Africa as muse...

What follows is a proofread but unedited account of three months spent in Ghana, West Africa. Feel free to comment on this early draft of an essay which appears in my third book of poetry, The Lily & The Aster.

My feet find new

Rhythms on

Foreign soil. 

"The best thing about going to Ghana was coming home.” This is what I said to my brother half-seriously upon arriving home from the airport. Indeed it had been a tough three months working in Kumasi, Ghana, but I could not deny that the friendships I developed and the many discoveries I made had changed the course of my life. It also changed the way I looked at poverty in Africa. 

Imagine attending graduate school in the bustling and sophisticated city of Washington, DC and stepping off of a plane, after an 11 hour flight into a largely rural country for a three month internship working for a not-for-profit microfinance institution. I experienced culture shock on a number of levels.

Despite the hard months I spent adjusting to the fundamentally different culture, food and language, I made the best decision possible in choosing to work in Ghana.

Although my trip to Ghana had been an adventure, I was glad to be home. What I failed to realize in my exasperation upon arriving home, was that the trip had a positive impact on me. New insights inform my poetry and, more broadly, my daily life.  This essay follows me through a typical day in the field with microfinance clients in Ghana in the final month of the trip. The essay captures many of the discoveries and insights I made during my time in Ghana.

The year was 2006. It was the rainy season. I woke up next to a dear friend, Sam, a friend I had made since I arrived in Kumasi. Ghana was the land of possibility. Each day brought new insight. On this particular day, I had to go into the office before heading out to the villages on the outskirts of the city. So, I dressed. I left the apartment with Sam and climbed into a "tiki-taxi," a coupe with a tiny back seat. The taxi driver found a way to accommodate four adults, anything to make some extra money. It was a cozy ride to the office, but it suited our needs. We were in a rush.

Along the way, I remarked upon how differently I saw the people in cars and pedestrians that we passed by every day. I had a general knowledge about the people around me that I did not have upon arriving in Ghana.

On our way to the office, we passed tro-tros, 1970s mini-vans used as local buses, and pedestrians dressed in either second-hand clothes from the United States or traditional garb. (While in Ghana I learned quickly that donated clothes, vehicles and other items from the States ended up here. Nothing was thrown away.)

The streets were also populated with women transporting pails full of clothes or food on their heads. I asked Sam, why I did not see more laughter, more smiling faces. "Kumasi is a city of hard working farmers on their way back from rural areas. There is a different standard of beauty here. One you

can only appreciate by living here.” he responded. “Dirt on the hands or dirt on the clothes signifies a hard day’s work. It is a sign of strength and conviction. Too much smiling or laughter can be the sign that one takes his work lightly. It reflects a lack of seriousness.  Laughter is a feature of the personality that is reserved for the home.”

Once we arrived in Ahodowo, our destination, I made sure to tip the cab driver generously. I had been given a large stipend for eating - one larger than I could fathom using in three months - so, I wanted to share what I had with hardworking Ghanaians who provided their services to me. I thought that perhaps they could stretch a cedi further than I could.

Just outside the office, I could not help but notice the marked contrasts in the marketplace. On the one hand, men in well-pressed suits were lined up at food stands. They were the professionals - the doctors, the lawyers and the accountants, who received regular paychecks and who lived in gated communities far away from the city center. These men shopped for food where nearby sewage ran in the open and behind which the neighborhood’s children chased goats for sport. Meanwhile market women, eager to sell their wares, stood, and sometimes squatted, at food stands, their children hidden in the shadows. These market women were a neighborhood’s most important business people; these were the entrepreneurs, who wielded significant political power. Here in this city center, conspicuous wealth was juxtaposed to wretched poverty.

To get at the stories of the men in well- pressed suits and eager market women, I had to scratch beneath the surface. I had to ask the right questions to get at the stories that belied quick judgment. Such questions are critical to any travel experience and brought me a step closer to understanding the unfamiliar world which surrounded me.

What awaited us at the office was an unexpected lecture from my co-worker, Gyan. Upon seeing a photograph from my visits with local farmers in nearby villages, he had the following insights to share about the photograph:

"Ah," he said. "The image of poverty." He paused to take a closer look at the photo. "You must not forget that this woman is a farmer and an Ashanti. She does not wear her wealth." He looked at me intently, as his voice rose, "This farmer may own 25 acres of land covered with palm trees, which are a precious commodity. But you see something different. You have no idea. She may be a powerful sorcerer! You are no judge of this woman’s power."

I had learned that what Gyan said was true. One could not judge a person by his or her outward appearance or according to a Western standard. But it is more difficult than it might seem to step out of oneself and to see the world through the eyes of another, whose daily existence, as a farmer, as a mother, as an Ashanti bears little resemblance to one’s own.

After an enlightening early morning lecture, our driver took us in the not-for-profit organization’s SUV (standard for driving the "unfinished roads" and inter-regional highways, full of potholes and sometimes paved, oftentimes not) to our destination.

Our job, that is, Sam and I’s job, was to assess the adequacy of financing provided to local farmers by our not-for-profit. We worked for a large microfinance organization that made small loans to women farmers. These small or micro-loans funded small businesses related to harvesting or selling agricultural goods.

We arrived in Wassa West, just outside of Kumasi, to find a group of 30 women and a male translator seated in chairs in the vacant space outside among the village's mud houses.  Each woman in the village spoke her native Twi, while a young man translated for Sam and I who spoke English.

The group was one of farmers and their product was palm oil made from the palm nut, which is used particularly in chocolate. We spent one day assessing the effectiveness of the small loans administered to them which would finance equipment, materials and other goods related to raising and producing palm oil.

Sam and I were employed by a local not-for-profit microfinance institution. What distinguished us from mainstream banks was our clientele, who were poor farmers, and the low interest rates charged for small loans. This is microfinance. It is a tool used to fight poverty in that it provides women with the working capital to finance business activities, like buying seeds and equipment.

Every woman deserves a livelihood, a way to enhance her means, a job. This is where global change begins. If every woman (or group of women) in the developing world had access to a small loan to start a business and could gain the training to sustain it, the developing world would be a different place. Lending to this underprivileged population is a complex proposition, however, because it requires the same respect, trust and proximity that traditional banks refuse poor women. But, as you will see, the returns can be tremendous when serving this population.

The group of farmers Sam and I met with was, understandably, a determined group. The group knew exactly what it wanted and asserted its will. Women spoke firmly about the limitations of the financing they received. They noted that their assets, production equipment and 15 acres of land, might serve as collateral to fetch them a larger loan over a longer time period. A larger loan would better suit their needs.

A larger loan would allow the farmers to replace their outdated equipment, to purchase a new truck for transporting goods, to meet growing demand for their goods across Ghana and across the world and to ride out a sparse harvest or low sales during the rainy season. The problem was that my organization did not offer larger loans than the one the farmers had received. This was a matter I addressed in my assessment of the financing program.

Ultimately, over the years, the social impact of profits generated from the group’s small agribusiness in Wassa West helped send children to secondary school and to college. (This in a country where completing primary school is an educational and financial challenge for children and families.) Women in the group helped pay the bills, offered more nutritious meals to their families and were less dependent on their husbands.

With this in mind, I approached the assessment with a certain optimism. The impact financing had and could have for farmers and their families was inspiring. If the not-for-profit I worked for could remain self-sufficient, it could continue to provide low-interest loans to a population in need of hope. If it were a wise and dynamic organization, it would transform to better meet the needs of its clients. Eager lessons I would take with me on a trip to Guatemala.

I took photos of the group of farmers once we were finished with the interviews and focus groups. And I heard a familiar word from one woman, "obruni", meaning white person or foreigner. As a native explained to me later, the attitude among the villagers, and one woman in particular, was that taking photos is not something an "Ashanti" or "African" person might do. It is simply not tolerated culturally and was a sign of just how foreign I was.

After visiting numerous groups of women farmers, we set out late in the afternoon for Kumasi. Sam, the driver and I arrived late, but just in time for dinner. Sam and I finally had some private time. We visited an Ivorian restaurant. We shared a plate of fried fish with fresh vegetables and atieke (a starch which resembles cornmeal.)

Kumasi was a city of contrasts. Ghana was the land of possibility. "Africa to me" was a place of old stories. A place where women, heads heavy with water-filled urns, stood statuesque on the bank of a river exchanging local gossip with women from neighboring villages. This is a simple yet familiar image, but also one that tells an old story that is common across the continent of Africa. This story hints at a rich culture; this is not a story of poverty.

While when I arrived in Kumasi I shuttered at such an image or, more, at the idea of women drinking unclean drinking water, I soon came to share the perspective of locals. One woman from a nearby village put it this way: “We are our households’ local newscasters. We listen to and share the latest news with friends, family and others we might stumble upon along the way to a watering hole.” Upon leaving Ghana, I decided that this was exactly the way things are supposed to be.