On Reintegration and "Home"

Interestingly, between the many places I’ve been around the world, I have never written on what it’s like to return home. Some would consider this the “final stage of culture shock,” or a “relief away from the cultural intricacies of a foreign land.” However, I’ve found more and more that returning home is more upsetting than moving to a new place. I’ll do my best to summarize this emotional roller coaster in the most concise way possible, but as with all emotional matters – the truth can’t be captured by mere mortal words.

Everyone is the same, and you are not

Coming home can be a rude arrest in your personal development. While living in a foreign country, you’re being pushed to your limit. Sometimes you know what these limits are, and sometimes you find new versions of yourself that you never knew existed – new context, new you. In the midst of this flourishing personal discovery, you try your best to keep in touch with family and friends back home. You update them on some of your adventures, and you need them for a connection to what you left behind. Sometimes your experiences are too hard to share adequately – either because they’re too loaded with grief or are just plain bizarre - and you remain silent. Either way, despite pathways of communication you’ll come home and find your loved ones are in the same routine, same rut, same pattern. Best case scenario, that consistency can be interpreted as security. Worst case scenario (and very likely) the world has stagnated in your absence. Your friends haven’t sat under the stars and shared your epiphanies. Your parents still try and nail down a pseudo curfew. You’re a whole new person, and the world didn’t spin with you.

Everything is different, and you weren’t there

Quite often, a traveler comes home from weeks, months, or years in a new place – being inundated with new senses and passions. “Home” has always been an immoveable, frustratingly normal place. Home is predictable. And sometimes, when we’re in the field and overwhelmed with sensory intake, a little boredom sounds like bliss. What better place for that than home? So you book a ticket back for a little well earned R&R…Only to find it didn’t wait for you. The orchard across the street from your house has been uprooted in favor of a strip mall (which everyone condemns yet the parking lot is always packed). Friends have ended relationships and formed new ones. They're getting married and having kids. Meanwhile, your childhood room has been converted to a guest bedroom. Worse still, your family has moved location entirely and your childhood memories are housed across town while you fall asleep surrounded by loved ones and alien walls. You go from being uprooted, to home and more uprooted.

The small things will be the death of you... but also the best thing ever...

With all these emotions swirling and building, your barrier starts to lower and every interaction is raw. It’s not your family’s fault that they haven’t changed. People are people, and they don’t owe it to you to reverse their lifestyle in favor of your peculiarities. Nevertheless, when someone throws a specially manufactured gel ball down their drain to “make it smell lemony fresh,” you lose it. Completely. It’s a waste, a vanity, a product of disposal-prone culture. But through your rage you can’t help but notice – that sink smells great. It's a guilty observation that follows you to a laundry room. For those of you who don't know, a laundry room is a magical closet where with the touch of a few buttons your clothes come out clean and dry. No muss and no fuss, ladies and gentlemen. The days of 2-hour designated laundry time, armed with a couple buckets, harsh soap, and roughly a quart of sweat are behind you. The fact that it takes 60 seconds to gather, load, press buttons and walk away just means you have 1 hour and 59 seconds to feel conflicted, elated, wasteful, yet totally free.

 Not even the words you say make sense

When living abroad, surrounded by accents and grammatical phenomena, it’s impossible to not absorb bits and pieces. If you’re in a fully immersed setting it’s not so much bits and pieces as a data dump into your brain. Your neurology goes into survival mode and pushes aside childhood memories to make sure you’re up to speed on the latest local lingo. I mean this. My first and native language got increasingly difficult to communicate in the longer I was immersed in my study abroad program in college. English became less and less an effortless flow of thought and more a carefully structured grammatical exercise. You’ll spout off phrase structures that have zero context in real life and most likely throw in a few foreign words because English doesn’t quite cover it. As a result, those family and friends we discussed earlier have a harder time reaching you over the gulf of language.

You belong to too many places

If you feel this way – you are among the lucky few. It’s one thing to arrive in a new place and appreciate a new culture. That has value and many lessons that will stay with you for the rest of your life. It’s another matter to live, breathe, and be that new culture. You arrived with an open heart and an open mind, and in return you were given the gift of a new home. You can read body language, understand slang, communicate fluidly with a new set of gestures and sounds, etc. Your childhood home will always hold a place for you. It molded you, after all. It’s at the root of your psyche whether you like it or not. But adapting to a new culture means you can move to a new rhythm. Imagine growing up dancing salsa but discovering a new joy in sultry blues. You’ve blundered, stumbled, learned to walk, learned to talk, learned to love in this foreign place. Each experience was a development, and now it holds a closeness to your heart just like your homeland does. So what to do? When you’re pulled equally between different parts of yourself – your childhood home, a self-made home, and the homes far on the horizon you know are still waiting for you.

You’re gagged by your own experiences

This pairs nicely with item 1) Everyone is the same, and you are not. But do not be fooled – this results in a different kind of isolation. The first is about coming home to constancy and boredom. This one is straight-up alienation. For many people back home, traveling may as well be space exploration. It’s interesting, sure, but not relevant to their daily life. You’ve just spent months/years with absurd and crazy things happening to you on a daily basis. You’re a new person, who has had their own experiences in love, loss, danger, bliss, tranquility, and hilarity. How are you supposed to wrap up your life in a 5-minute elevator speech? How can you leave out so much, knowing it isn’t the full picture, knowing that no matter what you say – your experiences have already been assumed by the other party. And god forbid you be candid about hardship, about grief, or actually try and explain the context of a particularly off-the-wall cultural phenomena. That’s when you see disengagement, judgment, and revulsion. So instead, you practice a neutral – “it was great. Totally had a blast.” – in a way that invites as few questions as possible. They don’t really want to listen to the full answer anyway, and you can’t bear telling half truths that do a disservice to your memories.

Find a ringer

A ringer, technically, is someone who looks or appears like something else (ie copy, parallel, equivalent). When you get home, find your ringer. You don’t need them to also be your best friend, just someone who can hear your stories and not need a 90 minute debrief to explain that no, the monkey tied to the handrail was not the most important part of the story. Your ringer has had similar experiences, similar exposure and understands what it means to remake themselves. These people will make you sane. Because above all, they listen. They don’t change the subject. They don’t question the minor details. They hear your message. What you need when you come home is not to be thrown back into malls, supermarkets, department stores, paraded as an exotic accessory, or shunned for your ignorance of the latest music and movies to come out. In all likelihood you’re going to be spending more money on one beer while chatting with a friend than you are used to spending on food for a week. What you’ll need is love, patience, time for all the updates, time for all your updates, some quiet time, some late nights, and some distractions. You won’t find all of this in one place, so you strategize and try to predict how you can get what you need from different people.

So that’s you, what about them?

While we can all see that you’re the one dealing with a lot, it’s important to acknowledge the other side. Not everyone catches the travel bug, or if they do, some people don’t get the chance to pursue it in the same way you did. So when you come home from a wild exotic place to find your former best friend is equally excited about their promotion at the local community credit union, and they lose it at you when you scoff at their life goals – yes, you look like a jack***. Because who are you to criticize how others choose to live their lives? How are your goals more important than staying at home and raising a family? Bottom line: not everyone needs the same things you do to be happy. So when you go home and feel alienated from all you once found familiar – just remember, not everyone has to be excited. They’re living their life they way they want, and that’s ok, too. You have power over how you communicate, and I bet others will be more willing to hear your stories if you back off the ego and don’t slight them for their life choices.  

On the other side the spectrum, they could be super excited to hear about your trip – but don’t know how to ask the right questions. They might not share your background on what work you were doing, what daily life was like, etc. So rather than look like an idiot with their “silly” questions, they remain silent and focus instead on what they have been doing. When you come home, don’t make the mistake of thinking that indifference and ignorance are the same thing. You’ve just been through a lot, but don’t assume everyone is going to magically appear with a tailored listed of perfect questions. If you find a question offensive, remind yourself that the individual in question probably doesn’t mean to be offensive, and try to find a tactful way to answer that doesn’t buy into stereotypes or false generalizations. Of course, if they do mean to be offensive... get at 'em, Tiger. 

Serpentine Team Building

Lake Bosumtwi

My work partner and I sat before a table spread with documents. Computer screens boasted spreadsheets of budget proposals and notebooks were crammed with task lists and hand-drawn maps of our target areas. It was the quarterly management meeting, and we needed a break. Our speech buzzed with school names – Asanteman, Bonwire, SecTec, Mmofraturo; accompanied with clauses like – scenario-based interview questions, scholarship winners, site development, etc. Yes, it was time we stepped away from the consuming world of organizational strategy and enjoy our surroundings. At least, for an hour or so.

Seeking an environment that favored quiet and peaceful tranquility, our self-appointed management retreat was held on Lake Bosumtwi in the Ashanti Region of Ghana. A mere 1.5 hour bus-taxi-walk from our home, this site was perfect for us to be removed from the city but close enough to still enjoy the weekend.

The lake itself was crater-formed. A perfect circle of mountains rose around water, the jagged peaks covered in dense forest. In order to fully appreciate the view, Nora and I applied a lacquer of sunscreen and jumped into a rented pedal boat complete with sunscreen, water bottle holder, and a small compartment for snacks. Pedaling for 30 minutes or so, we made good headway across the lake before abandoning our vessel for a brief swim. All thoughts of reports were whisked away by the sun and exercise.

However, responsibility eventually seeped back into our consciousness and we figured we should return to our spreadsheets. Levering ourselves back into the boat, this sentiment was confirmed by an assessment of our water supply. Barely a quarter of the bottle remained – a few swallows each at most. We shrugged, land was not far away, and placed our feet upon the pedals.

Nothing happened. The pedals remained stoically jammed against the gunnels with no intention of propelling us forward. Our water supply suddenly seemed much more dire as we contemplated the engineering of our small vessel. I dove back into the water and under the boat, hoping to find a reason for the jam. Between the two pontoons, the air was thick with humidity and smelled of lake algae. Treading water, I fiddled with the bars and managed to find the one that had slid out of it’s home and hung at an incongruous angle. Suddenly, Nora’s voice resonated from above me, vibrating through the pontoons and shaking around my head.

“Rachel, get out the water.”

“I’m fine, I almost got it.”

“No. Get out. Now.”

It was hard to hear her tone with the acoustics that surrounded me, so I rammed the offending bar back in place and popped up on her side of the boat. I surfaced in time to see her swinging the life jacket over her head – aimed just behind me. I turned, and saw a wedge-shaped head and reptile eyes above the surface of the water. A snake: coming to check out the disturbance in the water. I immediately dove under, kicked furiously to the other side of the boat, and threw myself over the gunnels and into the seat in an ungraceful heap. Nora continued assailing the water with her life preserver, but the snake – potential prey out the water – disappeared under the surface.

We sat in the boat, staring at each other. My breath came quick, and Nora’s hands were shaking.

“So…” I said weakly.

“I think I just found our interview question,” Nora replied, her voice surprisingly steady. 
“Oh?” My mind was warring with two realities – work and survival. It wasn’t a harmonious mix.

“Yeah. Hypothetical Scenario: You are stranded in the middle of a lake in a broken boat and a snake decides to investigate you and your work partner for lunch. What do you do?”

“Oh,” I said, still not quite aware of where I was. “Would we have gotten the job?”

“Did you fix the boat?”

“Yes.”

“Then absolutely.” Nora replied firmly. 

Top 10 Catch-Up Highlights

It’s been several months since my last blog post. In those months, life has carried me on a roller coaster of experience. One that I could only comprehend the true intensity of until someone hears my story, sits back, and says, “You just sat the biggest roller coaster in the park. Not the world, but definitely the park.” But I didn’t know. I was just in the seat, hurtling around the curves and learning to throw my hands in air after my initial scream of fear.

Canopy Bridges in Kalum National Park

My work has deepened and grown. My schedule, while never predictable, at least has settled into a 5:30 am – 9 pm routine that feels like a concrete foundation under me. As is the nature of transition and new beginnings, the period of beginning is always tumultuous and fraught with scrambling moments. Running my Peer to Peer tutoring program, while training for a management position, while taking time for Twi lessons, and having the kind of position that made me prioritize the priorities. It’s the kind the schedule that makes months fly by like hours.

So maybe I have deepened and grown in response to all these events. Being 24 years old and the Director of Operations of a small NGO, being responsible for the wellbeing of about 15 staff and volunteers – in all areas of their life – is the kind of responsibility that one can’t conceptualize until you meet, eat with and sleep in the same room with the organization that is your prime responsibility.

The last several months have made me reassess several cornerstones of the question of “why I’m here.” It’s a question asked to me every day, and I give different answers every day. But that particular answer – or all 20 – is a blog for another time. For now, the last several months deserve a triple-take.

In many ways, it’s been the feeling of standing on the beach. The surf is strong. The sand is being pulled and sucked from under your feet. With each wave, the retreating force makes your flail your arms to stay upright, then you wedge your heels into the sand to regain your foundation and wait for the next wave. You could retreat. Either into the ocean, or back up the beach, but you don’t. There’s something hypnotic to rhythm of wave – flail – dig – wait. Wave – flail – dig – wait.

So much of the last few months has been in transition. In work, I’ve been learning the pulse of our organization. How it beats, how it rests, and how it alters rhythms. I’ve come into this new position with a unique perspective. We’re a young organization, with mistakes and lessons being added to our belt. When something doesn’t go right, “we’re young” isn’t a justified response anymore. We’ve moved up the ladder in terms of what we can offer staff, students, and partner organizations. I’m lucky enough to come on board to help shape that direction. I’m here to firm up the system and process of the organization. There are growing pains, as our talented staff pushes our budget and resource capabilities to the limits. But it’s the kind of behavior that makes the organization stronger, and I’m incredibly proud that I can be an instrument in the cultivation and implementation of my staff’s ideas.

I’m also at the point of being in the first month in my new position. I’m no longer in training. My ideas and vision for the organization are being heard, considered, and (to my surreal shock) approved and supported by my managers. My vulnerabilities are innumerable, but it’s the vulnerabilities that allow me to keep perspective on why I’m here. When the vulnerabilities vanish, hopefully I’ll still have the presence of mind to check the inevitable hubris and pretense of character that will arise to replace them.

To highlight my experiences that have comprised the last several months… I’ll have to resort to a “Top 10 List”. Upon readers’ requests, these stories can be unpacked in future posts. However, lined up side by side, I think it’s a more realistic canvas of my 3 month absence from active blogging.

#1: Competition

A little over a year ago, I was snowshoeing up the side of Mt Hood in Oregon with my friend Sarah…whose friendship started as a result of our rival collegiate crew teams. The competitiveness was still palpable in our relationship, even though we’d gradated. I took fewer breaks with Sarah. Pushed myself harder. Two former team captains together going up the side of a mountain don’t admit to weakness. We did, however, frequently stop to extensively and strategically admire the panoramic view below us. 

This flashback occurred to me, a little over a year later, as I took stock of my fellow staff members – fresh off the plane in Ghana. There’s a very different kind of competitiveness that ties together a group of new staff. Not just any new staff, but a staff of several nationalities, with experiences on many different continents. The question hanging over all of us “can you hack it,” was palpable in our conversations. Polite conversation, sharing accounts of life in Senegal, Uganda, Sri Lanka, Colombia, Thailand, Botswana, Peru, Denmark, Chile, the United States, Puerto Rico and many other places had a subtle undercurrent of analysis and categorization. This isn’t a competitive relationship based on physical stamina, but the mental agility and dexterity needed to thrive far from home.

#2. Mirabella

My dog. Mirabella has proven to be Ground Zero for a bundle of experiences worth a good story. Whether it’s taking her on tro-tros, through markets, giving her a basket in the office behind my desk, or waking up every morning with her nose pressed into my eye socket, Mira has become a natural part of my life. She has an affinity for shredding (mostly Scott’s, we can’t figure out this singular attention) prized belongings, and hoarding pizza crusts in a corner of Nora’s room. She’s gotten big enough to feasibly stalk the large lizards in the back yard – as opposed to them stalking her. She can sit, lay down, and comes when she feels like it. I can leave the gate of the compound open and she’ll studiously guard it against intruders. In the event of the frequent and sudden monsoon rains, she’ll break into a dead-out sprint to launch herself onto my bed (even if I’m on it) before the rain hits. When I first saw her on the morning of my birthday, huddled in the cardboard box in Prince’s arms, I had no idea how this whole “motherhood” thing would go. But my little Ghanaian local breed dog and I have worked out quite the partnership, and the last few months have been a wonder of frustration and adoration as the bungles her way through our hearts. 

#3. Valentine's at Lake Bosumtwe

One weekend my friends and I visited Lake Bosumtwe, about an hour outside of Kumasi. It was Valentines Day weekend, and the single ladies of Oduom were going out in force. We arrived at the lake and negotiated our way past the “tour guides.” We then walked a little over a mile around one side of the lake in pursuit of the quietest lake-side resort we could stumble upon. We had a lavish lunch consisting of various plates from prawns marsala to fried chicken with fresh fries, all paired with blissfully chilled Cokes. Seeking sun and the company of our books, we wandered down to the private beach and stretched out on lawn chairs in the sun. Some local boys knocked coconuts from the trees next to us, and piping yellow and red birds were bustling around making their nests. On my left, was a sassy Danish spitfire, on my right was a wise, fiercely intelligent woman from Indiana, and next to her was a wildly quirky and highly empathetic woman from the Connecticut. 

Last year on Valentine’s Day I was sitting alone in my apartment, waiting for my then-boyfriend to come home. I hate Valentines Day. It’s a fake holiday of corporate love that exploits the American consciousness into forcing love on everyone. It alienates single people and falsely glorifies the matched ones. Valentine’s Day had always been a joke for me, a day to suffer through before I could buy cheap chocolate on February 15^th. But it meant a lot to then-boyfriend so I made an effort to do something special. I ended up waiting all night. Then half the next day, until he came home, to have nothing reciprocated. 

And now here I was, stretched in the sun between friends who understood that we don’t need a national holiday to celebrate each other. Between friends who not only say we’d drop anything to make each other happy, but we actually do. I was in a position directly opposite to where I was last year, and I was damned happy about it.

Paduas, used by local fishmen, on Lake Bosumtwe

#4. The River God

The moment my toes sank into putrid, bloody, murky water. The silt immediately wrapped around my toes and I devoutly hoped that that slippery murk would be the only thing my feet encountered in the sacred pool. I took exactly three steps across the pool before I stood before the shaman to request permission to pray, to be heard, on behalf of my sick friend. “He won’t wake up, he’s sick.” Permission granted, I took part in a ritual of sacrifice, of prayer, a shot of schnapps. Then the marking on my face, stomach and back. I stood in the sacred water, scattered with chicken feathers, my face marked with the putrid, bloody mud and prayed like I had never prayed before. To no one in particular. To the cosmos in general, for Andrews to wake up. I didn’t want him to leave like this.

#5. RFP

My ongoing garden ambition has done nothing but sink under my skin and take root. So to speak. I’ve acquired aloe, an accidental tomato plant, and marigold. I recently received a package of seeds from my mom, and I plan to convert our back patio to a seating area ringed with pots overflowing with fresh herbs and assorted vegetables. I’m resisting the urge for chickens. I truly am, but it’s a force of will. Fortunately, RFP (see previous post for full details) is contagious, and one of our new staff members is as enthusiastic as I am to create and cultivate a more expanded diet.

#6. Solo (kind of) in Togo

I’m nursing a gloriously chilled Coke, on the beach, under a palm tree. I’m in Togo, solo, for a day. I realized I’ve sunk easily back into the francophone accent I briefly adopted while living in Senegal, like that part of me was just under the surface of my consciousness. It’s amazing how humans can adapt and flip a language switch in their brain to activate a whole new set of behaviors. I had just successfully crossed the border by myself, without paying for the visa (not entirely sure how that happened, but I imagine it was after the “I don’t have a place to stay” kerfuffle with the immigration officers. A word to the wise: they will be baffled when you plan to enter their country merely for an afternoon). I left the immigration office, walked to the nearest hirable motorcycle driver, said, “that way!” and sped off into Togo. Which sounds dramatic but it takes 45 minutes to cross the entire country going from west to east, so opportunities for getting lost were pretty slim. I dismounted from the moto at the most secluded beach bar I could find, and accepted the heavenly Coke from the waitress. “Bonjour! Comment allez-vous?” My peaceful daydream of other solo travels was shattered. “Uh, bien, merci…” And it began. The only thing I can equate it to was involuntary speed dating. After Man #1 left, he was followed by #2, #3, #4, and #5. My journal sat next to me on the table – beckoning me with the promise introspection. But the journal didn’t get a word in edge wise. An hour and a half later I was fed up. I drained my luke-warm Coke, bought a bag of papaya from a friendly vendor, and escaped the “secluded” beach bar for the sandy streets of Lome.  

The "quiet" beach bar, between the involuntary speed dating candidates.

#7. The Lily under Amadzofe

I was in the Volta Region overseeing a program, and I took an extra day to go with a couple friends to a waterfall. The Volta Region is the kind of place I would gladly stay in…forever. The Amedzofe falls is particularly stunning. The water freefalls nearly 200 feet, pools for a moment at our picnic site, then throws itself over the edge of a second 200-foot drop-off. It’s a water route that is the only break in dense forest with vines and giant leaves obscuring the sky. The path itself was so steep that the local forest ranger hung ropes from trees so hikers can swing their way down the mountain to the pool. I didn’t think of the consequent assent when I was swinging joyfully down the slope. It ended up being a hand-over-hand affair that left our legs on the verge of mutiny. The joy and adventure of the day was harshly juxtaposed with the day of Andrews’ funeral in the US. A beautiful, indigenous lily was blooming at the base of the waterfall. We sat halfway up the waterfall and said nothing, mostly. I remember wishing I could pluck that lily and put it in Andrews’ hands before his family closed the coffin lid.

View from Amadzofe Falls

#8. Coming Home

I walked into my neighborhood after a week-long absence. The concrete and brick walls, tin roofs, chickens scattered around and dogs in the periphery. In the beginning of the term, the walk from the road to my house was 15 minutes of steady trekking. Up and over the hill, past the hospital, cross the train tracks, take a left, then a right, down a small alley and I was home. 3 months later it easily takes me 45 minutes. Greetings trail after me as I wind through the neighborhood. I pass my “people.” My “mango” lady – with the 3 small children and perpetually sleeping husband outside their shop. My “spot” where we sometimes stop for drinks has a small group of people anxious to hear how my travels went. The local football field has a mess of young boys kicking a ball around. I think I’m in the clear until I hear my name and turn to give a 9 year old a hi-five. My “veggie” lady - who knows exactly how many tomatoes, onions, and green pepper I want. Last, and longest of all, I sit on the bench in front of my neighborhood cold store to stock up on the basics and chat with the neighborhood women. I leave in time to catch a ride with my neighbor to my front gate. I’m home now.

#9. From E to C

On the last day of the term in April, I had my final meeting with the Junior High School teachers whose students are in my peer tutoring group. We’d been meeting all Term. Every Monday at 10 am we traded teaching material and insight on students. On an A-E class rank (which is how they divide classes) we discussed my students in the D and E classes. We became friends. On that last meeting, one of the English teachers, Ama, told me that three students had improved so much they were moved from the E class to the C class. From the bottom, to average. I never even had that on my radar as a possibility. Here I was hoping to improve their basic addition and subtraction skills, but never thought I would see a jump in class rank. I think I must have looked like an idiot because I just stared at her. Ama reached across the table and took my hand, she smiled and her eyes almost disappeared in laugh lines. “We are very, very proud of what you’ve done with those girls this term. You should be happy.” I might have closed my mouth then. I’m not really sure. I don’t remember. I came to Ghana to see impact, change and development. I didn’t think it would be quite so quantifiable as Portia, Akua, and Bethany’s success. 

#10. Travel Friends

I danced around a bon-fire with 4 Pakistani UN Peacekeepers on holiday from their post in Liberia. All my friends had gone to bed, it was 1 am, the surf of the Gold Coast crashed in the background. Three Punjabis and a man from Kashmir insisted I learn the most popular dances of each of the key regions of Pakistan. We traded stories of travel, of war, of family, of food. Two of them had served with American soldiers in Afghanistan and were the Pakistani equivalent of US Marines. They spoke with the weighted eyes of lost friends, of a brotherhood cultivated in war. 

The night spent talking with these men was a night I'll never forget. You never know who you'll meet while traveling. Locals are always fantastic resources and fun to adapt to. Fellow international travelers are equally fascinating. Those of us who travel, really travel, away from tour guides and beaten tourist sites, are all the cultural outliers from home - seeking something else. But every now and then, you meet someone who falls outside of the comfortable, curious, affluent westerner who travels because they're on a quest for self discovery at any cost. This night was special.  

So, that’s it…the Top 10 highlights of four months of life in Ghana. May I stay more connected in the future… 

A Word on Relationships in Ghana

Paduas on Lake Bosumtwe

I’ve always been sensitive to how people relate to each other. I think it spawned from being the youngest child in my family: watch your older siblings blunder and made a mental note to not do that. In work places I can notice when coworkers are reaching their tipping points. When travelling with friends I can compromise on dinner plans. It is a skill that has served me well.

Being in different cultures means one’s attention to how people interact is very important. Structures around age, general economic class, and even race relations are completely different. You can’t bump into an old lady in a market in Ghana and get away with an, “I’m sorry.” (Or rather, “Kafraa, waaye.”) You’ll probably end up saying kafraa several times, carry her bags for her, and ask the details of her childhood. In fact, that bus you were going to catch? Yeah, just give her your seat.

This attitude of respect and connectivity extends to daily life. I don’t just stop by my local corner store, buy eggs, and move on. I walk up (usually around 8 pm) and theatrically slump on the bench next to the owner. I spend ten minutes looking at her 10 year old’s homework, order my groceries from her daughter, and exchange small talk with some other passing neighbors. We must, of course, inquire into the health happiness of both her house members and mine. I pay for my goods and spend five minutes just in good-byes (Twi and English) as I edge for the door. No matter how hard I fight for the last word, a final bye-bye oooo usually chases me into the night. 

Everything is built on a foundation of relationships. It makes your life easier. If you know somebody who knows somebody, you won’t go into the bank and wait in line with the rest of the unconnected plebeians. You’ll call your friend’s cousin's former roommate from Uni, greet them like they’re your best friend and walk past the line directly into her office. If I’m on a hunt for the most recent statistics on the BECE pass rate for last year, I don’t go online. I don’t call the statistics/data arm of the local education department. No, I call my “friend” who works in the office and meet with him directly. The minute you figure this system out, you realize life just got so much easier for you.

Success depends on how well you navigate this system. It can lead to quicker service, “discounts” from your “market guy,” or a few extra tomatoes in your grocery bag. It’s a simultaneous mixture of ingratiating yourself, maintaining your own authority, teasing, inflating egos, and deferring an argument when it gets close to them inviting you to church. This is not to say it’s a contrived system. These inquiries are all genuine. People want to know you’re doing fine. In fact I regularly get calls from acquaintances that last a whole 30 seconds.

Me: “hello?”

Random person: “Ahh, Akua, how are you?”
Me: “Fine, thank you, how are you?”
Random person: “Fine. Fine. Your sisters, they are fine, too?” ”
ME: “Yes, yes, they are all well. How is your work?”
Random person: “Oh, it is fine. Dumso-dumso is hard. Can’t get any work done.”

Me: “I understand. It is a struggle for me, too.”

Random person: “Ok! Just wanted to say hi, glad you are doing well, bye-bye ooo.”

Me: “Oh! Ok…bye!”

Maintaining and leveraging these relationships is something a well-integrated ex-pat does. As brief as some of the contact is, the brevity does not take away from the significance. Community members soon enfold you in their daily life and routines. As strange as it feels in the beginning, a new sense of home begins to stir. And this the feeling, the feeling of strange customs becoming habits, that adds spice and flavor to my life and work.

Myself, Kwame (manager of our go-to hostel in Accra, visiting us for a weekend in Kumasi), my two roommates