Christmas Vacation

Panoramic view of Lake Bosumtwe

Our Christmas holiday was spent doing exactly what I have wanted to do for, oh, the last couple of Yule tides… we went to Lake Bosumetwe. Lake Bosumetwe is the largest fresh water lake in Ghana, and it was created when a meteor struck the earth a couple of years ago. It is about a 3 hour drive from Accra, under optimum conditions, which of course, we did not have. First, we departed from Tema, so that added an extra 25 miles, second, we left on Christmas Eve Eve day, which meant so did every other Ghanaian in Ghana. Traffic was its usual horrendous self, and ongoing construction of a highway intended to eventually provide a more direct link between Accra and Kumasi meant that the road we were on was left to its own devices – in other words, it was a frigging mess.

We didn’t go in our own van, which never would have made the (eventually 6 hour) trip but rather we hired a trotro and driver to take us and bring us back. I haven’t been in a trotro in a couple of years and, ya know, I wasn’t missing anything. Even with just six of us and some luggage, it was still cramped and tight and hot and jostly inside the van.

But we set off early enough and with only a couple of breaks we made it to Lake Bosumetwe by early afternoon. Our first break about 2-1/2 hours in was at the Linda Dorr Rest Stop which was, at one time, a beacon to Ghanaian rest stops. Now it is just decrepit and shameful. They charged us 20 pesawas each just to take a leak, and for that we got 4 squares of toilet paper and non-flushing toilets that are nauseatingly disgusting – it seems that Alex and I always manage to follow some poor soul who had the trots!

Mike wanted to buy a beef kebob while we were there (they used to be really good as I recall), but all they had was chicken; that wound up being completely inedible (even by Mike’s standards!). Alex asked for some grapes, and I had my money out to buy; when I asked the price, I was told 2, 3 and 5 cedis. So I asked to see the bunch that constituted the 5 GHC grapes. “Oh no,” the woman said, “not a bunch, I will count out the grapes from each stem and give you 20.” Um, I don’t think so, but not to disappoint Alex I did buy 8 grapes. But is that not ridiculous? I knew you’d agree.

About 30 minutes after that, we pulled up at Sly’s favorite resting stop, which is simply a chop bar – Ghana’s version of fast food. Within three minutes or so, there was an order of smoked fish with light soup at the table, and 2 cedis worth of perfectly pounded fufu. The soup was hot (in both respects) and delicious, and the fufu was as smooth as silk. Went down the gullet without a bit of trouble, and we were on our way 15 minutes later.

By then, we were about 90 minutes away from the lake and the kids were getting anxious. We reached the lake, stopped at the entrance hut where the “guard” looked in (no doubt saw me within a nanosecond) and then demanded 12 cedis entrance fee for the six of us. Then we read the sign: adult locals were to pay 1 cedi each; adult foreigners were to pay 2 cedis each and school children were charged 50 pesawas each. So, did we all – including our trotro driver and the children – look like adult foreigners? Apparently, but the guard’s attempt to impose the obroni tax on all of us was a big fat failure.

Finally, about 15 minutes later we reached our destination, Rainbow Garden Village. The owner of RGV (as they call themselves) showed us to our chalet, and it was the same one we stayed in several years ago. Not exactly big enough for the five of us, but with a couple of mattresses on the floor we’d make do. We had to “rough it” a bit, as there were only a few wall outlets (with different type pins than our laptops and sandwich maker, unfortunately) and a single ceiling fan that too gently pushed the air along. It would take a bit of strategy to get the laptops running (for gaming only, no internet and very spotty cell access) and to make our grilled cheese sandwiches, but we’d figure a way, of that I was sure.

And, once I saw the menu I realized we would indeed have to figure out a way to make sandwiches. The menu, by necessity given the remoteness of the place, was somewhat spare in choices: lots of rice – jollof, fried, plain – and fried yam or pasta, all essentially with either beef or chicken. Believe it or not, in spite of our location, right on the lake, no fish! For almost the entire week we were there, my boys survived on jollof rice with beef and fried yam chips, while Alex ate plain rice. On the second day I tried pasta with “creamy spinach stew” which was not spinach but kontomire (close enough, really); what I got was a dish with a lot of potential, except the stew was too salty and much too stingy a portion to even cover a third of my spaghetti. Fortunately, the cook was receptive to our criticism and the next (and next and next) orders of the pasta with spinach stew were larger and much less salty; with the grated cheese I’d brought along sprinkled liberally on top, it was pretty nice. We eventually found a way to make our sandwiches which broke the meal monotony and snacked on Frosted Flakes when tummies started grumbling.

When not eating (or waiting to eat – it typically took between one and two hours for the food), we did a lot of swimming. The lake was clear enough that you could walk out to your arm pits and see your toes (well, clear enough for me to see my toes, but not so much my darker skinned kids). It was also very warm, except for some delightfully chilly cold spots that we’d chance upon every now and again. The lake, unfortunately, also had leeches in it which we discovered on Day 2. Or should I say Alex discovered… the hard way. She had a tiny scab on her ankle that somehow broke off so the wound was open and she was swimming in the shallows with her brothers. Then in a split second, she comes rushing out of the water screaming and there on her ankle - -right where the scab should have been – is a skinny leach, and blood is trickling down her foot. She runs to me, I swat at it (*shudder*) and it is stuck good. I swat again (*shudder*) and it finally falls off into the grass. Alex, trooper that she is, asked for a band aid to cover it and got right back into the water.

View from the dock.

Yes, that's us swimming waaaaayyyy out to the log.

Ping pong hut

Weaver bird nests

Alex and friend.

For each of us, each day was essentially the same as the day before, with very little exception:

• Wake up
• Eat Frosted Flakes
• Watch the weaver birds build (and rebuild) their nests
• Swim
• Order lunch
• Swim (while waiting for lunch)
• Eat Lunch
• Swim
• Order dinner
• Swim (while waiting for dinner)
• Eat dinner
• Swim
• Look for shooting stars
• Go to bed

The exception, though, was truly exceptional – Sly got a couple of guys arrested! No shit. On the 2^nd night that we were there, Christmas Eve it was, these three Rasta looking guys come sauntering down to the water side, and position themselves beneath a tree house thingy. Among them, they share a single beer, and one of them keeps walking between the tree house and the dock, smoking (and not a cigarette) as he does it. I’ve immediately got my mom-hackles up. I rouse the kids out of the water and we all head up toward the ping pong table where Sly is talking with the owner, Ataa. Sly has also got his radar working pretty damn well, because the Rastas are the subject of their conversation. At Sly’s suggestion, Ataa went down to talk to the Rasta. They claimed that “someone” invited them to visit, and that they took a taxi all the way from Kumasi (40 km away, mind you) just to share a single beer.

Ataa’s staff at RGV is comprised only of herself and her daughter, her cook, her waitress and a teenage errand boy. No security in sight. And Sly is certain that what these guys are up to is no good. Ataa calls the local police. As they’re waiting for them to arrive, the Rastas get up to leave (this is not necessarily good, by the way). When they reach the road, Sly tells them that the police have been called and that they should stick around. They’re arguing to Sly that they just came to “check the place out;” meanwhile, one of them sidles his way closer and closer to the road and all of a sudden takes off like a shot. Now, this place is so remote that it’s not as though they could just grab a cab and get away – he’s probably only hiding in the next village. The police arrive a few minutes later, show their presence to the other patrons (mostly Europeans) and then haul the remaining two guys away in their police van for an overnight in the slammer. Got to love the Ghanaian justice system (when it works in your favor, of course).

It was essentially a very boring week. Every day we swam, we pet the donkey, we listened to the birds, we played word games on the Kindle, we enjoyed the weather, we ate, drank and relaxed.

And it was exactly what I wanted and what I think we all needed. Can’t wait for our next trip.

Happy kids.

Happy New Year!

Boarding school blues

Well, it’s hard to believe, but tomorrow will mark a full two weeks since my “baby” went off to board at Achimota Senior Secondary School. I want to say that I miss him terribly – and I do, I really really do – but I have to admit I am enjoying some new found freedom (stick with me and I’ll explain).

Sean, my oldest at 15, is more Americanized than his siblings; after all, he was 8 years old when we moved here in January 2003. He doesn’t have a “true” Ghanaian accent (wholly unlike Alexandra who has now lived in Ghana most of her life) though it does intensify when he’s with his peers (and which he loses when he’s with me). He doesn’t really “appreciate” the local foods – kenkey and Keta school boys, grilled tilapia and banku, groundnut soup and fufu (light soup is fine, but not groundnuts due to a peanut allergy) – though he will eat them if he has no choice. He doesn’t know how to do the typical things that most Ghanaian children are taught to do from an early age – like hand washing his school uniform or using a cutlass (machete) for anything other than playing ninja (before I put a stop to it, that is). He doesn’t even know how to wear the traditional cloth or has spent more than an hour at any church service.

But none of that is his fault. It’s my fault… our fault. We’ve tried to shield our children from some of the “injustices” (that’s in quotes because I’m being facetious – before someone slams me) that this system tends to mete out on children.

So, two weeks ago Friday we brought Sean’s things to him at the school. The head of the dorm that he’s in (Guggisberg, for anyone curious) allowed us all to go on up into the dorm and see where he’d be sleeping. It was not at all what I expected – I guess I’m too Americanized, too, and used to seeing dorms portrayed in American television. It was very crowded, with easily 40 boys sharing the one room they were in, and there were several similar rooms in the building. Sean got a top bunk, right near a window – not sure if that’s good or bad seeing as how the screens were not intact, but he does have a mosquito net so hopefully he’ll remain malaria-free (though he does tend to get it a lot).

Fortunately, the head boy was very nice and seemed more than willing to show Sean the ropes – though I have to pray that that wasn’t just for my benefit and that he really is a nice boy. Then, without a hug or a kiss or a tear we left him and headed home. That was how Sean wanted it. I respect that. But stoicism is not my strong suit.

So, he’s at boarding school for nearly two weeks now.

In that time, I’ve seen him once for about 45 minutes during the first monthly visitation, and I’ve spoken to him on the phone for, oh, about 4 minutes. He told me that he wakes every day at 4:00 am so that he and the other Form 1 students can have their shower before the upperclassmen come down. He told me that he eats a lot of white rice and stew, and has learned to like Hausa cocoa. He told me that they must have a siesta every day, whether they’re tired or not. He told me that he had one mid-term exam and he thought he did well in it (but that’s what I expect – he is a brilliant kid, after all).

But, yeah, I miss him. Most of the time.

When I don’t miss him is when I see Alex and Mike playing nicely, with each other, with no one to instigate an argument that escalates into a fight. Teasing I can do without. It’s also really nice to have my laptop to myself, without anyone rushing me off so that he can play his pc games without lag (no clue what that really means, but that's what he always said). My argument that I’m “working” often fell on deaf ears. Now, I don’t have to worry about that. I also don’t have to worry about cooking for my American son; Alexandra and Michael are more than happy to be invited to dad’s dinner, whatever Ghanaian fare it may be. Sean always hated that I “didn’t eat,” as he put it – “Dad, she only eats like once a day!” So without someone nagging me to cook “real food” I can make myself a plate of French fries, or a tuna sandwich, or just drink Crystal Light all day long, and no one complains. That’s freedom.

Would I give it all up? You bet… in a heart beat. But I won’t because the sacrifice I am making now is for Sean’s benefit. Will he understand my sacrifice when he sits down to yet another bowl of white rice and stew wishing it were my meatloaf and baked macaroni instead? Will he acknowledge my heartache when I picture him with blisters on his hands from swinging a cutlass across too high grass? Will he admire the brave face I put on when people ask me how I think he’s doing (“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing great – loving every minute of it!”), even though I know he’s physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Will he even believe that I pray every single night that he finds inside himself the strength, resolve and determination to succeed? Probably not.

A good friend offered me this quote, "Being a mother means spending your life with your heart outside your body." *sigh* Yeah, so I’m learning. But as Sean is now discovering, some lessons are just more painful than others. I know he will get through this, and I know I will get through this. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

My son, the future Akora!

Here it is, October 7, 2010, approaching 10:00 a.m., and as I sit here typing this blog post, my 15 year old is sound asleep in my bed. While today he is not feeling all that well, this is the norm. And it has been since we arrived back in Ghana in early September.

Because, while Alexandra and Michael have been attending SOS School as dutiful, well-behaved (ha!) children should, slothful Sean has been practicing his metamorphosis act. You see Sean graduated from JSS this past July, and soon (hopefully very soon), he will join the ranks of past and present Akoras as a Form 1 student. For the non-Ghanaian, that is the nickname given a student who attends Achimota Secondary School, long considered one of the best high schools in the entire country. Several notable (and notorious) people (and not all are Ghanaians, by the way) are Achimota alumni including Kwame Nkrumah (the first democratically elected president of Ghana), John Evans Atta Mills (the current democratically elected president of Ghana), Jerry John (J.J.) Rawlings (ummm, eventually a democratically elected president of Ghana), and Robert Mugabe (past, present, eternal president of Zimbabwe, with questionable pedigree).

Yes, we are very proud that Sean got into his first choice school, in spite of his relatively sloppy study habits – testament, perhaps, to his gene pool?

But I digress… as I said before, it is October 7th and he is NOT in school. Why is that? I haven’t a freaking clue.

When we learned in mid-September that Sean was admitted to Achimota, we took a drive to the school. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight, except for the guards at the gate and a single groundskeeper (who, apparently, will be spending the rest of his life trying to tame the huge Achimota campus with only a single cutlass – we can only hope that the blade was sharp!).

Entering the administration building, we found the office of the Headmistress. A woman working in the office (and no, I don’t believe it was the headmistress) could not help us. She didn’t know when school was going to be started. They didn’t even have the enrollment list from the Ghana Education Service. We were advised just to come back (come back?!) once a week (once a week!) and inquire. She wouldn’t even give us a phone number to call. I so wanted to say something about this being the information age. You know, making appropriate and effective use of technology… telephone, website, Facebook, tweeting, something…. but I held my tongue (I know you’re proud of me – it was not easy).

I blame it on the Ghana Education Service, since the buck can’t be passed higher than that. They have postponed and postponed secondary school opening day so many times that we will be fortunate if our kids are sitting behind a desk by the end of this month.

And what will happen then, I have to wonder. Will the school year be lengthened at the end? Will they shorten the between-break holidays? Will an extra hour be added on to the school day? Will students have to forgo their Saturday leisure time? Will teachers zip through the lesson plans with disregard, in the hope that students will learn through osmosis?

In the meantime, Sean is home. We’re steadily accumulating all of the things we think he will need for boarding school life – obligatory red and black metal footlocker, wooden chop box, towels, student mattress and pillows, bed sheets, buckets, cutlery and dishware, iron, etc., etc., etc. We’re not entirely sure we’ve remembered everything – Sly is trying to recall it all from his boarding school days, but as that was generations ago it may be things have changed. Who am I kidding? This is Ghana. Boarding school is a tradition, and tradition does not change.

Sean is home; he is sleeping, eating, playing video games, eating, arguing with his siblings, watching the Mexican telenovela Storm over Paradise and America’s Next Top Model (cycle 5, I think), eating some more. Essentially, driving me nuts. What Sean is not doing that he should be doing is studying the Form 1 books that we bought for him so that he will be ready for the start of school, regardless of when that is and how they attempt to squish five missed weeks into the lesson plan. Essentially, driving Sly nuts.

When will the madness end? Only the Ghana Education Service knows the answer… and they’re not talking.