Familial Buzzing

Dinnertime.

Venga a comer.

식사.

Whether in Costa Rica, Changwon, or the home I left in California, being called for meals has meant that I’m part of a family.  The depth and complexities of my integration into a new home is difficult to unpack, if not impossible.  However, the structural fact is that I am called for meals and fed just like the youngest family members when the food is ready.  Sharing meals together is often considered a basic element of homestay life.  Etiquette, duration, and the array of foods I don’t know the name of vary – but sitting with people who have welcomed me into their homes and lives remains the same. It’s an honor, a privilege to be a part of this clear signature of courage and warmth.  

At the same time, providing a place to sleep, water to bathe with, and food to eat don't necessitate love and true familial integration.  In the culture I have grown up with, signatures that a guest is wanted, not just welcome, include optional and often personal commitments.  Sharing raw feelings, dissolving overly polite guest treatment; treating a guest as nothing more or less special than anyone else in the family.  Until I reach this stage of informality, I feel like I’m overburdening my hosts.

“¡Deja de beber esa cerveza mientras conduciendo!” Lela piped in from the back seat as Tista swung around a steep turn.  Stop drinking that beer while driving! “Tranquila, tranquila” Tista grinned in the rearview mirror at his wife.  He finished the can of Imperial and passed it to the crowded back seat.  I held my unopened can wet with condensation between my legs and attempted the impossible feat of smiling at both of my host parents.

            

            Finding the line between the point where a family tolerates or accepts you as a family member captures so much of my conscious mind.  In Costa Rica, this little vignette was one of those unmanicured situations where I felt included by default.  The veil of familial professionalism and composure discarded, my host parents argued in front of me and for a moment may have forgotten that I hadn’t lived with their relationship dynamics my whole life.  Or maybe I had crossed over the line of overprotectiveness and tolerance and shifted to the realm of just another member of the family who was expected to roll their eyes and look out the window.

            “I LOVE YOU MY WIFE I LOVE YOU”, my host dad 전종구slurred in broken English as he pawed at 좍민정.  My host mother swatted back and kindly said “He will not remember this tomorrow.  He is drunk.”  A flashback to the car ride with Tista and Lela, I had two host parents who were half expecting validation from their guest, their adopted family member.  I had been playing Simon and Garfunkel on my phone and quietly queued up Bobby McFerrin’s Don’t Worry, Be Happy.  

            “Were you scared of our fight last night?” my host mother좍민정 asked me over breakfast the next morning.  My host dad grinned into his mushroom rice soup.  “He is a happy drunk,” 좍민정  continued.  “…other fathers, when they drink, they sometimes come home and beat their wives and children.  My husband is happy.”  My host dad interjected “I drink at home because I love my family.”

            The transition period for living with a new family is delicate for all parties.  I’m overly polite, the parents are overly nurturing, the children are scared and curious.   It would be foolish to think that I’d ever come close to fully integrating into a family, especially when my hosts are speaking 98% in English and I’m interjecting with the little Korean language I can haphazardly include.  But after a short period of time, I feel the same veil of politeness, tiptoeing, manicuring has begun to dissolve.

What's my age again, what's my age again?

“HOW OLD AM I?” Everyone’s curious for the answer.  The students gasp and immediately begin to discuss a range; my English teacher colleague just happens to walk by the classroom and considers this to be the perfect moment to observe my class.  “17!” the joking boys at the front of the class giggle.  17 in “Korean age” (tack on an extra 2 years) is fifteen in “American age.”  “26!” “34?” “25.”  With an emphatic slap on the touch screen, the PowerPoint advances, and the students gasp and begin to whisper.  “I’m 23!” I boom at the class.  I explain my choice to tell the students my age is two fold  - it diffuses the first or second question many Koreans will ask when meeting someone new, and at the age of 23 I am not so far removed from high school life.  I want to frame myself as relatable.  I poke fun at and mime the 120º, 90º and 45º bow variations that are required when meeting older and therefore more respectable people.   It’s a good laugh for the students, whether they could understand my English explanation or because this young white teacher is trying to breach a deeply ingrained cultural belief and just doesn't get it.   Satisfied with his observation, my colleague exits the back door and would later ask me to take all of his Friday classes.  

Quiet before...the quiet

I think the beard throw them

Joker class - the boys on the right all picked American nicknames for class

            Trying to grapple with the cultural positionality that accompanies my age is one of many internal dialogues that have clouded my head space over the past week.  Since I last wrote, I’ve A) awkwardly meandered through an introductory lesson with over 150 of Korea’s brightest science students, B) slowly chewed through a handful of Korean-only dinners with my host-grandmother and her two rambunctious grand kids, and C) had squid soup for three consecutive meals.  In each scenario, or maybe just constantly, I’m acutely aware of what it means to be me: a young (but not too young) white American male teacher; someone who is undeniably foreign teaching, speaking, and only able to understand a foreign language. 

Before I use this space to make judgments about what I believe my role could be here in Korea, let me back up and share the highlights of my first week in Changwon. 

When I arrived at the office on Monday morning, the shock of my new job finally hit me.  Hundreds of new faces, bowing and offering the most formal greetings I could butcher in Korean, and finding a tired second year class waiting to be taught during first period.  I had arrived at the exact moment that formal evaluative parties were confident that I’d find success.  I felt undeserving and disoriented, yet excited. 

             Symphony music echoed through the hallways as the weary yet surprised students filed into the classroom.  I had queued up Beck’s Guero, which softly bumped in the background.  The second bell chimed, class began, and I tried masking my shaky voice with an artificially loud one.  Lesson objectives sounded modest enough – elicit student input and investment in getting to know me, convey the purpose that they were here learning English and why an American was slotted into the native teacher rotation, and to gauge English ability through quizzing students’ writing, listening, reading, and speaking abilities.  The range of English ability and self confidence ranges greatly – one student lived in Canada for 4 years and is practically fluent; at the same table, one student could do nothing more than copy down one of six questions from the board.  “Scaffolding” a lesson – making it accessible to language learners of all levels simultaneously – will be the name of my teaching game.

In between classes, I frantically sifted through hundreds of google drive documents; old lesson plans from former ETAs, and planned what lessons I wanted to teach.  Little resonated with what I wanted my students to gain from my presence here.  Lucky for me, there are some double-edged conclusions of teaching at a science high school.  Because science takes precedent – for admission, for curriculum weight, and administrative oversight – I’ve been given the green light to teach whatever material I see fit as long as I incorporate a speaking test that’ll make up 10% of their overall grade.  Roughly, I plan to spend the first semester focusing on happiness; defining, measuring, and improving happiness for a demographic statistically in dire need of such direct mental health management. The challenge will be to authentically engage the students and “sell” the idea of happiness…through the subject they devote the least attention and effort to.
            Teaching means learning.  Each class has a distinct personality and collective energy.  I try to read it quickly and match the high intensity classes with a booming voice – the rogue biology teachers patrolling my hall slowly slide the traditional classroom doors shut as they pass.  For the low energy classes, I over-accentuate my gestures and darn a jester’s demeanor.  It’s been taxing (especially for that Friday marathon), but validation for my efforts is validating.

Third graders (high school seniors) have a reputation as morose, depressed, and unmotivated students.  Traditionally, students only attend their first and second year of high school before graduating early and attending some of Korea’s top universities.  As I understand it, students are only allowed to apply to 3 schools during their first application cycle.  Rejection means returning to high school, reapplying, and facing the flurry of external disappointment and internal self-doubt.  Whereas the first and second year classes have 80 students each, the third year class is composed of 14 students. 7 boys and 7 girls – double the number of third years from previous years.  These students are forced to broaden their university application list (re: safety schools).

                Again, as the youngest teacher, I get the least desirable slots for teaching.  After one day off from boarding school where the students most likely self-studied at home, a short night’s sleep, and mandatory 6:30-7:30 taekwondo class, students entered my classroom five minutes early!  And then slept.

"Good luck!"

The sight of students passed out before I even begin teaching is unsettling at best.  Figuratively rolling up my sleeves, I shook the room with an artificially loud voice, painted the entire classroom’s floorspace with my pacing and prancing, and ended class  with students far from their previously catatonic states.  The English department chair had observed this class expecting to witness my “epic fail”.  As we returned to the department gyomoshil, she calmly told me she’d lift her observation duties for my classes.  Quiet pride, small victories. "By the way, you're 23 in American years. In Korea, that means you're 25."

Rejoice - pictured passed TFO, third from the left, now revived.

I'm supposed to be a state department "cultural ambassador".  

Here's a moment of blink 182 zen my student's appreciated me sharing.

   And that's about the time she walked away from me 

Nobody likes you when you're 23

...

My friends say I should act my age 

What's my age again? 

What's my age again?

I'm like "안녕하세요, 안녕, 안녕하십니까!"

“I’m a transient being,” I’ve told those kind enough to listen to my stories.  It’s cliché, it's a half-baked descriptor.  But it’s true, and I identify with my line.

When I stumbled upon the website GeoGuessr I lost track of time – “Embark on a journey that takes you all over the world” read the page entrance tagline.  Half-game, half adventure, the website propels players into a random stationary Google street view mark, the objective being to guess and pin the location on a small world map.  The game captured my attention because I’d been playing the analog version for some time.  To travel is to have privilege.  With that privilege should come critical thought about what it means to be a visitor, a guest, to try to or abstain from attempting to assimilate.  Don’t get me wrong; I’ve had my share of fetishizing a host culture and treating myself while abroad without worry.  There’s still merit in such a way of travel, though, for inevitably we confront situations that are different and thereby inherently uncomfortable.

Feel like playing my Geogessr?

Eating an "Ankaa" in the Kumasi bus terminal, Ghana

30 meters from my door, Changwon, Korea

Market square mosque, Egypt

Amasaman junction back road, Accra, Ghana

Outside Tista's house, Platanillo, Costa Rica

Need juice?  Jugo de Naranga bicicleta, San Jose, Costa Rica

 

Embracing the “challenge” of living abroad for a year or more while serving as a Fulbright ETA – although problematic even in this framing – is a concept I’ve flirted with for years.  Living it day to day means a constant buzz competing thoughts of self-awareness and knowing that I’m here on government business – literally.  It’s exciting mental gymnastics, balancing “assimilation”, lesson planning, and wondering whether the students are gaining knowledge and language ability from me.  And wondering what I am gaining from them, this place, this culture (this is somewhat of a selfish endeavor, right?)

Blog nomenclature - I'll admit, part of the reason I've held off from blogging "right from the get'go" is the fact that I lacked a catchy title.  Something that featured literary tools like alliteration and rhyme...tools that I will no doubt spend a lesson with my students exploring.  "Where's Waldo" should come to mind, but what's "Güero" all about?  You can urban dictionary it if you're drawing a blank.  Or, if it sounds faintly familiar, it's time to re-listen to Beck's 2005 hit - "Qué Onda Guero".  (Side note,  I saw Beck for my first concert back in the spring of 2006 at San Francisco's intimate venue The Fillmore where he opened up on a dark stage with merely a puppet set of the band front and center.)  Together, there's a travel blog name fit for me - when you (if you ever?) think "where's that skinny white guy Robert?", think "Where's Güero?"

Before I continue confusing you with my stream of consciousness, let me clue you in on what’s going on with me, where I am right now, and what my daily life is really all about.  (boring warning, I sent out an email with the same contents below plus some photos!)

Around this time last fall, I was in the midst of finishing up my senior year at Pitzer College.  Between crunching hard data in SPSS for a sociology thesis and interviewing students for the Class of 2019 (today was their first day!), I spent a considerable amount of time and energy planning for my future.  At the top of my list was to become a Fulbright English Teaching Assistant (ETA) somewhere in Asia for a year - a post grad introspective “gap year”, a change to challenge myself to adapt to a new culture and language, and the opportunity to gain the much needed skillets of teaching and dealing with screaming children were all aspects that sounded alluring.  With the help of a Fulbright application class and countless meetings with advisers, I ended up knocking out the application right after my birthday in late October.  Fast forward to the 31st of March, 2015, the notification that I’d been offered the fellowship caught me by surprise while in the pharmacist line while a friend was picking up his girlfriend’s birth control - could there be a more anticlimactic setting for such big news?

Next came my exit from Pitzer: commencement - a capstone moment that I only left myself a week and some to sense the gravity of before heading off on a mini-pre-Fulbright adventure: Egypt, Ghana, and Italy by way of some questionable airlines.  While in Ghana, I worked alongside one of my closest friends and a former partner NGO to help electrify a rural village outside Tamale (northern region) through funding from the Davis Projects for Peace Foundation.  Our blog posts can be found (here) and the PR announcement is over here!  Following Ghana I spent 7 days in Rome/Venice - restorative, romantic, rejuvenating - before boarding a Qatar Airlines flight to Incheon International Airport by way of Doha.  Aside from a short night’s sleep on the airport floor, my weary traveler complaints were few.

That was 6 weeks ago.  During those 42 blurry days, I lived with 68 other Fulbright ETAs (scroll down in this link!) in a ominous monolithic structure known as Jungwon University (중원대학교) out in the “rural” countryside of Goesan (괴산군).  Too much to recount took place during the last 6 weeks.  First, I successfully completed 80 hours of immersion Korean class (not counting the “optional extra class” office hours, and self-study), going from learning the alphabet to basic introductions, verb tenses, and common interaction language competency.  I adapted an alter ego in Korean class due to the fact that “Robert Little” is a very difficult name to say in Korean.   The Hangul letter "ㄹ" is meant to capture the sound of an L and an R put together - think of the Spanish pronunciation of "R" in "Maria" versus how Americans say the name Maria.   Additionally,  Koreans generally don’t end words with a hard “T”; a soft “ew” or other sound is attached.  “Lo-bu-tu Ri-tul” didn’t roll of anyone’s  tongue.   Instead, I adopted my middle name - James (제임스).  Anyways, I struggled to pass the class taught by some of Korea’s finest teachers, but had my efforts validated during graduation when the Fulbright Director Mrs. Shim presented me the “best effort” award.  Embarrassing but encouraging, the ₩50,000 reward paid for a round of much sought after craft beer at Seoul’s Magpie Brewing Company.

Aside from learning Korean to be an effective English teacher, I had to learn how to teach.  Bolstering this multifaceted skill set came in the form of daily lectures and workshops, and an exiting two week window to interact with 90 of Korea’s most talented and dedicated students.  The Fulbright English Program (FEP) enabled me to observe classes, help students with homework, study the way other Fulbrighters taught, and of course lesson planning / teaching myself.  As an ETA who expressed a deep desire to teach English through exploring sociological concepts and environmental issues, I was designated to teach the advanced and low-advanced cohort.  In reality, my first two lessons were far less ambitious - one focused on belief of the supernatural through the daily theme of “ghost stories” and the second focused on hyperbole and exaggeration through the daily theme of “comedy”. 

During the last two weeks, three monumental events took place - the Fulbright Placement Ceremony, reception of host family demographic info, and “D-Day” (the departure day).  Most impactful, the placement ceremony determined where I would live for the coming year.  I had had my heart set on being placed on the southern island called Jeju - more than just culturally and geographically isolated from Korea, the island understandably has a unique relationship with resource and service availability compared to the mainland.  Before leaving Pitzer, I had fund-raised to buy a professional set of bike tools in the hopes of starting a “Green Bike Program” where students and community members could use my knowledge to fix their bikes while sharing some Korean with me.  Jeju is a vacation and biking destination, but has limited access to bike maintenance, and I thought it would be a sure fit. 

The placement ceremony operated in a dramatic fashion - placements were announced in order of geographic attitude from north to south.  A step forward, bow, and acceptance of school information on a thin slip of paper proceeded a public “pin the Fulbright on the giant map” exercise.  I had believed that there were 4 spaces on Jeju Island, which is why when the 65 northern Fulbriyhters were called before me, I was shocked that “Changwon Science High School” accompanied my name.  I stepped forward, pinned my location on the ceremonial map, and spent the night reevaluating my plans for the year and researching what the town and school had to offer.

“In my opinion, you just received the best placement in Fulbright” read the first Facebook message I received from the former ETA at Changwon Science High School (CWHS).  I’ve yet to validate this lofty claim, but my research did yield some promising information.  Changwon (창원시) is the capital city of Gyeongsangnam-do (경상남도) and is Korea’s self proclaimed “environmental capital”.  With a history of heavy industrialization, the city that is home to over one million people is home to South Korea’s most comprehensive bikeshare program - the NUBIJA (누비자) - “Nearby Useful Bike, Interesting Joyful Attraction”.  A mouthful for an afterthought acronym, no?  Changwon Science High School is the province’s most prestigious high school.  Students from this school attend some of Korea’s top universities including the MIT of Korea and the Ivy League “S K Y” schools.  In two weeks, my students will be heading to Italy for a Science competition (I’ve already been asked to prep the student pasteboards and abstract deliveries after school!).  My future school website shows a promising commitment to sustainability - the architects mounted solar panels and wind turbines, and the curriculum includes one “environment” class.  Yes I hope to observe it, yes I hope to guest lecture!  A significant portion of my identity lies in the time I spent at the Green Bike Program back at Pitzer and with my major field group (Environmental Analysis) - I’ll report back with my assessment of whether Changwon or the NUBIJA fill my identity voids.


Finally, I’m currently composing this email from my new home in Changwon.  I was brought here by my Fulbright English Co-Reacher, “Rona” who picked a host family for me last minute when the previous host family dropped out.  The option to live with a host family was integral for my decision to apply to Korea, and I had been told by a previous Fulbrighter that the family that had dropped out was one of the best available.  Rona informed me that I’d live with two math teachers in their late 30s and their two boys, Korean ages 10 and 7 (meaning ages 8 and 5).  When we arrived at the house, both of us were shocked for different reasons.  I’ve been known to start many stories with the line “when I lived in Ghana” before diving into a pretentious but authentic and wistful riff about a simpler life; when I lived in Costa Rica, the family of 4 shared an outdoor covered bathroom space with shower water a good 2º f higher than freezing.  I’ve lived in rough conditions, but Rona was shocked to see some of the facilities at my new home.  I brush my teeth in a kitchenette sink with no mirror, and my bathroom has a comically short mount for the shower head just above knee level (there’s a stool, though!).  After dinner, we discussed moving me to a house that is not “too humble”.   The living conditions here don’t bother me too much - Sure I was shocked, but I’ve had worse!  What surprised (and honestly scared) me was the lack of time I would have with my parents who spoke broken English.  As high school teachers, the two of them will leave before I awake and return after or approximately when I head to bed.  This means I’ll be spending the hours after I return home until I sleep with the grandma who commutes to the house every day and the two rambunctious boys - both of which speak not a word of English!  During weekends, it’s typical for Fulbrighters to travel, meaning there could be significant amounts of time where I’ll go without seeing my host parents.  At first I was devistated, but now I feel like I can accept this challenge of a rough homestay and language barrier - go big on Korean language and culture or go home!  Still, the bathroom situation really irked my co teacher Rona and I might be moved.  Nonetheless, I’m bound for a number of adjustments, some more overwhelming than others.  I’m trying to wield the power of perspective to my advantage. 

Bright Lights, No City...Round 2

Leaning against the wall of the solar center, the bricks still damp having been formed two days before, I tried my hardest to slow down time.  Zayem! Fati exclaimed every time a green light transitioned from a sea of small red LED lights.  The green light indicated that the battery was fullycharged and ready to be rented out for the first time to the eager Nomdu One villagers gathered just outside.  Dchen! Sowdatu chimed in when a second light stood out with a satisfying green color.  Inductively, I gathered that Zayem meant one and Dchen must mean two (although for a good 25 minutes I thought the words were used for color description).  I never learned the word for three in Dagbani, despite the fact that 3 batteries were required to power every household’s new Burro lanterns.  By the time a third charger light turned green, it was a scramble between the two women entrepreneurs to see who would gather two or all three fully charged batteries and complete the transaction.  Just as excited to be handing over the thirty Pesewas (the fixed price to rent three fully charged batteries), community members of all ages quickly huddled together to plant the batteries in the lanterns and unleash light into the village courtyard, each click and each lantern granting greater and greater illumination.  While Lauren and Khadija floated to troubleshoot battery placement and document the momentous occasion, I succeeded in losing track of time watching the lights turn from red to green, and witnessing “empowerment” in so many ways. 

            By now, readers will be familiar with our solar entrepreneurship project and will understand the thrill that was our opening night.  Months ago we were dreaming of this project, weeks ago we arrived in Ghana and first spoke to the village Chief, and only days ago we helped facilitate and witnessed the humbling construction of the community solar center.  A physical signature that indeed, this wasn’t a dream and shared aspirations between Lauren, Nomdu One community members, and myself had materialized.  With the construction of the center, our days in the village were numbered – we knew the transition of power from our vision to the reality of the women was imminent (sorry, I can't stay away from these electricity puns!). 

            That transition was opening night.  Having visited every household in the community (68 in total!), where each household had on average 10 people, we made sure to notify hundreds of village community members that on opening night they’d be able to charge their cell phones and bring their new lantern to rent batteries and illuminate their compounds.  For many households, this would be the first time they had non-kerosene light or light at all in their homes.

            The opening event itself featured a mix of beauty, excitement, and wholly underwhelming calmness.  While children jumped and clapped, grinning ear to ear, adults more successfully contained their excitement as they gathered.  The smiles, however, were omnipresent.  As family after family rented batteries and illuminated the space under the chief’s tree, however, I didn’t see what I had pictured the monumental opening night to be.  Overly fetishized in my head, I had imagined hundreds of Nomdu One villagers gathered surrounding the solar center with their lights. Maybe someone would bring their radio, or better yet, play the drums I’d carefully eyed sitting in the corner of compound huts.  Instead, a sea of quiet, calm, yet appreciative routine swept across the village once lanterns were lit.  Waving goodbye, families would return to their compounds to utilize the new hours of the day to cook while the blistering sun was absent.  An unintended consequence, children stayed up later and enjoyed their shadows and familiar company at an unfamiliar hour. When I fell back into time passing at a normal speed, it was clear that the nondescript routine that followed the community illumination was perhaps the most comforting phenomenon we could have hoped for Nomdu One.  Brushing off the inherent white savior framework I was all too cognizant of at many stages of this “international development” project, I breathed a tired sigh of relief realizing that really this project achieved its simple goal.  Far from life altering for many, the gift of community solar electricity meant more agency, more time, not saving.  Nomdu One residents previously had kerosene lamps or lead-acid battery powered flashlights, and instead we brought durable, waterproof, clean-energy lamps.  Healthier and cheaper, sure, but we didn’t bring the gift of light.  In terms of cell phones, almost every household had one (despite being miles from the grid) and had previously walked great distances to charge them.  Now, they would be able to drop it off in the center of town, say hi to friends on the way, and be supporting a local business on the way.  And for our women entrepreneurs, this business wasn’t a life altering abandonment from the agrarian lifestyle – in fact, our last day in the village we didn't say goodbye to Sowda because she had to tend to some emergency business in the farm.  Instead, for these women and for all the community members in the village of Nomdu One, this project set out to accomplish a simple and sustainable goal – to provide solar “power to empower” – and in doing so helped improve longitudinal health and unlock a myriad of opportunities with the extra time, light, and connection previously absent.

Moving forward at the speed of light

It’s all happened so fast. From half-joking idea to grant proposal to plane tickets; earth to bricks to building; ideas to lessons to business: this project has moved at an incredible pace. Despite setbacks and reroutes, months of thinking and planning and working are about to crystallize into something very real and very exciting. Today we look forward to opening night, the first opportunity for members of Nomdu One to visit the new solar center in the middle of their community. But before we celebrate too much, we have a bit of catching up to do.

Completed distribution and explanation of lanterns to all 57 compounds of Nomdu

In the past few days we have trained Fati and Sowda on operating the solar equipment and running the charging business, presented our project to all of Nomdu One at a community meeting, and distributed solar lanterns to each of the fifty-seven households in our community.  At the end of these long days, we’ve found ourselves much more interested in sleep than in attempting to coherently share what we’ve been up to. So let’s pick back up where we left off.

We arrived at Nomdu shortly after sunrise to greet the Chief and a handful of elders lounging beneath the emblematic big tree. This is the scene we’ve found most days upon our early arrival to the village. Slowly rising from a regal throne, a chair whose back was nearly horizontal, the chief told us to wait for the community to arrive and fill in the circle. Slowly, squirmy children, cackling older women, and even the ostracized Fulani brought life to the otherwise tranquil village center. The Chief made a nearly imperceptible hand gesture, which Khadijah immediately picked up on, and told us to begin.

It was not until I stood at the center of the impromptu amphitheater before me that I could fully conceptualize what fifty-seven households looks like. Over a hundred people gathered, representing the much greater population of Nomdu, to hear our presentation. Although we have gotten to know a handful of the community during construction, a sea of unfamiliar faces watched and waited to hear what a couple of Salamingas had to say for themselves. With the boost of confidence from our freshly tailored Ghanaian clothes, we began with hopes of winning over the community’s support.

Tragedy struck when Robert’s demonstration of lantern durability backfired. The batteries popped out the back of the “drop-proof” lantern as he skidded it across the stage. Oops…it must have not been closed all the way? We silently wondered. However, he quickly regained the community’s confidence by tossing an illuminated lantern into a murky bucket of dugout water, where it bobbed and remained afloat for the rest of our presentation. With the Chief and elders already on our side, convincing the rest of Nomdu was not the challenge we had anticipated. And when the group dispersed as quickly as it had coalesced, enthusiastic community members repeatedly prodded as to why they had to wait for the solar center’s opening. Whether due to the newly installed solar panels or the community’s widespread enthusiasm, there was an electricity in the air of Nomdu One.

Fati and Sowda stripping copper wire to ground the panels

The next few days were a whirlwind of panel installation, training, and lantern distribution. Fati and Sowda easily learned to wire the panels and gen set (admittedly quicker than I had a week before), displaying great confidence when they told village men to let them do their job. They are absolutely killing it, and I could not be more impressed. We can’t wait for them to shine at Opening Night!

Fati inside the Solar Center

Brick by Brick: Building Community

“It’s straight!” “No, no, I’m telling you it’s straight!” Although Khadijah was translating, we couldn’t understand why the loud volume and harsh tones could somehow amount to a consensus. In the U.S. a fierce argument like this would end in disappointment, frustration, and maybe a lawsuit. But in Ghana, the dramatic tenor of heated debate means something entirely different. ”So what’s the problem?” we asked Khadijah. “They are saying the same thing. It’s just that one is older and the other is younger.” It’s moments like these that our expertise is not needed, not wanted, and not helpful.  It is also moments like these that we realize that much of the time we have not idea what is really going on.  I’ll admit, it’s all too easy to over-romanticize a village lifestyle.  It’s easy to catch other Salamingas (white people) proclaiming, “They have so little, but they are SO happy!”  Many times, statements like that don’t make it past me without question and a stern and perplexed look.  But watching the until then hidden intergenerational power dynamics of the two masons was a much needed reminder of how narrowly assimilated I’ve become into this culture after many months over many years of living here.

Today marks day three of building the solar center.  We’d budgeted three days total for building, but by the time we left Namdu One this afternoon, the solar center couldn’t much withstand a rainstorm let alone produce electrical current.  Our first day of building featured some highs and lows boiling down to community mobilization and hard math.  We began by settling on a “central location in the community with plenty of sunlight that faced south.”  Within fifteen minutes of arriving, half a dozen men equipped with handmade shovels and hoes had cleared a strip of land east of the Chief’s palace and outlined a 6’x9’ rectangle. Twenty minutes after that, a steady stream of villagers coming from all directions with bricks in hand helped lay the first level of the foundation.  What about keeping the structure stuck together? Nomdu One men casually began to dig a hole twenty feet north of the structure, sprinkling in water and cement mixer into a thick mud to solve the problem.  Handful after handful of deep red earth bonding were slapped in between bricks until a moment when the work abruptly stopped.  No more bricks.  The structure was a grand 1 foot high, and we’d run out of bricks.  “No problem, no problem,” we were assured.  “Just come back tomorrow and we’ll have made enough bricks and already assembled it!”  As we gathered or things and washed off the cement and clay, another mason began hand-packing bricks in an all-too entrancing manner.  It was enough to get us excited for the 5:15am wake up the following morning.


The vignette about the two masons came on day two of building.  Upon arrival, Nomdu One had indeed laid four more feet of wall along all sides of the soon to be solar charging center.  We continued to mix the earth-concrete caulking and slap it in between the still moist bricks.  But only an hour after we arrived, we’d run out of bricks again, and were to return the next day.  Today, day three, the four walls were finished.  Next step, carpentry. Given that this is a trade totally out of our expertise, we picked up a carpenter from a nearby village along with wood, zinc roofing, nails, and other supplies required for a waterproof roof and overly sought after verandah.  The carpenter, an Ashanti region native, could have flipped a coin and just as easily been a circus performer.  Perched on the thin and still moist walls like a cat on a picket fence, the carpenter managed to saw, hammer, level, and assemble the roof skeleton all from the six inch or so tightrope of a wall.  He didn't get down for three hours.  While I’d like to say we helped, I’m not sure how much we actually accomplished.  I rushed over to the hanging two by fours whenever he was cutting the wood, only to arrive with the wood falling and slapping the ground with a “thanks for nothing” thud.  Nomdu One children and elders laughed at our frantic scrambles to help, only to be shooed away, or at most, tolerated.  By the end of the day, the roof had taken shape, and we had finalized plans to finish the roof and plaster the drying walls the next day.  

There’s a lot of beauty in feeling just so ignorant.  At times treading the line between burdensome and enduringly clueless, there’s something to be said for the recent college graduates – studded with honors, awards, grants and praise – who are unable to meaningfully build a mud-brick structure with a shaved wood roof.  It’s one of the reasons intercultural exchange is so rich and reciprocal; it’s another reason I love Ghana.  I’ll admit, in the hours of waiting here and there for supplies, I sometimes think about how I’ll convey my experiences, work, and research in this place few friends know anything about.  While I’ll save the long list of lessons learnedfor a post trip conversation with you, know this: I won’t include how I became an expert carpenter or mason.  Or even tell you if indeed, that straight line is straight.