After a month and some here, the
days have certainly started to blend together.
This morning, I was determined to at least get one quality interview
here in Koforidua. After breakfast and
preparing some laundry, I decided I’d take the long rout to town and walk. About half an hour into my stroll, I decided
to ask a storeowner about the water he sold.
Among the three brands were Ascension, StayCool, and Standard. The last two were more national brands and
were produced elseware; however, Ascension water was produced not too far from where
the storeowner’s shop was. Conveniently
enough, a friend of his was passing by, and the storeowner spoke some Twi to
him and told me to follow (I caught Brofu
and Ansom meaning Englishman and Water). The man was dressed
in all black, and when I inquired where he was going, he told me he was heading
to a funeral at the Ascension church.
Once we entered the church grounds,
he pointed to a building and told me to inquire inside. Interestingly enough, the church decided to
open up community housing, drill boreholes for water, and start a business
selling water. An elderly man with a
name at least 8 syllables long showed me around to visit the boreholes,
filtration site, packaging plant, and agreed to an interview. Apparently after all the costs are met, the
Ascension water profits go to the Ascension church, and the plant was funded as
an investment. Very cool
After my visit, I walked for another
hour outside town to the bead market, only to find it empty. I was told that the bead market moved outside
town to a permanent location open every day; what I was not told was that “open every day” does not mean “staffed with
sellers” everyday. Saaa!
After another hour of walking, I
made it to lunch with Keith and the gang.
It began to pour (finally) so I stayed long after lunch was over until
mid afternoon. While walking back to
Partners May, it began to rain again, and I had to settle for a taxi (almost
made it to town and back without the aid of a motor vehicle!)
While walking alone today, I began
to think about how I’ve assimilated into this culture far better than I had in
past trips and compared to fellow white people and travelers. As I’m sure I’ve said in the past, it’s all
too common to walk down the street anywhere in Ghana and be called white. White
Man, Obruni, Yevoo, Nansway have become my adopted names. I used to get pretty annoyed with the whole
name calling, literally racist terms. I
even tried to buy a shirt that simply read “My name is NOT Obruni” this time,
just for fun.
In my interactions with Ghanaians, I
always get a kick out of surprising everyone – men, women, and children – by
returning the greeting “good/fine morning” with a “Wu so ma achi, a/oura. Ete sen?” (good morning to you also
madam/sir, how are you?) Jaws drop with astonishment. Some follow up with a “Ay! Wu te Twi?” to which I reply “Anne, menti Twi
kakra kakra!” (Do you speak Twi? – Yes,
I speak small small!)
I wear pants when it’s hot, use my
right hand to give money and receive food in the same motion when two hands
would be far more convenient, and I never ask When are we going to get there?
By most counts, I am doing a pretty
good job being a Ghanaian – something that most people who come here don’t
do. It’s so easy to visit a new place, retain one’s culture, and treat every
irregular encounter with disproval or disgust.
It takes time and dedication to study another culture, to study the
language structure, cultural norms, and present oneself as something other than
just another tourist.
So, the name calling of Obruni or any other white person
derogatory term is often justified.
Whites come and go, remaining in a cultural bubble and disobeying norms,
languages, and daily lifestyles. I’ve
come to try to bridge the gap, and although I could never assimilate completely
into the culture, I’ve done the best job I can, and I think it shows.
When people call me Obruni now, I
often say Oh, Menye Obruni. Meye Obbibini! This translates to “I’m no white guy, I’m an
African.” Of course, the response is
always shock, laughter, and a lot more heckling. Is the elation and amazement rooted in the
surprise of a white guy speaking Twi? Or
is it the fact that I just called myself an African when I surely don’t look
it. I don’t think it matters; I’ve
proven that not all Obrunis are the same – some aren’t Obrunis at all.
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