sync in progress

Okay, well I'm back home and life is back to relative normality. This once travel blog is now to become my own little emotional rant space. So probably time for a lot of people to tune out. I wasn't going to continue writing a blog but sometimes it feels like life is slapping you in the face and there is nobody you can tell but a blank page.

Today, I'm just going to say a brief word about the irrationality of some people, accompanied with inflexibility, ignorance and intolerance it really is a startling combination. I'm just finding that being home I'm beginning to feel more and more alone. Some people can't seem to understand the experiences that I had overseas and their judgement and disgust is overwhelming and enveloping. Sometimes, I have to stop and tell myself to breathe. I'm going through the motions to get through the day.

One last note to old people. Just because you're old it doesn't mean that you know everything. Advice is great but no matter what little gems you come up with, no matter how logical or well thought out in your mind, the honest truth is your experiences will never be the same as mine. Your mistakes will never be mine, your choices, and opinions are not mine. I will live for myself, forge my own path, make my own mistakes and find the right way back myself. So, the next time you turn to a younger person with some misplaced notion of superiority due to experience or age save your breath because the youth can smell condescention from a mile away and its damn right frustrating, exasperating and infuriating.

okay. rant. over. sorry.

Home... or something like it

Wednesday I left Ghana. After a great week, with great friends and a sad farewell I returned to the land of oz. For weeks and weeks i was waiting eagerly to return home. People always say home is where your heart is, but I realise now that your heart can be in more than one place. I know that because when I arrived in Adelaide despite my joy at seeing the pople i loved and the familiarity of the place I've always known, I felt a peculiar sense of detachment and displacement. I feel strange and out of place in this place i call home. I'll go to speak twi or make a ghanaian reference and realise that the inside joke is only with myself. The people i've lived with for months aren't here to laugh with anymore.

I can't seem to reconcile the two disparate worlds I lived in. I felt at home in Ghana and now I'm here i feel alien. I hope it passes because I also feel guilty for not seeming as happy or exuberant as everybody expects me to be on my return. I want to be happier but the crap thing about feelings is i seem to have no control over. Its not that I don't want to be here its just that i cant seem to find my feet. It isnt jetlag its just culture shock. Craziness. I never thought it would hit me like this.

work, work, work

My journalism placement ended a couple of weeks ago because my paper was suffering financial difficulties and hadn't managed to publish in the entire time I had been there. I finally decided that I had to leave in order to get the most out of my experience in Africa. Instead, I moved to teaching and medical outreach. Initially I was placed in a private school, where my role was to sharpen pencils and keep the children quiet. But i despised it because I was completely unnecessary: i got blisters from sharpening pencils, and I'm completely ill equipped to keep the children quiet because the little shits knew that I wasn't going to use the cane. My first day a five-year-old little girl nodded at me with a huge cheesy grin and prompted, "beat them". In that moment my heart broke just a little bit. I feel like the purpose of volunteering is being somewhere that needs you rather than simply going somewhere that will accept your presence. So Projects Abroad, let me chnage my placement once again. I only have two more weeks but I still want to make the most of them.

So, I am now at a school that is about two hours away from where i live, I have to leave at 6.30am to get there by 9am. I've only had one day there but I find it infinitely more rewarding than my prior placement. Today, i did one on one tutoring with children who are struggling. The girl I worked with is fourteen-years-old and has great difficulty with the alphabet. If by the time I leave i can help her recite it, and recognise the letters when she sees them, then I'll feel successful.

I also do medical outreach two days a week which has been one of the best working experiences i've had in ghana. We travel to different schools and orphanages and go through the children and treat their cuts, infections, funguses and ringworms. I would make the bold statement to say that ringworm is Ghana's head lice. There is head lice here too, but the children have shaved heads so its not as common as ringworms. But because ringworms is infectious it is a big problem to treat, because its perpetually transmitted between the children even on the odd occasions when it is treated.

Crazy nights and tired days

I have strayed into wanton territory of going out and partying. A reality so far removed from what I would enjoy doing at home is what I've immersed myself within over the past couple of days. I wasn't initaially going to post my drunken escapades over a blog but I really cannot be bothered writing them out several times. So mum, block your eyes. Actually there is nothig that bad in this.

It all began on Wednesday night. I'm living with five volunteers and we all decided it would be a fantastic idea to predrink at home before going out to a reggae party. So, another house of volunteers who live by us and our house started the partying far too early at our house. We have a spot bar down the road which was our constant alcohol supply. Gin sachets are 30 pesowas which is actually like 20cents, so you can imagine it got quite messy quite quickly. It got really fun when our host family joined in. So our host mother, her son and security joined in drinking with us. It was a pretty surreal experience but funny. By 11.30 when we decided it was time to head to the party none of us were walking entirely well. And we swayed our way down to junction, by the time we got into the taxi the cloud of drunkeness became too much for me and i could already forsee the violent illness that i was bringing upon myself. The night degenerated from there and we left pretty early because we got prematurely drunk which ruined it.

Friday night, we didnt drink but i did see one of the most awesome things i've seen during my trip in Ghana. We went to a street dance competition between nigeria, cameroon, kenya, tanzania, and ghana. It was epic. You can't imagine the dancing, mainly because i can't describe it properly through words. Just accept my word that it was pretty effing great.

Ok, and last night. That was always going to be a crazy one. We went to a bar where you pay twenty cedi to get in and then you can drink as much as you want the entire night. Obviously, people got drunk. After we were don drinking, the next step was dancing so we moved to another palce. Its called Vienna City and the guidebook describes it as being teeming with hookers- it might be the one point in the book that the guidebook gets 100% accurate. So, that was fun for the guys and there was a lot of body grinding. For us obroni ladies, there were ample men willing to dance- and more. I had love declared upon me three times, a marriage proposal, an offer 'to take me for the night' and one guy was so audacious as to boldly state he wanted to 'fuck me'. Ghana really is a whole new world but as i've said, it might be flattering if it wasnt so blatantly creepy. The night ended at 5am because one of our lads was keen to leave to avoid an angry hooker. oh and i got free amazing pizza which was great because i was effing hungry by then.

Forgive my writing skills- its the bare minimum because im slightly hungover- no mad illness so i must be acclimatising. don't worry mum i didn't drink too much, or get up to any crazy shenanigans ;)

Some thoughts

So, last week i was rather morbid, its funny what sickness does to your moods. But now I've had some antibiotics and I'm peachy yet again. So here is the positive perspective of travelling and experiencing a new culture- even if it is the not so good things. Being in Ghana and away from home I feel a kind of independence and freedom that i've never found at home. At home i was constrained by familiarity, by the dictates of a social setting I had always known and was disinclined to stray from, because it seems unnecessary when there is such comfort within it. In a sense, it is like being limited in knowledge and experience because you are trapped by routine and expectation. For example, I moved on to university from higheschool because I assumed it was the next logical step, yet I had no preference or idea as to what I wanted to study. I merely had a mixed cradle of study options that fell into at random, and happened to stumble into studying journalism based on my TER. I could have done so many things but I did the most common, most expected step and It hasn't fulfilled me or provided me with direction. Over here, my eyes have opened from that slumber and the allure of trying new things has drawn me in.

I have little more direction than I did before I left Adelaide, but I don't feel as confined as I once did. The culture over here, which is so disparate from my own, and even meeting diverse people from all around the globe who have come here with different motivations and different goals is an amazing experience. Some things i find unpalatable and can't reconcile but at the same time if i had never come here I would probably have never comprehended anything outside my own little box. The world is a much bigger place that academia and google can't do justice. Ghana, which supposes itself to be a democracy, is riddled with corruption and underdevelopment. The police take bribes, rich officials live luxury lifestyles while the a lot of people live in squallid and terrible conditions. Seeing village life in contrast to city life in Ghana is a stark and disturbing reality. I could never live permanently the way I did in the village without running water or an actual toilet but to some extent I preferred it to living in Accra. For one, the pollution was less, there were less people, less invasion into your personal space and it felt calm. In Accra, I constantly feel dirty and I'm confronted by Ghanaians who want to tug me this way and that. Friendliness is great, but when you're exhausted or busy it can be tiresome. I like talking to people but there is a point where you don't want to talk or be friends with random strangers.

Freedom. To act without inhibitions and fear of judgement was an elusive desire in my days of Oz. Because no matter how freely I thought I was acting or no matter how much I thought I was doing what I wanted there was always a part of me that was considering what people around me were thinking. I regret throughout primary school and highschool participating indirectly in the isolation of those who were considered different because I didn't have the strength of character to shrug off and defy the majority who essentially bullied people. I can't remember precisely if I was ever directly involved in tormenting or teasing these different individuals who dared to be themselves, but I feel somehow I would have been because its a big part of my nature to follow. Even if I abstained from being involved in the cruelty personally, i know with certainty that I was there and witnessed it with little protest. But now more than ever I appreciate the people who are different, and who have that courage and comfort in themselves to say fuck you to the people who don't accept who they are. They are the people to be friends with because they move in their own way, and have their own appreciation for life and living that is refreshing because it isn't a mere synchronisation with those around them. My mother is one of these people. I, and many people, jokingly call her eccentric and crazy. But she is free in who she is. She has an immovable faith, an unabashed love for gossip, an inflexibility in her opinions and values and a mouth that could talk for days if you let it. If she listened to me and others around her she might be compelled to change who she is and that would be a shame. I think one of her strangest eccentricities, that I can always remember her having, is a strange habit she has when smoking. she claims not to like the smell of smoke in her hair and when she goes outside for a cigarette, she wraps a 'smoke towel' around her head to cover her hair. Its a difficult thing to explain to strangers why your mother goes outside at varying times looking like Mary. But its funny, and its her. Sometimes, she emabarasses the hell out of me, other times she frustrates me beyond the point of reason but she simultaneously guides and challenges me to become stronger and better. Partially, my strong opinions i have inheritted from her. Not her crazy notions which I am usually opposed to, but her stubborness and inability to be worng are definitely reflected in my personality.

Well, I'm about to head off to a reggae party at the beach, to do some crazy dancing. The 'toilets' at Labadi are reminiscent of the hills- i have to squat behind a canoe on the beach meters from dancers and only partially hidden by people wandering down the beach. Definitely going to have to wear a dress to preserve some of my dignity. So I'll leave my blog here.

Waterfalls

So one of the last big places that I had yet to visit in Ghana was Wly Waterfalls and so last weekend with eight other volunteers i finally got around to travelling there. It was quite the experience and for someone as resoundigly unfit as me, quite the challenge. Like many places in Ghana the journey there and back was as amusing and troublesome as the actual place. After a six hour tro-tro ride, a punctured tire, a brief road stop where we witnessed a baby goats death by speeding vehicle we arrived in Ho Hoi in the dark (if thats the correct spelling it'll be amazing). From there we had an hour long journey in a taxi. One of the most excruciating processes in Ghana is arguing the price down with a taxi driver and as there were seven of us we needed two taxis, or so we thought. The first few taxis claimed no less than 20 cedi for a ride there, a ludicrous price in Ghana. We wandered around for a while in search of the tro tro station, unwilling to pay that much for a taxi, when a particulalry persistent taxi driver approached us with the offer of 2 cedi per person. Although, this was a much better price we were confronted with the predicament of seven people one taxi. The taxi driver was keen for us and determined that we would all fit, which we did but not comfortably. Two guys were smooshed in the front with five of us in the back, crammed in tightly and semi hanging out the windows. The road was potholed and barely driveable and as the driver overcame each pothole their were woops from us passengers and relief. At some points it was questionable as to whether we would make it but finally we got there.

The rooms were perfect. The best I've had in Ghana so far. We had to wait for a few more people to arrive so we sat down to have dinner and drinks. Drinks turned into drinking games which were fun but by no means a good idea the night before climbing a steep, rocky mountain. One guy, got very ill that night- not from the drinks, and was exploding from both ends and was in such a miserable state he missed the adventure of climbing the mountain. The walk uphill was physically taxing and my lungs were heaving with the effort to draw in oxygen. I was so far behind everybody else but eventually I made it. At the top it was beautiful but the water was everywhere and the pressure was intense in your face. Going back down the mountain was dangerous and daunting as it was slippery, rocky and the path was only semi-definable as a path. I fell several times, luckily and much to my relief not off of the mountain. I emerged after the trip with a great many cuts but in one piece and was quite proud that I had made it, with my complete and utter lack of fitness.

Self Insight... I think

Preface: I started writing this blog after a week of being sick and not working. With time on my hands and nothing on my mind my thoughts have freely flit throughout my mind without distraction. I considered not posting it and keeping it for myself, but, ultimately decided to swallow my dignity and release it into the public domain. It isn't so much about Africa, as about myself, so now is the point to stop reading if you're here for updates on the African adventure.

Once when I was little, I sat alone on the floor of my room staring at the ceiling and the enormity of the world overwhelmed me. I had lost my mum for moments at my older brother’s primary school that day and panic crushed my lungs as the world closed in around me. For the tiniest moment, in the tiniest place I was alone. It was not a feeling I enjoyed and ever since I’ve never felt entirely comfortable being alone. Which is ridiculous really, because I’ve begun to realize that no matter how many people are around me, I’ve very much always felt alone. Nobody can understand the insane nonsense of my mind, when I myself cannot begin to fathom who I am.

Here in Africa, I have found that I quite enjoy being alone, and even though the other doubts remain I’m no longer completely dependent on the presence of others in order to feel safe and comfortable. Yet still, I’m bizarrely uncomfortable in my own skin. I have pervasive doubts and distaste for almost every aspect of my being. Emotionally, physically, and characteristically stunted is the best way I can describe it. Self-deprecation is, I find, one of the most unattractive traits a person can have, ironically and hypocritically it’s one of my greatest flaws. I’m not openly self-critical but it’s deep below the surface festering in the corners of my mind.

I have an erratic pendulum of emotions that I can barely control and that I rarely understand. Sometimes I don’t know what I’m feeling until it physically manifests itself in my demeanour or behavior, which gives me and everybody around me a glimpse of my true mind. It’s awful to be so disconnected from your own emotions and I’m not even sure that words can adequately describe the nature of the separation that I have between my emotions and my mind. I think, but cannot be sure that it’s a legacy from my childhood. Blocking out emotions was a survival mechanism, because I learnt very young that the boundaries of physical pain are surpassed easily by emotional pain. I learnt very well that it was necessary to avoid emotional pain in any way possible. Most of you will know about my father’s death, but there will be a few people who don’t. When I was six-years-old my father killed himself. I have few, if any, memories of my childhood but I can remember with amazing clarity the events that unfolded that year. My parents had fought a couple of days before his death, and my mum had taken us with her to stay at my nanna’s for a couple of nights. The day that we were supposed to return home, was one of the last times I ever saw my childhood home. At school that day I was restless to get home because I was returning to my own pink bedroom and my dad had promised me the night before over the telephone that he was going to pull out my first tooth. As a little girl I had the blind faith and certainty in my father’s word, and the innocence to be captivated by the simplest notions. I was sitting on tire swings when the principal of the school approached me. Foreboding ran through me, because any student knows that being called to the principal’s office is never a good occasion. I entered the room to find my family crammed into this office. My mum looked empty and had a sadness about her that I had never before witnessed in anyone. From the moment I was told about my father’s death everything changed for me. I remember seeing his body at the viewing, yet I could never rationalsie that the pasty lifeless form in the coffin as a once living breathing being. I think seeing him like that was worse for me than if i had never had an opportunity to see him for a last time. Dead people are cold and empty and now I can smell the embalming fluid and I can recall what he looked like lying there and it's one of the few mental images that I have of the man. My mum used to ask us whether, on the night that we had spoken to him on the phone, he had said see you or goodbye. I guess she wanted to know if he had planned it all beforehand and if in his phonecall he ahd given us any last words to hint at what was to happen. I hated myself for not being able to recall what he had parted with; for not knowing for her and not knowing for us. Rationally I know that it was impossible for a six-year-old to have any inkling of her fathers pending suicide from a fleeting phone conversation but there is a part of me that continues to wonder if he had spoken to his wife and children normally, while contemplating killing himself the next day. I no longer hate or resent him for his actions. I have no sadness or regret in losing him when or how I did. That in itself, i suppose, is a little bit sad.

His death was the catclysmic moment where everything started slipping away, and I realised i had no control. We left our home, my room, the outside swing, the apricot tree and went to live with my grandma. Not long later, our two dogs had to be put down and I progressively degenerated at schoolwork. At such a young age I remember wanting to die; to escape from emotion. When my father died I felt an unabashed sorrow and tears flowed easily. But eventually I had nothing left to cry and sorrow turned to hurt, hurt to anger, anger to resentment, resentment to detachment. I’m not sure after this point at exactly when or how it happened but I stopped caring, I stopped naively allowing myself to become attached to any person, object or place. And it worked. I’ve never felt the kind of pain that could rival those years, but now it’s a different kind of ache. I wish I had learnt a better, healthier way to cope with the way I feel rather than cognitively shutting down my emotion. Because over time I’ve learnt that no matter how well you lock something away, it will eventually come out- usually in an uncontrollable erratic eruption of emotion. Sometimes, when my feelings become too much I'll feel an overwhelming and sudden burst of emotion- usually anger or depression- and I physically can't shut it down. It can last anywhere from minutes to days but I have to wait out the riptide of emotion because attemping to quell it simply makes it stronger and worse.

I find myself to be such a paradox of conflicting identities. I can't seem to find a foothold on who exactly I am. Sometimes I'll be strong, spirited and blunt, other times I'll be quiet and withdrawn and unable to speak my mind. I've always had a romantic side that likes to hope or believe that the world can be better, that I can be better yet its often in direct opposition to my realistic and cynical nature. I've found that I don't particularly hate anything that I do, but at the same time I've neevr loved anything I've done. I have no idea if I'll continue with journalism or wander aimlessly down a path of varied studies and occupations looking for something more than merely the tolerance for a job. I should know enough by now to know that passion is something I'm unlikely to find in any career path, but still for now, I'm looking for it.

I haven’t written this blog for pity; for I despise the idea of anyone pitying me. I have a great life, filled with family and friends, and opportunities to be whoever I want, and do whatever I choose. But for catharsis, I need to release the crazy in me. I used to care so much about what people think, in some ways I still do, but I’m no longer controlled by the way I think people will react to things. I suppose a small comfort to me is that a stranger’s judgment couldn’t possibly be more critical than my own. This is probably not a blog I’ll ever post because it is too honest and just a little bit humiliating.