In which Marieke gets all preachy and shizzle

Do you remember when you wrote your b’s and d’s backwards? When your dad was the strongest man you knew? When you intentionally made your teacher love you when you wrote ‘’Madame ...... is a kind girl.’’ on your exam? Well, I’m reliving all those emotions right now. At the same time I’m experiencing the whole thing from the other side. I’m marking this terms exams and ‘’my kids’’ are almost making me cry. I’m only one class in, but man, they make me proud. Sure, some of them disappoint me (‘’I taught you this TWO MONTHS AGO.’’) but in general... Proud Mama over here guys!

Today, when I was walking around the classrooms, checking up on all 70 of my students doing their English exam at the same time, I knew which ones were struggling with what. I made sure that Michael knew what each question was saying. I knew that Stephanie was going to talk to her neighbour, that Bertha was going to panic and that Chris was going to be over-confident. I knew that I was going to feel sad when I saw them making mistakes and feel responsible each time they looked at me with their big, brown eyes, telling me they didn’t have a f-ing clue what a proper noun was. When Gilbert came to me after the exam to hold my hand and tell me that he was scared because he can’t spell, I asked him how old he was. He’s 12. (Boys here aren’t shy about wanting to hold their teachers hand. Most of them are going to marry me too.) I told him that this was one test, on one day, and that the score wasn’t going to change anything important. That everything was going to be fine, that I was going to write some nice comments on his test so his parents wouldn’t beat him too hard (It breaks my heart, but that is a real thing here.) and that he was smart and clever and funny. That is (almost) the exact same thing I told myself after my exams earlier this year and I’m nineteen. Those exams DID matter. But that is what you do after a bad exam, you pick yourself up. Or the crazy white lady they let volunteer at your school does it for you.

I didn’t tell him that he was unlucky. That he got the short end of the stick, not because of his dyslexia, but because he lived in a country where there were no funds to help out kids like him. The teachers do their best, but these kids are extremely lucky to even go to school and get an education. However flawed the system might be. The kids with learning disabilities fall behind, further and further each year, the average ones disappear in the crowd and act up for attention, only to get caned, and the super-brilliant ones stop working, because, what is the point? Everybody suffers in a way, different ways, but all those ways make me want to grab these kids and take them home and give them the attention, care and education they deserve.

But then, when I’m standing there in a classroom, looking at those kids, something pulls me back to reality and makes me realize that I have to stop feeling sorry for them. Laughter. Jokes. Brilliant ideas on how to fix their broken pens. Smart ways to steal my chalk. Funny plans on how to follow me back to ‘’No-way.’’ The fact that they say I live in No-way and ask me how I can drive a car when there are no ways. These kids are kids, and sometimes I have to stop being all sentimental (and honestly – a bit premenstrual) and shut up. Because in the end all I can do is smile, wink, mark their work, give them an extra sticker or draw a smiley face and make sure they know that crying over a test result is no use. Whether you are nine, twelve or nineteen.

So yes I’m marking. I’m almost done with class 3 and have to say that those little troublemakers surprised me! I feel an excellent average coming up. It’s pretty surreal to mark an exam I’ve fabricated myself – you’d almost think I know what I’m doing!

Smileyfacee

I’m leaving in two weeks. Yeah. I can’t believe it myself. On one side I’m SUPERSTOKED to go home, to see my family and friends, to eat my food and see the snow, but then on the other side... I don’t want to go home! I don’t want to leave ‘’my’’ kids, I’ve fallen in love with the red, sandy roads, with the shouting and the music and the constant smell of poo. I’m going to miss everything and everyone. But then again; I’m having so much to look forward too! Christmas at home is going to be fun, in January I’ll be travelling to the Netherlands to see my family (Especially my baby-cousin!) and then, late January, I’ll be going to.... Tatatatta.... Vietnam? No. Peru? No. New Zealand? No. No more sweat and heat rash for me, because I’ll be going to rainy Dublin in rainy Ireland! I’m super excited! I’ll be au pair-ing for a Dutch family for about 5 months. They have three children; Pepijn, 7, Olivier, 4 and cute little Babette who is 1,5 J At the same time I’ll be following a course and the hopefully passing a CPE Cambridge Exam, which is going to show my level in English and look goohood on my CV. It’s on the super secret requirement list to be President of the World.

So BAM, there you go, update from my life! Now; the reason I even opened a word document in the first place:

THINGS I’M GOING TO MISS ABOUT GHANA

All my little chocolate-brothers and sisters. (They call themselves chocolate btw, so don’t throw any racism negativity on  me. They call me ice-cream. Even though I’m TAN.) They are all adorable, intelligent and hilarious and just so HWFHFKQKBFN. They are the ones who made this whole trip for me, they ones who have changed the way I look at education and happiness, the ones who loved me from the start, who made me cry a couple of times, but mostly laugh and the ones that made me realize that I maybe possibly could think of becoming a teacher. Next to President of the World of course.

The other volunteers. There have been ups and downs, sure, but being here creates a bond, one that won’t fade away anytime soon.

The fact that I can but a delicious, ripe mango in street for 3 Norwegian kr (40 € cent), half-wash it with my own spit (as you do) and eat the whole thing on my way home. Yes, you can eat the skin because the mango wasn’t sprayed with every chemical known to man on its way from Abaladuanga to Norway, but just fell from the three in the garden of the woman you bought it from. There is something about walking in the street with mango juice dripping down my chin that makes me happy.

Teaching. Teaching is challenging, tough and scary but extremely satisfying. Plus, my own English has improved sooo much just from trying to figure out the colonial 1940’s syllabus I’m supposed to use.

The singing, dancing and the music. I tend to have a song on my brain 24/7, add that to the fact that I’m not afraid to horribly sing out loud and you’ve got my most annoying personality treat. But here it’s all good, and people love it when I go all;’’ WEE ARE NEVEREVEREVER GETTING BAAACK TOGETHEER BLABALBLA NEVEREVERVER’’ and show off my sad, white girl-dancemoves.

The sun. I’m tan for a change. Bet you that my skin will go back to its pasty-ness after two weeks in the snow.

Mavis, our cook. Sweetest person you’ll ever meet. Jamal, the CEO. The poor man manages an awful lot all on his own down here in Ghana, but does make us all feel safe.

The magnificent relief of a cold shower when you are covered in sand and saliva and flushed with heat. I am not going to miss the cockroaches and the lizards that like to walk around the bathroom while I try to shower.

People being friendly.

The constant choir of ‘’Obruni! Obruni! Obruuuuuniiiii!’’ you hear everywhere and then turning around to meet a bunch of beaming smiles.

That’s it for today, because I just made myself sad! I’m going to be a snotty, teary

, blubbering mess when I leave. I’ll guess I’ll see you in a month, haha. 

How To Lose a Ghanaian Man in 5 Seconds

This is an illustrative photograph I found online. Except I didn’t, and I know those people. 

I’m a white girl in Ghana. It is fun most of the time, because everybody is friendly, want to help you and want you to be happy. But then there are the men. They want to be a part of your life. They LOVE you. They want to marry you. (I've had 15 marriage proposals.)They want you to take them to Europe. They’ll get you pregnant. All that because they are strong, black African men. And that’s what every white girl wants right? Right. NOT.

The men here aren’t any less handsome, any less smart or any less funny, but they’re definitely more straightforward than any guy I’ve ever met back home. Which is fine, cultural differences and all that, but the thing is that most of them come up to me with the wrong idea. They see a white girl, and that is all they see, the skin colour. Nothing else. They don’t notice your face or your smile or your eyes or what words are coming out of your mouth. In fact, they confuse all white girls with each other. Their perception of white girls comes from American movies and if you’ve ever seen any American movie, I don’t have to tell you how wrong that is.

So how do you deal with all the flirting, shouting, touching, winking, following and staring? Here’s a list from a pro!

• You don’t have a phone in Ghana. Some of them (the smart ones) don’t believe that, but you don’t have a phone. Period.

• You don’t believe in Facebook. Or Skype. Or anything else that can enable them to contact you.

• Be careful who you smile at. Seriously. You don't want their attention. 

• If someone tries to grab your arm, yell in a loud African way (Ey!) and smack them if you need to. I have to say that I’ve never experienced someone really forcing themselves upon me in a physical way. Trying to grab my arm or putting their arm around me are the most common ways, but it has never been done in a intimidating way.

• You are married/engaged to a very strong guy who is not impotent (They’ll ask, trust me) but very loving and protective and will beat them up with his pinkyfinger. Have a name and occupation ready.

• Don’t respond to whistling. You are NOT a dog.

• Do not respond to lip smacking and ‘’kissing noises’’. You are NOT a prostitute.

• Keep walking at our own pace. You’ll walk away from most men seeing they all walk like old ladies here. Ghanastyle!

• Be as blunt as you have to be, but always smile. You can say the meanest things (I tell guys I don’t need another friend on a daily basis) but as long as you say it with a smile, they won’t get offended. 

:D

1 month of absence. This is a good thing. I am busy and having fun, the days fly and I am truly falling in love with everything over here. The kids are cute and amazing, teaching is so satisfying but challenging, I love the noise, the dirt, the heat and the insects. Eh, scratch that last one. The cockroaches and lizards are not very much fun.

Update right now: It’s 22.15 over here, I’m on my bed, I just ate dinner after coming back from the orphanage, I have a horrible cold so I feel weak and tired and dirty, and my nose doesn’t stop running, so we’ll see what happens tomorrow.  

Pictures and social media updates from the last month.

With Rhoda, one of the aunties at the orphanage, at her friend's wedding. 

I wore some curtains. 

At the market with Mavis our cook!

Bevin and Alfred, two of my fellow teachers. They're hilarious!

With Kowsa, my buddy from Class 4. 

We got creative with flowers and leaves at the orphanage! This is Destiny!

Rewarded Class 6 with juice boxes! Pay attention to Clement in the background! He's a doofus and the class clown, but he is the most intelligent out of them all. 

Nii at the orphanage!

Gifty, the cutest little demon ever! She is with her new family over in the States now, talk about bittersweet!

Stephanie. She makes me happy. 

Ghana and… the word fat

 

Me and my buddy Doris!

Walking down the street in Ghana as a white girl, there is one word that is constantly shouted at you. Obruni, meaning white person. No matter where you are or what you are doing, obruni is usually your identifier. At school they tell the ‘’lunchladies’’ to get Madame Obruni’s food :p They know that I don’t eat anything that consists of a ball of dough and spicy soup, eaten with the hands, and therefore give me my delicious bowl of not-too-spicy-rice with a nice amount of salad-y stuff. And a spoon. 

                                           There is another word that I’m being called:

Obollo = fat white person.

I’ve been called fat about 50 times whilst I’ve been here. Seriously. Back home, if someone called me fat, I’d either cry or get really, really angry (punch in the face angry) depending on the person.

When I was brushing the chalk dust off my boobs at school the other day and smiled at an 11-year old girl, she knowingly looked back at me and said:

‘’That’s because you’re so fat, Madame.’’

‘’Is that a compliment?’’

‘’Yes, it means you eat good food.’’

That’s basically the thing. Fat is just an adjective here. A positive one at that. Being chubby, chunky or heavy set, you know, those ‘’flattering’’ words people use instead of fat, is a good thing here. It means you have the money to eat more than is good for you.

The big thing though is: How do you react to people shouting at you? I’ve noticed that I’m pretty nice about it. It’s mainly children and old people who shout obruni, and I just don’t want to be rude. I usually do the wave-and-smile and sometimes yell ‘’Ey! Bebini!’’ (black person) at the kids because it makes them laugh. A lot of the kids just want to hold your hand and touch your skin, and most old people just want to show you the few words of English they know.

I honestly don’t mind the attention, as long as it’s positive. They just want to talk to you and tell you that you look pretty. It makes you feel like a celebrity actually.

But you know what’s the best thing about it?  The thing the grown-ups tell me the most? That I’m welcome. They literally say ‘’welcome’’. It makes me feel at home and happy, and had made me realized that Africa isn’t at all as dangerous and scary as we all feel back in Europe. It’s friendly and warm, and I feel so much safer here than I’ve ever felt in a strange place back in Europe.

Things I miss about home

Sometimes when you’re in Africa and trying to help and do your best, even though it sometimes makes you cry, you forget about the fact that you were supposed to blog. It’s not easy, buddy.

Things I miss about home:

CHEESE. I’m not even a big fan of cheese back home, but MAN. Cheese.

Hot showers.

Being clean. I’m always sandy, sticky and covered in either chalk dust, drool or pee.

Wearing my hair down.

BROWN BREAD. Preferably together with the cheese. The bread here is fluffy and sweet and white and delicious, but it’s not very healthy.

I miss SCHOOL. I really do.

Not being sweaty all of the time.

Being able to flush toilet paper. This is apparently extremely important to me.

Wearing jeans and sweaters. And jackets. And my beloved Converse. And SOCKS.

My insane family.

Wearing makeup. Everything I put on my face here just melts off.

My electric toothbrush. Seriously.

All the clothes I didn’t pack and now desperately need. I don’t know how I ever thought 7 pieces of underwear would be enough, but thought bringing 4 towels was logical.

Those people that I like back home.

Texting.

Not being stared at all the time.

Norwegian chocolate. ANY chocolate that isn’t Ghanaian really. For a country with cocoa beans as the main export product, the chocolate tastes surprisingly similar to poo.

Sleeping without a fan zzzzzzzzzzhrghpfzzz-ing in the room.

The Norwegian fresh air. That stuff ought to be bottled! The air here smells like burned plastic.

Buhbye!

School; the classes and the students!

Wooohooo time table! I like time tables, it reminds me of school, which reminds me of Hafstad, which reminds me of my friends and how much I miss them. Sigh.

So, I’ve got 18 hours of lessons a week and am in charge of the full English education until Christmas of students ranging from 8-12 years old. Which is pretty scary. The awesome Britt, who I’ve taught together with until now, is leaving on Wednesday, which means that I have to try and be the disciplinarian that she is. I just want the kids to like me, which means I’m probably too nice to be a good teacher. Ah, well, I’m going to do my best to be all mean and stuff.

The classes:

Class 3: An unruly classroom full of 23 energetic 8-year olds. They don’t listen, half of them don’t do their work and they keep breaking their pens. There’s a lot of yelling and sometimes a desperate; ‘’I’m gonna get the cane, I’M GONNA GET THE FRIGGIN CANE!’’ before snatching it from one of the other teacher and smacking whatever with it. I would never hit the kids, but their tables, chairs and the blackboard have already taken several beatings.

Class 4: There are about 30 9-year olds in this class. These don’t listen either, but they want to learn and are quicker to write down their notes. There are a couple of funny figures in this class, like Lewis, the class-snitch who writes down lists of the kids that misbehave and then gets a teacher to cane them. He’s actually adorable and means to help, but it’s still diabolically smart, because he is best mates with all the teachers. His popularity doesn’t seem to suffer though. I can easily see him become president one day – he’s already got the political games down. Or the twins Doris and Dorcas, who are equally sleepy and who keep running off to do whatever wherever. I cannot keep them apart. There is also a little boy called Michael, who is so happy and content all the time, but who we believe is dyslectic. The poor boy gets no extra help at the school and can barely read.

Class 5: The ‘’nice’’ class. About 14 kids, I think. They are clever in this class and pay attention. My favourite is in this class. A teacher isn’t supposed to have favourites, but all teachers have and mine is 10-year old Chris. I think he is adorable and smart, just like his twin sister Cristobel. But Chris remains my favourite. Today he got caned, for no apparent reason other than cruelty, and it broke my heart to see him cry. I just wanted to comfort and hug him and Sophia (A girl who got the worst of the beating and was also crying) but the kids here are used to some more beating if they are caught crying, so they just kind of hide their faces on their tables. It’s horrible.

Class 6: These are the ones ‘’in charge.’’ 11-year olds, about 12 of them. There are a couple of ‘’good ones’’ in this class and a couple ‘’naughty ones.’’ They are good kids though and are mature and responsible enough to ask help from, which is nice, as the teachers aren’t especially helpful. The students of class 6 are the ones that get us our lunches, the ones who check the time table for what’s lesson is next and the ones that like to carry bags. Big and dopey Clement, always-eager Portia, quietly brilliant Beatrice and Pearl who has, according to Britt, ‘’the biggest African lips I’ve ever seen!’’ She likes to pout and go ‘’Oy! Madame!’’ and be annoying.

Class 7: A tiny class of only four students and the only ones who have a proper classroom, instead of a ‘’class-stable’’, without a fan of course, which mean that it is their classroom is the HOTTEST room out of them all. They’re a silent bunch, with only one boy. Normally students of class 7 are supposed to go to a different school, so called Junior High, but this year they’ve decided that class 7 just stays at Promiseland Int. School, but some of the students did transfer. That’s why there are so few of them. Don’t ask me why. 

Update yay!

I’ve been here three weeks tomorrow. Three weeks! Three months to go. It still feels like a vacation though. Like; I’m going to go home soon and back to school. But then I realize that no, I’m staying, I have a couple of months to go, about 8 weeks left to explore Ghana and become all spiritual and find myself and stuff. So far it’s been pretty great! The school has been tough, but also very rewarding. The food has been spicy and not very healthy, but that’s okay and I can handle a few spots. The people are very helpful, even though I’ll never be used to the staring. The heat is… tolerable, as long it’s cloudy. Once the sun comes out I turn into a sweaty tomatoface. A SEXY sweaty tomatoface.

This weekend we took a trotro to the Volta region. 7 girls, a couple of Ghanaians, one cute little boy and two chickens tied together, stuffed under one of the benches. After a couple of uncomfortable hours, we finally got to our destination, a gorgeous waterfall! It took a 45-minute walk through a forest to get there, but it was totally worth it. A dangerous journey in a trotro later we arrived at our hostel, a place that can be described as a vegan-rasta-paradise called Roots Yard. Delicious food, freshly mixed juices and chai tea lattes! And then after a relaxing night, we arrived back at the house today, exhausted and dirty. Tonight we also had to said goodbye to one of my favourite Spaniards Maria who is going back home to Madrid. This week a couple of other fellow volunteers are going to leave, but new ones will be arriving too! Fun!

I’ll have to check if I can make some kind of video from this weekend but tomorrow (Yes TOMORROW. I’ve got posts queued for a change) you can expect my class schedule and more! 

Turtles woohoo

Ey peeps!

No worries, I’m still alive and I’m still having a blast here in Ghana! Yes, the teaching is tough, the food we get at home is still blah and I spent most of my days sweaty, but it’s amazing anyways. Last Friday, when I was sitting in the back of a stuffy minibus (38 Ghanaians, Britt, Nat and me) with my superwhite shoulder half out of the window so I could hear the kids shouting ‘’Obruni! Obruni!’ and was watching the hustle-bustle outside and breathing in the smoky air, I found out that ever though I wasn’t sure I could do this 3 weeks ago, there is nowhere I would rather like to be right now.

So, this weekend we took a taxi, bus and another taxi to the Green Turtle Lodge for some relaxing beach time and baby turtles! We left the volunteer house at 7 in the morning and arrived 4 in the afternoon, but the drama was worth it because the place was gorgeous! I made another little film of it!

For anybody who is interested; One of my fellow volunteers, Britt, who works with me as a teacher at the school and is absolutely awesome writes a blog about her adventures here! She and her friend Jess will be going home next week, but her posts are worth a read. I especially agree with the last one about the difficulties over here and I recommend you to read it, as she writes so much more… eloquent than me.

I shan’t lie Britt, school would be a nightmare without you!

A little bit about the school! :)

Hellu!

 So, I’m in Ghana! But what am I going to do here? 

 I’m going to volunteer at the Promiseland International School, which is a 25-minute-walk away from the volunteer house. It is a private, Christian school, so the kids wear uniforms, which are pink dresses for the girls and pink shirts with brown shorts for the boys. The parents pay for their kids to go to school, so it’s a fairly good school and the kids who go there are middle class. I think there are 70-odd students, spread out over 6 years. The kids get lunch at school, which is cooked by two ‘’Big mamas’’ sitting in a little alley behind one of the buildings. The food is pretty good though! I’ve found out that as long I don’t think about the germs I’m fine. 

 Me and an English girl called Britt are volunteering as teachers at the school and we start properly tomorrow. I spend Wednesday, Thursday and Friday last week at the school too, but I just played with the kids and told them about Norway and my life back home. They are ADORABLE. They call me ‘’Madame Marieke’’ and are pretty respectful, but it’s just that the school is build in such a way that everybody can hear each other so the kids are kind of easily distracted. I haven’t really gotten any pictures of the school yet, because the kids go CRAZY when you even take your camera out of your bag, but maybe tomorrow I’ll be able to take some pictures without the little monkeys jumping in the frame. 

 For now: Here’s a short video I made when I bought my camera to school on Thursday!

 

Woohoo!