The plane landed with a thud in Tamale, Ghana. We were only a four hour drive from our new home in Bolgatanga and were anxious to see what we had gotten ourselves into. As I stepped off of the plane, I breathed in a hot and dry breath of air and walked into a small building to retrieve our luggage. We were greeted by a Ghanainan, man or woman I cannot recall, with a cheery smile. “You are welcome!” they said, as the door swung open. Both Faolan and my inner dialog kicked in, curious about what this greeter just said. We hadn’t said thank you, yet. Were they just saving us the time? We retrieved our bags and turned the corner to walk down a paved walkway to find our ride when another person passed us, smiled a big bright smile, and said “you are welcome”. We continued on, found our driver, and loaded the van in the company of 7 other women traveling to Bolgatanga with us. Finally, Faolan and I turned to each other, after thinking hard about the possibilities and asked “did you say thank you to that man?” We both nodded no with quizzical looks. Writing this now, I can’t help but laugh at us for thinking so hard about this phrase. “You are welcome” was soon to be a greeting that would warm our hearts for the next eight weeks, yelled to us from fields and market stands alike. To me, this phrase perfectly exemplifies Ghanaian culture. As two American adults, who not so surprisingly stand out like sore thumbs in rural Ghana, I did not know how welcomed we were going to be. I entered this experience with little to no expectations, mostly because of the ambiguity of our research, but also because of the mystery Ghana was to me. I had spent time in Zambia prior to this experience and had a level of comfort and confidence going into my research, but I was across the continent from Zambia and was, by no means, naive to the lack of familiarity I was soon to experience. As I said, I did not enter this adventure with many expectations. Our research was vague, we were the first fellows to be sent to Bolga, and our project was, and still is, incredibly malleable. This was, to my surprise, quite challenging for me. I craved a level of control in an environment and culture where control was both a privilege and an anomaly. Between the constant rain storms, power outages, lack of transportation, flat tires, and unforeseen illnesses, my time in Bolga lacked a level of control that I had never realized I appreciated. And not only that, a level of control that was a rare and extreme privilege that I had grown so accustomed to. When I say control, I mean control over one’s life and state. For example, I was feeling a little hot a few minutes ago. The blanket to my right was a little too fuzzy and it was making my leg sweat. So, I grabbed my fan and pointed it at myself and now I am a good temperature. I also noticed that I was feeling a little sick today, so I went to the drug store and bought some cold medicine to make sure it didn’t get worse. Both of these examples perfectly describe the control I am alluding to. I have a relative level of control over what is to come in my life, emphasis on the word relative. This idea of control, contrarily, is foreign to many people in our world. Sickness comes and medications are too expensive. So the coming days will look different because of that. Rain storms pass by and no work can be done. You hit a pothole just a little too hard, the tire pops, and the journey ends abruptly. With privilege comes the ability to cushion yourself to unforeseen obstacles, plan for the future and facilitate control throughout your days. Without it, one must embrace changes and deviations and adjust. There is something that I find beautifully tragic about this dissonance of control, and I found myself noticing this idea constantly in Bolgatanga. As an outsider, it is easy to enter an environment like Bolgatanga and see all of the things they don’t have. They don’t have air conditioning, or good wifi. Uber eats is not really an option. Their food choices are scarce, laundry is harder to do by hand, and animals and bugs are roaming everywhere. The list goes on and on. As time goes by and you become acclimated into this type of environment, the way of thinking shifts, at least it did for me. You then begin to realize the uniqueness of life in a rural, developing environment. You notice the people on the street. They have a bounce to their step that not many people back home have. Silence is filled with beautiful drums and singing. People look you in the eye, welcome you into their homes, and expect nothing in return. There is a level of humanness that comes with the simplicity of life in places like Bolgatanga. A level of human connection, trust, and love that I think is greatly lost in many aspects of our world in the West. My coworkers and the artisans I spent my days with in Bolgatanga taught me lessons that are, for lack of a better word, priceless. They introduced me to a way of living that is completely absent in my world in the US. We spent days sitting under trees, listening to the birds, and singing and dancing together. We contemplated dreams and wishes, sharing stories and laughs as we split and twisted straw for weaving. We ran around with the kids, playing with rocks and sticks. We weaved throughout the market to find the last mangoes of the season while somehow dodging cows and motorbikes. We mourned death, prayed together, farmed and cooked together. We welcomed outsiders, the ill and the marginalized, without hesitation. This way of life felt natural to me, as it would to anyone willing to allow themselves to be vulnerable. This way of being is our nature, as humans. Over this summer, I felt, to my core, I was living a life of purpose and contentment. I was surrounded by people full of love and trust. I was accepted, without hesitation anywhere I roamed. I was a contributor to something larger than life. My heart was open wider than it has ever been before and I could not be more thankful for the people that held my hand throughout it all. As I readjust to life in California, I find myself searching for a balance between the two very different approaches to life that I am familiar with. One is productive, quick and efficient. The other, slow, spontaneous and peaceful. Neither approach is wrong or right, but just different.
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