total change of, well, worlds. So for the first week, it's ok to go to bed early. Even at eight.
The next morning, one of the boys came knocking on her door before five, being sure she was late from waking their up. The boy had no idea of what time it was, and to Salakka it seemed absurd somebody would wake up more than half and hour too early when the waking time was 5:30 anyway. Two hours later, it was interesting that the same boy and his friends were able to be leaving the house late, having been up so long.
Soon, half-an-hours and other time-related stuff wouldn't be such a big deal anymore.
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