Making Sense of Mangos

Fruiting trees are pretty rampant in the savanna.  However, compared to the fruit producing forests of the south, where pineapple farms are aplenty, the fruits of the north serve different purposes.  Some fruits are valued for their flavor and some for their seeds, but few for their flesh. 

Fruit stand in Accra

Pineapple farm in the outskirts of Accra

As a lover of fleshy fruit, I’m having some difficulties adjusting to the fruits at my disposal.  February was dominated by cashew fruit. Cashews produce a beautiful fruit that is also quite tasty.  However, cashew fruit did not a fruit hankering quench.  Mangos, however, hit the mark.  Mango trees, though not indigenous, have been around a long time and are a very common tree. They provide great shade and great fruit.  And they just came into season.

Cashew fruit sitting on top of the cashew nut

Chiraa-a fruit I can only describe as being kind of like a pomegranate if a pomegranate only had 1 big seed inside that was not very juicy. 

Mangos are the reward for enduring the hot and dry season.  I like to think that every day the temperature climbs past 105 is a day that makes mangos extra sweet. Not surprisingly, mangos are valued as a food source. In my most recent round of surveying households on their food security status, it’s apparent that many households are already running out of their stored food from October’s harvest.  Many are employing meal cutting strategies to make the food last a bit longer before they are dependent upon purchasing food.  As such, mangos are valuable hunger quenchers and vitamin boosters. 

Surprisingly, I'm also learning a lot about social relations and dynamics with the mango boom. Ownership of mango trees is difficult to parse out.  The very large trees around the borehole seem to provide communal mangos.  After school, these mango trees become battlegrounds.  Previously I would have described mangos as something that one foraged for.  Now I’m convinced that mangos are indeed prey that require sleuth and strategy similar to hunting.  Long sticks are employed as weapons to knock them out of the trees.  Children also climb into trees to get the finest pickings.  

Mangos fit much better in bike baskets than watermelons

Two weeks ago a young boy fell out of a mango tree and pretty severely injured (probably broke) his arm.   In visiting with the boy and his parents I learned that they were not going to take him to the local hospital even though they had health insurance to cover the hospital fees. Instead they were going to rely on local medical practices to for bone setting and healing.  In inquiring a bit more about this decision making process, I learned that the local hospital is not able to take care of broken bones. Rather, they refer patients to distant hospitals that require expensive transportation fees that are above and beyond what people in this community can afford.  Even with relying on more affordable care options, these parents were pretty stressed with the situation as even localized care requires fees or in kind that can be pressing for households with minimal income. 

Smaller trees, where the fruit dangle not meters above your head but tantilizingly in front of your face, are claimed as owned. These trees are often adorned with items such as a turtle shell or ram horn to make potential thieves think twice about crossing the spiritual forces guarding the fruit. Just as mangos are good food sources, they're also good money sources.  When you don't have a surplus maize crop to sell, a surplus mango crop can provide an income boost. 

Mango trees growing inside courtyards makes ownership easy to decipher

Last week a young girl of about 10 was out in the bush collecting mangos.  When she saw someone approaching her, she assumed it was the owner and went into panic mode.  She dropped her toddler sister in fear and ran off.  In a country where spirits are protecting against thievery and where and theft is punished with vigilante justice, panic mode is the only mode for being caught in the act. Unfortunately, when she got home she wasn't able to relay where she had left her sister, thus initiating the localized form of the Amber Alert. All men in the community came together to form organized search parties to cover the expanse of the bush.  Luckily the child was found. When she was returned to her parents, everyone in the community went to the family's house to receive her.  I guess sometimes it does take a village. 

I value being witness to such effects of mango season because I'm reminded of how social undercurrents reverberate to both create and solve problems. Mango season is important for its nutritive contributions, but  negotiating the risks involved in accessing those mangos requires understanding more about social relations and social dynamics. This is, ultimately, the lesson that the world of philanthropic development continues to learn.  Just because a mango tree exists does not mean everyone will have equal access to mangos. Just because health insurance is activated and a local hospital exists does not mean that the provision of basic service will be available.   And that is why nearly every anthropologist's conclusion is "but it's more complicated than that."  

Spreading the Gospel

My research assistant, who provides me with hourly commentary on Chelsea (his English Premier League football team), recently pointed to my Kindle and asked if it was a calculator.  I said no, it was like my Chelsea. Because I received a solid education in a predominant language and books have been an accessible part of my life from the very beginning, reading has been enabled to become my Chelsea.  The formula is a bit different in Ghana. 

It’s not uncommon to hear Ghanaian leaders bemoan their oral tradition. This seems a bit archaic of a complaint. I don’t think this communicative form should be bemoaned.  Sometimes it seems that anybody in this country, if handed a microphone, could confidently and eloquently articulate whatever message needs to be delivered.  When I think about how much my peers and I can struggle to orally communicate our research findings, I envy this Ghanaian skill.  

Ananse, the trickster spider figure who is featured in so many Akan oral traditions, is recycled into 21st Century means of communication-comics and video games. 

What leaders should really be critiquing are the discrepancies in education that lead to illiteracy and the lack of public and private funding for facilities and resources that enhance strong literacy skills. 

(Brief PSA on the topic of books and book accessibility: Folks in the Scenic Regional Library service area-don't forget to support your local libraries!  Vote for the tax levy!)

Though many, many languages are spoken in Ghana, they are not prioritized in the reading and writing exercises at school. English is the predominant language used in the curriculum. In order to become a really proficient reader and writer in English, finishing high school is the strongest advantage. This, unfortunately, is not as common as one would hope.  When compounded by the fact that libraries are few and far between and imported books are often priced beyond the means of the average Ghanaian, the possibility to have a literately engaged society across all economic strata is challenged. 

Anthropologists get their kicks exploring diversity.  Therefore, it’s a bit disheartening to see that so many of the books that are most visible to my eye are those that portend to hold secrets vital to securing something you want or think you want. The demand for these books is obvious and I don’t disrespect that. I readily admit that my Kindle holds more than 1 book that qualifies as self-help, but only books that  teach me Buddhist philosophies and those recommended to me by my guru Marc Maron.  I do, after all, operate within my own socially constructed parameters of acceptability.  (Can the hipster gatekeepers let me know if it’s cool to read How to Win Friends and Influence People? Cause street hawkers keep tempting me with it and I kinda think it might have some clues for how to finish these final steps to PhDom.)

I just wish that for every bookshop called 100% Jesus (an actual bookshop in Accra) there was a bookshop called 100% Ghanaian Authors Who Do Not Exclusively Write About Jesus.  But I’d settle for a 50% Jesus bookshop. 

I've never actually seen a copy of Taiye Selasi's debut novel for sale in Accra even though she came to do a book launch. I'm guessing that the many Ghanains who've read it did so via ebook.

Who knew that Steve Harvey wrote books when he wasn't hosting the Feud? 

Perhaps because I’ve been a bit zealously occupied with the Ghanaian interest in what Steve Harvey and Joyce Meyer have to say, I’ve overlooked a very intriguing trend in mass market fiction. In checking in with my friend Esther, a Dr. of African Literature, I’ve learned that a local mass market fiction industry does exist. These books, written by Ghanaian authors and published by small scale Ghanaian publishers, involve stories that are attractive because, as Esther puts it, they “create associations with readers' experiences of all kinds of familiar, and often hot, cultural material.” These stories are not only culturally accessible but also financially, ensuring that even young adults with pocket change can partake. 

One of the most popular mass market fiction books.  It's estimated that such books can sell between 30,000 and 50,000 copies per week!

Literacy, of course, is not just important for the ability to seek familiarity in a world of fiction, but also for collecting and dispersing the grounded world of reality. I tell people that I do research on food insecurity because I want to know how economic realities influence health and well being. I want to write that story better than the people who are already telling (or assuming) that story. Within the agricultural development paradigm that I work*, the most influential voices directing the story of how to understand and solve food insecurity remain those with a lot of money and a lot of power, be they celebrity, economist, or celebrity economist. 

Perhaps the most widely leveraged story coming out of this continent now is the story of the historical and contemporary existence of homosexuality in Africa as written and told by Africans.  Local audiences need to hear these local voices on the matter because, quite frankly, they’re pretty fed up with all the outside voices that state how gay rights should be discussed and instituted.  I was once called a neoliberal by someone because I said same sex marriage should be legal in Ghana.  After some pondering and wound licking, I kinda saw his metaphor.  A local NGO leader, having recently read Chimamanda Adichie’s piece online, announced that a discussion of gay rights would be on the agenda of his next staff meeting.  The production and uptake of such internally composed assessments of reality makes my social scientist heart leap. 

Wall poetry at a street art festival in Accra

. 

Even school kids get involved in spreading their thoughts on romance
 (What is secondarily important to this photo is the amount of dirt that has been allowed to accumulate on a vehicle.  In a country where tires are meticulously washed on a daily basis, this level of filth is unheard of)

To keep my heart uplifted, and to feel like there’s at least something ethically sound that I can do for people who are allowing me to invade their lives, I’m going to start spreading the gospel of reading and writing. As an anthropologist, I’m convinced that the more stories we hear and read, whether fictive or true, the better equipped we are to understand how our own individual human experience is similar or different from others and, hopefully, the more likely we are to think critically and compassionately. Last week I gave a novel that takes place in Montana during WWI to a young woman of about 15. Despite the young adult formant, I found so much to relate to in the novel. Despite the geographical and historical setting, I bet she will too.  

In my most recent trip to Accra I made sure to stock up on children’s books so I can read with the kids where I live. Before they receive the football that they request on a daily basis (requests delivered through masterful soliloquies since I really don’t understand the nuances of their request), they will sit for story hour. Maybe in return, I’ll have them train me in how to comfortably hold and speak into a microphone so as to extemporaneously deliver a message--or at least request a football from the next white lady who comes around.

*I recently wrote about the lack of small scale farmer voices in the development of agricultural policies and practice for the blog convened by Critical Investigations into Humanitarianism in Africa.  This topic also was recently very well covered by a Ghanaian journalist with The Guardian.

Ghana+Missouri=Soul Sisters: A Mini, Multi Sited Ethnography on Banquet Culture

Sometimes my favorite moments in Ghana are the moments when it’s difficult to tell if I’m in Ghana or in Missouri.  Sometimes it feels like the two very distant contexts deserve recognition that can’t be captured in a signboard declaring them sisters of some international or geographical order.  Sometimes I think the two contexts are sisters of the soul. On Friday night I went to a banquet to celebrate the departure of two long term volunteers who worked with an NGO I mingle with.  For the most part, it was an evening ever reminiscent of any banquet I’ve ever been to in my hometown.  

Did country music play?

Of course it did.  Ghanaians LOVE country music. And they play the old stuff, not the new stuff. Kenny Rogers, not Kenny Chesney. I often feel like writing Kenny Rogers a letter letting him know he could make some good money (probably enough for at least one more face lift) if he’d do a tour in Ghana. We heard some Kenny, some Dolly and one of my favorites, Amanda (Waylon’s version).

Did we pray before we ate?

We did even better. We prayed before and after our meal. Having been raised a non-religious person, the pre-meal prayer at public events that was quite common in my upbringing always left me vaguely uncomfortable.  But thank goodness I was exposed to such vague discomfort early in my formative years.  It’s prepared me for pre-and post-everything prayer in Ghana.  On a recent bus ride my seat companion, in the midst of a rather interesting discussion about hydroelectricity in Ghana, grabbed my hand as the bus lurched forward to begin the journey.  “Oh right, I thought.  It’s time to pray.”

Did we eat meat and weird, fat soused salads?

Indeed! Just like at home, no banquet is complete without a meal that involves meat and salad concoctions (recipes found in any small town church cookbook) that eliminate any of the nutritive value of the vegetables by making some form of oil the prime ingredient.  In Missouri this is likely to be an oil/sugar combo (often in the form of Miracle Whip or the generic derivative).  In Ghana this is a British ingredient called Salad Cream, a product of Heinz UK that is maybe even more nutrient repelling than Miracle Whip.

Grilled guinea fowl and a cabbage and carrot salad doused in Salad Cream as well as a lettuce salad doused in Salad Cream AND Heinz baked beans. 

Did we play Bingo?

Did we ever.  We played for a table full of prizes.  I bought 5 cards, and in purchasing my 5 cards, the seller cautioned me that it might be difficult to keep track of them during the game.  I replied, with no false modesty, that I come from the land of Bingo.  Before I left for Ghana I even purchased a Bingo dauber manufactured in Cleveland (surely the Bingo mecca) at the weekly VFW sponsored Bingo evening in my hometown.  I handled my cards just fine.  My Ghanaian counterparts, new to Bingo, caught on just fine as well.  The Bingo lingo was even humorously woven into the later events of the evening.  During the money collection phase of the evening (a box was passed to collect money for scholarships for girls), the collectors reminded us that the best kind of charity begins at home.  Upon hearing this, a man from the crowd yelled out “Bingo!”  I can so totally picture that exact same thing happening in the cafeteria of my high school.  In fact, it might just have.

There were moments that were very specifically Ghanaian.  For example, never have we ever danced the Azonto at a banquet in Hermann, Missouri (though I really, really wish we would).  Never, ever do we dance at banquets in Hermann, Missouri.  In Hermann, Missouri dancing is an activity best left to young people at school sponsored dances.

Dancing Azonto.  This is an ongoing dance phenomenon originating in Ghana.  It's pretty fun.  Though I still can't proficiently dance Azonto. 

And what could I say was missing from the event?  Mostly a Jello (gelatin or pudding) inspired dessert.  

Celebrating 57 Years of Independence (Or Some Form Thereof)

Yesterday, on March 6^th, Ghana celebrated 57 years of independence. Ghana gained independence in 1957 under the leadership of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah.  Ghana was the first African nation to remove the colonial powers (in this case, the British) and retains a lot of credibility for this accomplishment. In the 57 years that have occurred since, Ghana has had, until relatively recently, a very fragile and somewhat compromised democracy.  Nkrumah was overthrown in 1966 and between 1966 and 2001 there were 2 more coups and one president who remained in power for 20 years.  In 2001, this president, Jerry John Rawlings stepped down after John Kufour (a member of the opposing party) was elected president.  This marks the birth of Ghana’s more effective democracy.

Fort Usher in Jamestown (Accra's oldest section) went from being a slave holding prison to a colonial prison.  Now it stands largely untouched and serves as a powerful visual reminder of history not so long ago. 

Ghanaians are proud of their history and proud to be the beacon of “African” democracy that the rest of the world has appointed it.  However, they tend to be hypercritical of their failure to figure out democracy to the extent that they think that the rest of the world has it figured out.  It’s frustrating to have so many conversations allude to democratic imperfection in Ghana and democratic perfection in the United States.  I’ve had to convince people that in the US we too have dirty politics, a ruling class, and nepotism.  I’ve explained how my country just repealed a major voting rights act and scoffs at campaign finance reform. I relay how when Senators finish in the Senate, they roll back in as a lobbyist, ensuring that they are still effectively a law maker, just a much better paid law maker.  And though we are never threatened with having our politics labeled as “tribal,” who are we kidding with our red and blue maps??

On any given day in Ghana, Ghanaians are decked out in the colors of their own flag.......it was a bit surprising to see red, white and blue on the actual Ghanaian Independence Day. 

The Ghanaian flags at Jubilee Park in Wa where the Independence Day festivities were held. 

It’s scary that they keep looking to us as a role model, especially when Ghana has actually accomplished some things that we have yet to accomplish.  Ghana figured out a decent enough version of national health insurance in its democratic infancy. The Ghanaian National Health Insurance Scheme just celebrated 10 years of service.  We put together a majorly patch worked version in our geriatric years.  Ghana also did a better job at resolving a contested presidential election.

Not only does Ghana have national health insurance, but a call center to handle questions and concerns.  Maybe they should be contractors for the US?

In September, the Ghanaian Supreme Court overruled a petition from the losing party claiming that 2 million of the votes that elected John Mahama president were fraudulent.  During the Supreme Court deliberations the country was abuzz with declarations of the need to maintain peace through the judicial process.  Banners displaying such messages as “Our Peace is Profound” were draped from buildings.  Commercials pleading for people to remain peaceful no matter what the Supreme Court ruling were on repeat play on TV. I found this public messaging to be kind of annoying and sometimes amusing.  In expressing my befuddlement to someone, I was politely reprimanded for forgetting the turbulent decades that followed independence. I think I was also undervalueing the value of peace in Africa.  In an otherwise "violent and volatile" climate, if a country can handle elections peacefully, it is accredited by the rest of the world and open for commerce. Of course everything went peacefully upon the ruling and Ghana was able to maintain its title of a peaceful African democracy.

Nana Akufo-Addo, unsuccessful presidential candidate and unsuccessful petitioner of the Supreme Court

Yet the discontentment that abounds for how elected leaders lead is perhaps the most unifying topic of conversation in the country.  No one is pleased with government here.  So while independence is something unique and important to celebrate, the state of democracy that is in place is something that warrants more discussion and action.  Furthermore, questioning just how independent Ghana remains is also up for discussion. It is pretty profound that USAID chose Independence Day as the day to reveal its second phase of a multi-billion dollar project incentivizing private enterprise (often foreign) and higher reliance on improved (aka externally derived and expensive) technologies as a means to achieve food security in Ghana.  Powerful international authorities no longer wear pith helmets, but they still wield a lot of power for directing policy and practice.

To be independent is a real thing, but how that independence is defined and enacted is a much more complicated matter.  

An exhibit at the National Museum in Accra highlights what kids think the next 50 years of Independence should hold

The Sport of Cooking

 Last week I found myself watching coverage of the winter Olympics, a conglomeration of sports geographically and financially inaccessible to the Ghanaians I was watching with. I’ve always thought that the Olympics would be more compelling if the competitions engaged the strength and capacity for endurance that a lot of the world’s population employs in their day to day life.  Right now I’m quite fascinated with the sport of cooking.

In Ghana, cooking is a workout. Heart rates accelerate, muscle is built and sweat is induced.  I fancy myself  someone who is decently athletic and who can handle herself in the kitchen.  I am not a contender in the Ghanaian cooking Olympics.  The meals that are prepared (and perhaps preferred) within the home are starchy porridges paired with soups. Making either is not easy. Food is enjoyed in smooth textures and complex flavors that necessitate laborious, tedious, and fastidious cooking.

Grinding

Though blenders are increasingly used in kitchens around Ghana, the traditional mode of blending ingredients for soup involves using a small ceramic mortar and a wooden pestle.  The technique of wrist movement and arm pressure to efficiently and quickly grind things like peppers, garlic, tomatoes, and onions is one that is seemingly intuitive.  And yet every time I give the grinding a go, I feel like a moron.  I feel like that 5 year old me who struggled to figure out the rhythm to pumping ones legs to gain momentum on the swings.   I vigorously move my wrist in a pattern I think is mimicking the technique I so diligently observe while simultaneously reminding myself to apply muscle pressure. When I decide that my arms are too tired to continue, I decide that I’m finished.  I present my results and am faced with kind, yet placating comments about my effort.  My cooking supervisors will point out the tiny membranes of pepper or tomato skin that I have failed to incorporate into the pulse.  And they will then take over and get the job done.

Ghanaian hand takes over Jessica's epic failure at grinding peppers

Ghanaian hand takes over Jessica's second epic failure at grinding peppers and tomatoes

Pounding

Fufu (or kapala as it is known in the languages of the Upper West) is perhaps the dish that is most reliant on the pounding process. (More profound words and thoughts on the importance of fufu in Ghanaian diet found here)

Pounding of kapala takes place in large wooden mortars and long wooden pounding sticks. Pieces of boiled yam are placed in the mortar and in the beginning stage, the pounder/s gently slam the stick down onto the yam to mash it.   Once the whole pieces of yam are no longer visible, the pounder/s begin using absolute full force to slam the pounding weapons down onto the mashed yam.  This is done repeatedly, sometimes with grunting reminiscent of tennis players, until chemistry takes over.  The idea is to slam the yam until it forms a gelatinous texture.  At this point one person continues to pound and another person uses the seconds between poundings to collect and knead the yam dough while adding small amounts of water.  It’s like watching synchronized swimming.......but only if synchronized swimming was terrifying to watch for fear of hand maiming.  I do not even attempt this process for fear of hand maiming or being a hand maimer.

This is a relatively small kapala mortar-a size for a small family 

Finished kapala served in the grinding bowl so as to absorb all of the delicious remnants of garlic and pepper--can't eat out of blender can ya?

Stirring

Other staple foods such as banku or tuo zafi (made from maize flours sometimes mixed with cassava or millet flours) require extensive stirring.  These porridges are thick and made in large quantities.  They are stirred in a particular pattern until the consistency is smooth.  Stirring such vats of flour and water is like being on a rowing machine that sits over a hot fire.  I stir for about 30 seconds and then hand over the paddle like spoon to those with biceps and triceps I covet.

Harnessing the cooking pot with your toes is surely worthy of a medal in and of itself

 

Teenagers are often responsible for cooking the tuo zafi, making my lack of endurance feel even more pathetic

Stirring banku for selling at a streetside food joint

My participation in these cooking sessions, while largely observational, is a nice reminder that eating well requires commitments of time and labor that not everyone is able to provide for themselves or their families. As a grad student, I've had my fair share of boiled peanut and Miller High Life dinners* because I lack the time, energy or brain cells to prepare myself something a little more substantial in the wholesome meal realm.  Though food accessibility issues have been widely integrated into discussions on diet and health, I think there's still a lot of room to talk more about how the preparation of good food can take good time or good money.  Not everyone can afford time saving gadgets or time saving ventures such as pre-washed, pre-chopped vegetables.  Cooking from whole foods can sometimes take whole chunks of time.  And there's value to that in how our food tastes, how our children learn to cook, and how we pass on unique culinary traditions.  

*I seriously miss these dinners

There is a Season

To honor Pete Seeger’s recent passing, I title this blog after his pretty swell retrofitting of the Book of Ecclesiastes into a pretty sweet song. He was an anthropologist of song.

If you’ve ever commented to a teacher that they made a good career choice because they get the summers off, I bet you were very poorly received--especially if such a comment was made to my father.  Farming is another profession prone to critiques of time spent lollygagging.  This is not so true. 

The dry season is opportune for putting new fencing up around gardens that people keep around their homes.  Fences are essential for keeping out roaming goats, sheep, pigs, and anthropologists prone to tactile methods of observation. 

Anthropology is well adapted to documenting how economic and social activities change throughout the year.  We’re long term researchers and  enmeshed in the communities we’re researching.  One of the principle methods of anthropology is observation.  When I’m not asking people questions, I’m constantly scanning my surroundings and looking for things, actions, and behaviors that will tell me something about life in the rural Upper West during the dry season.  The things that I see are just as important as the things that I ask about--sometimes more so.  If I ask people what they do during the dry season they will sometimes respond that they do nothing because they are not farming.  This is not so true. I've observed a lot of this "nothingness" that is happening. 

Just as teachers spend their "dry seasons" working on things like curriculum, professional development, and lesson plans, the dry season for farmers is about hustling. 

If you are the head of a large family that likes to eat a lot of fufu, it's necessary to have new mortars that can withstand the pounding.   The dry season is the season for making new mortars as is shown here. 

The dry season is, perhaps, mostly about building.  People are refurbishing existing house structures and building new ones. 

Such building is always time and labor intensive.  If people are using local materials to build mud brick, the first step in the process is to make the bricks. This involves digging deep holes, hauling water, mixing mud, hauling the mud to a brick making station, and then giving the bricks an opportunity to bake in the sun. 

The next step involves assembling.

For households transitioning from mud brick to cement brick, the process is not only time and labor intensive, but also quite expensive.  One bag of cement costs approximately $10.  This bag of cement will form 30 cement blocks.  30 cement blocks can build about 1/3 of a one wall for a small room.  Money for building cement block homes comes from different  strategies. Some farmers are selling their recent groundnut harvest (aka peanuts, the only viable commercial crop for farmers here) even though groundnut prices are currently quite low.  Others are doing day labor in Wa, a large town about 10 kilometers away and one that is booming in size because of the growth of a university.   They spend the day  shovelling sand into a dump truck to be used in the construction industry.  They earn about $4-7 for their day labor. They then spend some of that money on buying  cement for their own homes as well as save some for the cost of inputs for farming. These cement block homes are often works in progress for years. Think about this the next time some media outlet demerits some African's home as a "shack." 

For 3 years a farmer has been selling his groundnut harvest to put up this house.  

The dry season is also about gathering stuff from the bush (countryside).  Men have more time to go hunting and fishing during the dry season. Women have more time to spend gathering firewood, burning charcoal and gathering wild foods. All such activities are vital to procuring income and enhancing food security.  These are the things that I need to know about so that I can understand the bigger picture of household management--how people make decisions about how to earn and spend money throughout the year, not just during the farming season. Farming is never the only story for farming families. 

A dam where fishing occurs with weighted throw nets as well as set up catch nets. 

Demonstration of a bird trap

The stems of the vogaa flower (collected from a tree).  The flowers are used in the preparation of soup. Like so many of the soup ingredients here (especially okra), the ingredient is said to be nice because it makes the soup slippery. Slippery soup works well for the staple starchy porridges that are consumed here.  The slippery soups coat the porridges very well, ensuring that you get the flavor of the soup with every bite of starch. 

Who is the Anthropologist?

Two summers ago during a prelim research trip I found myself donning the tourist hat at a hippo sanctuary located about 15 miles from my field site.  My fellow tourists-in-arms were a German family.  As we were getting ready to load the canoes that would provide our river safari, there was a moment that the anthropologist in me loved so much.  As we stood on the river bank waiting, some women disembarked from a canoe with the wares they were taking to sell at a local market.  Upon solid ground and close proximity, we became the objects of intense observation.  Or rather the Germans became the objects of intense observation. For the Germans were decked out in ridiculous river safari ensembles.  They were in head to toe synthetic fabric and looked as foreign as they possibly could. I can only imagine how those women were internally postulating about why the Germans were wearing the clothes that they were.  And a game I’ve named Who is the Anthropologist? was born.  

Because I’m so eager to see and learn here, it’s easy to forget that Ghanaians are just as curious about me.  One of the hazards of living in the community where you do research is that it’s incredibly difficult to refuse visitors to your house when you’ve spent all day inviting yourself into their homes to ask them questions about their lives and observe their activities.  So I find myself hosting a daily entourage of children who walk into my room to see all the bizarre possessions I’ve brought with me and what I do with them.  Thus far, my decrepid Dell laptop is the item that draws the most excitement.  Kids who haven’t even been in my house will see me around town and shout out “laptop!” and mimic typing and make computer noises.  Nevermind that my next door neighbor has a TV and DVD player. 

And here in the land of way too many plastic bags, my box of aluminum foil is also quite intriguing.   

My behaviors, too, are inciting local theory building.  In visiting with the local assemblyman last night I learned that many people are concerned that I don’t have intestines.  This concern emerges from the fact that I don’t consume the standard amount of local foods, the amount locally perceived to be substantial and sufficient to filling the belly.  Fufu (yam that has had the holy hell pounded out of it to become highly starchy and gelatinous) is served in portions the size of an American football.  I find it physically impossible to consume that.  When I only eat half of the football it seems that people are assuming that my body can’t process food properly.   I wonder what they think I’m doing in the latrine everyday.  They see my daily walk there.  

And then there’s the interpretation of how foreigners look.  Whenever I’m with another white woman it’s not unusual to be asked if that woman is my twin.  It matters not that hair colors are different or facial features incongruous. I brought a Memory game with me to play with kids.  Interestingly, they are able to match items that they’ve probably never encountered (like a rotary telephone or a dog house) but are unable to correctly match the white people (and it’s only white people in the game) represented. 

The absolute best, however, is how Ghanaians perceive the sound of foreigners. There is a tendency for Ghanaians to initiate conversation with a foreigner by talking in a high pitched, Mickey Mouse voice.  Though highly annoying, I use such opportunities to entertain myself.  I respond to such cartoonish conversation initiations with my best Leonard Cohen meets Tom Waits impersonation. 

It’s always nice to be reminded that I, too, am under the cultural interpretation microscope.