JULIA

DECEMBER:

It is hard to believe that the "program" is over...these past two months seem to belong to another calendar altogether, based not on twenty-four hour days but on the uneven cycles of my psyche. Some days stretch the scope of my patience while others disappear in the folds of fabric woven from repititious strands of experience. However, I still have two more weeks in Cote d'Ivoire before returning to Paris for the holidays. Who knows what they hold for me.

I had several rolls of film developed the other day, only to discover that one role is missing. Photos taken in St. George's Castle and Kumasi must be floating around somewhere in this house... I don't think I'll need photos to remember the horror of the slave dungeons and death cells, chutes where thousands were herded like cattle onto ships waiting in the harbour. I almost gagged at the stench my imagination supplied of fermenting piss, blood, sweat, and diarrhea collecting in toxic pools under their bare bodies. There is no way they could've felt the breeze coming through the iron bars, and I can't fathom the constancy of such conditions.

After the tour was over I had gone back through the cells with Diallo, slowly making my way through a past etched into the architecture of such an immense building. Instead of seeing the grungy walls it was as if faces popped out from Goya's dark tortuous paintings of anguished souls, smoke-filled spirits rising from bodies chained to the ground. I think the Expressionist artists reeling from the nightmares of the trenches captured part of the misery...although I'm nobody to assert such a thing. Thinking back to the day I remember the guilt, not so much in being "white", but of being human and capable of such crimes. As I swallowed the tears running down my face my eyes made contact with an African-American girl in our group. She looked at me without vengeance or anger, but with courage. I saw in her eyes a commitment to...I can't quite put it into words. She looked at me with such compassion, an understanding that seemed to acknowledge that although we own the past and its tragedies, we belong and are responsible only for the present.

As I looked at each person with me on the tour of the castle, I couldn't help but feel very removed from everything. I was with a couple Ghanaian men, an Ivoirian, a couple African-American women, a young black American soldier with his daughter, the girl mentioned above and her father, a Dutch man with his Australian girlfriend, Reshelle, Amy Sue, and I. I'd had breakfast with the Dutch man at our hotel that morning, and I could tell that he was feeling "burdened" with the history of his anscestors. Over breakfast he'd spoken softly about the "virtues" of travelling to countries such as Ghana...deepening one's sensitivities toward Others, facing one's Self in a different manner, appreciating what one has and takes for granted, etc. His words were sincere but his tone lacked the confidence typical of European tourists; I began to think he might be experiencing such sentiments for the first time. His girlfriend was complaining about how much attention they were getting for being white, how they were being haggled and harrassed for money, addresses, and pictures. "Those annoying kids...". The man couldn't understand why he wasn't just "treated like a human being", why it mattered so much that he was white. I listened to him incredulously, thinking only such naive ideas were held by idealistic adolescents. I finally asked if this was the first time he had travelled to a former Dutch colony or "trading post", and he said yes. I didn't want to risk sounding condescending or speak for the "other", but all I could think of to say is: it matters.

Later on I thought it would be cool if someone wrote about "touring the castle" from different points of view. I knew that although both my anscestors and the Dutch man's were involved in exporting slaves, our thoughts and emotions walking through the dungeons were quite different. And ours were different from the African-Americans' experience...whose were different from the Africans with us. Albert wanted me to ask the guide about an issue we'd been discussing for weeks, to ask about the Asante's role in trading people for weapons and other European goods. Although "trade" euphemistically covers up the nature of what happened, it is true that Africans practiced slavery prior to the arrival of the Portuguese and traded their people for goods...And it happened in Asia and America too. The guide hesitated, and then said "This is not an easy thing to talk about, it is hard to believe that the Asante traded prisoners of war to the Europeans for guns...". Indeed it's not.

22 NOVEMBER:

I made it back safely from Ghana, and after a couple days feel prepared to start writing about it. As a preview, over the course of eight days I toured a small triangular piece of the country with Albert, Diallo, Amy Sue, and Reshelle, stopping in Elmina, Kumasi, and Accra. It was actually my second trip to Ghana, but I'll tell about my first trip with Antoine some other time...

We left Grand Bassam around seven o'clock on monday the thirteenth. All of us were really excited to be travelling in a small group, getting out of the house and away from all the familiar issues we face every day. I felt really lucky to be with everyone in my group. Albert is a Ghanaian from Kumasi, fluent enough in English, Twi, and French to be able to communicate with everyone between Abidjan and Accra. He was a great guide, showing us everything we asked to see and more. Since English seems to be Ghanaians' second language, Albert negotiated almost everything in Twi and translated into English and French. We depended on him for so much... It was also wonderful having Diallo along as a friend (sculpting professor), sharing his experience of seeing Ghana for the first time as a native Ivoirian. It felt a bit strange at first to relate to him as a fellow foreigner and tourist, unable to speak or understand Twi or English and completely unfamiliar with Ghana. Although he was a stranger to the country, he was assumed to be a Ghanaian until his language betrayed him. As an African male he was a great help to us white women, leading us through crowds and stores with a protective presence that increased our security and also deterred people from harassing us. Having a powerful voice, confident and articulate, is perhaps the most powerful thing one can have around here (that and money). Truly the issues of language and communication permeate everything...

Squeezed into a share-car, the ride from Bassam to the border was refreshing and beautiful. The landscape through south-east Cote d'Ivoire is something I'll never forget, from the bridge crossing the blue coastal lagoon to the rain-forested hill tops of the far eastern edge. Most of the highway weaves through neat rows of plantation palm trees, plantains, pineapple fields, and little villages built of the red earth covered with thatched roofs of raffia, palm branches, and other forest foliage. There are a couple of small towns along the way, with their typical markets, taxis, churches and mosques, school children, and familiar store fronts. Like in Mexico, I think many companies offer to paint the exterior walls of houses and storefronts in exchange for advertising. I recall the painted streets in the mountainous village of Tapalpa near Guadalajara lined with red and white houses and stores, the familiar "Coca-Cola" logo on each of them. Here the blue, yellow, and white paint matches the splashy "OMO" logo advertising all-purpose soap and detergent. Yet I could write pages about the particular features of advertising...the psychological effects are really very powerful. For example, I felt "at home" when we crossed back into Cote d'Ivoire and began driving past images of "Yoplait" and other French/Ivoirian brands much more common than the British and Dutch brands permeating Ghana. Certain things like Coke and Nestle are everywhere, but there definitely seems to be an established "market" for manufactured French goods in Cote d'Ivoire and British and Dutch brands in Ghana. Imperialism lives on... The difference is apparent even on the level of cookies--there is no problem picking up "Lu" brand cookies or imitation "BN's" in Cote d'Ivoire, yet Ghana offers "Hob-nobs" and generic shortbread "biscuits".

Anyway, the hills near the border are mostly forested with second-growth rainforest and cocoa trees. It is along these stretches that I can easily imagine myself in Indonesia or various south-eastern parts of Asia...long stretches of rainforest with red earthen roads branching off from the main highway, patches of palm trees under cultivation, distant plumes of black smoke rising from holes in the forest's uneven horizon. We passed the occasional truck carrying loads of hardwood out of the seemingly impenetrable forest. However, I didn't see any clear-cuts or half as many truck loads of timber as I do in Washington... Yet passing men on their bicycles, women selling goods from the loads on their heads, or uniformed children walking home from school remind me of exactly where I am.

Once the ordeal of passing into Ghana was over, we spent some time in the border town of Elibo where Antoine's mother lives. We had been there together just a few days earlier, and so I walked to the stand where she sells cooking hardware to say hello. She seemed happy to see me, and asked me to stop by on the way back. After eating lunch and exchanging our cfa's into cedis (Ghanaian currency), we hopped into another share car destined for Elmina. The unfortunate thing about Ghanaian money is that the largest bill is worth less than a dollar. In exchange for 100,000 cfa (about $135.00), I received a stack of 5,000 cedi bills totalling 930,000 cedis. As I'd been instructed, I carried around this massive wad of money under my pants during the next four hour drive to Elmina.

Travelling through Ghana was noticeably different and more uncomfortable than Cote d'Ivoire. The landscape was less cultivated, smaller and less orderly patches of palm and plantain grew along the highway; the villages appeared tattered and poor. We passed through many towns with grungy looking storefronts and empty market booths, the line of vendors stretching along the highway beyond the edges of the village, over-eager to sell. The highway was full of huge pot-holes and ruts (ten times worse than Spokane city streets), broken up with stretches of unpaved sections full of dust and ruts. The cars and and trucks like to drive really fast, slowing down in halting, jerky movements when approaching bumps or swerving around holes. Our particular car was wagon-like, with a smaller backseat (for three people) behind the standard backseat. I sat in the very back left corner, next to a long crack in the upholstery letting in exhaust and other engine fumes. Although all the windows were partially rolled down and we were cruising through the countryside, I felt hot , sweaty and stuffy breathing in the exhaust. Most unpleasant! I went back and forth between looking out the window, taking in the landscape, day dreaming about everything, and reading The Predicament of Culture, an excellent book by James Clifford. I entertained ideas about surrealist ethnography and the discovery and collection of "primitive art" as we drove on toward the coast, toward the site the Europeans first began "trading" over 500 years ago. The "tourist art" for sale along the highway stared at me inquisitively...I wondered why Ghanaians were profiting from selling imitation, hybrid Senoufo-style masks in Asante land. Certainly my ancestors did not take the ivory home because they felt it represented indigenous "culture" or aesthetics...yet now I can collect carvings made from cattle bones that supposedly do.

It was late afternoon when we arrived in Elmina and quickly settled into our hotel. It felt so good to take a cold shower and change my clothes, removing the huge wad of money from under my belt. Desperately needing to walk around, we began moving through the town. Near the fishing port with piles of crusty nets, vendors, and small painted boats loomed St. George's Castle. It is a huge imposing structure dominating the beach front, surrounded by moats and antique canons aimed at the sea and the town. Built by the Portuguese around the turn of the sixteenth century, it became the first along the coast to hold and detain slaves destined for transport. It was later enlarged by the Dutch and then sold to the British, only coming into the hands of Ghanaians during the 1960's. We walked around the castle for a while, and then turned back toward the town. It was hard to stop walking, otherwise people would bombard us with goods to sell, others asking for our money or addresses. I quickly learned to recognize the various words for "white person" in Twi...as kids were very eager to announce our presence wherever we went. Another very obvious feature in Ghana was the proliferation of Protestant and evangelical churches. There were few cathedrals but many small churches and chapels. Diallo and I started counting the number of mosques...and by the end of the week we had less than 15. I could easily count that many between here and Abidjan.

11-12 NOVEMBER:

First of all, I apologize for neglecting to write for so long. With all the news that you have been receiving about the elections and the violent resistance it provoked, I anticipated that you'd be worried about our safety. Hopefully by now you know that most of us made it without any traumatic memories. I've thought about most of you daily, and am excited to be back in your presence, to see your faces and hear your voices and laughter.

I may as well begin by saying that I actually expected to learn more about myself on this trip than I would learn about Art, West Africa, or the so-called "third world". And albeit I have more than a month left, I venture to claim that I was right. I don't fully understand why it helps to isolate ourselves from our familiar surroundings--including familiar people--to confront the persons we are at these moments in our lives. Yet this is a lesson I've learned again and again. Three years ago today I was still living in Guadalajara, getting my first existential "reality check" since high school. The sense of identity I'd developed had somewhat paled against the backdrop of new experiences, new relationships, and a daunting sense of dread and exhilaration at the possibilities of life open before me. One of the things I discovered in Mexico was that my "faith" rested only in the confidence that I had of myself and my world. I came to the awareness that I was living for myself, and that my sense of worth and hope came merely from beliefs about what I could do or achieve--both for myself and the world around me. I started yearning for a transcending reality that would feed me hope and faith and perseverence...knowing that one day I would let myself down.

I wish I were discovering something like that here, a "reality check" to launch me forward onto a path leading to a more authentic existence, a self-denying and yet fulfilling path. However, growing doesn't need to come in great spurts; and I think I'm at a slower, steadier pace. I don't feel as if I'm encountering anything new about myself, but that everything around me is grabbing, and pulling me from deeper levels. And when I think I know what it's all about I'll share that too.

Since you probably want to get a feel for my current surroundings, to read about what I see and do, I will drop the subject of self-reflection...to the extent that I can. I think I've been here just about six weeks, and each has been so full of things effecting me emotionally; I don't really know where to start. Being in Cote d'Ivoire has not culturally shocked me, but living with fifteen other Americans, one Japanese, and one Norwegian has made me face elements of my own culture that are shocking. It's not that the behaviour is atrocious or terrible or even unfamiliar, it is in most cases quite "normal". Yet the combination of everyone's individuality felt very loud and oppressive the first few weeks. Some of these things I find in myself, and yet in many ways I feel very distant and unrelated to others' "way of being", or way of dealing with issues. With the presence of Chiaki and Mads, the Japanese and Norwegian, we've taken a few opportunities to isolate some particularly "American" traits that play a central role in how we perceive and react to our situations. And being part of a family and cultural tradition that does its share of American-bashing and playful criticism, I feel as if I'm both inside and outside--of the box.

We also live with four Africans, and have other "African friends" who come over often, if not daily. Most of them are people Kathryn knew from her previous trips to Cote d'Ivoire and have been instrumental in helping this program be what it has become. Albert is the "president" of their group; he is a Ghanaian who lives with us and sells clothing and other merchandise from Ghana down the street from our house. He is a really interesting man with a lot going on in his head, yet he doesn't speak to us all that much. He's told us folktales and other stories, but he remains largely an esoteric mystery to me. Isaac is another Ghanaian living with us who serves as our guard, staying awake most of the night while I sleep. He seems very intelligent, yet his whit and sharpness have been developed by a lifetime of experience living off the perceptions he makes of his surroundings. He seems to read good and evil, safety and danger in signs I am completely ignorant of. And I trust him. He can also be incredibly funny in a dry, charming way that has succeeded in seducing one of the students. Nosowoga (a misspelling) is young man from neighboring Burkina Faso who lives with us and works very hard. He gets up at six o'clock every morning and begins his day by cleaning the floors (we also have coffee together, or sometimes he sweeps and drinks at the same time). He's also our gardener and quasi-butler, opening our gate whenever someone arrives. He's a very sweet and humble man who seems to appreciate and enjoy the level of respect and familiarity of our engagement with him. Lastly, Dialo is one of Cote d'Ivoire's greatest artisans, from the western region of Man, living with us as our woodcarving instructor. He is a great person in many ways. I respect the sincerity and profoundness of his faith (he's Muslim), his patience and easiness as an instructor, and really enjoy his humble, easygoing and friendly way of being with everyone in the house. I was really excited about the woodcarving and I'm amazed that he surpassed my expectations. Of course, these brief sentences don't really give good descriptions of these people or how they influence my life...but at least you know who's in my household.

At another time I will tell you about Anthony, Francois, Marie Chantal, Richard, Marian, Estelle, Ben, Stephen, and Ahmed. These are some of the Ivoirians and Ghanaians that come to our house almost everyday, providing us with the various cultural perspectives we came to learn about. Yet I resist temptations to distill any essential cultural traits from my interactions with them. I think its easy to believe we can abstract cultural traits from observing and engaging with people in "foreign" cultures...and to some extent we can. However, among the Ghanaians and Ivoirians there are such differences in their personalities, professions, goals, and interests that I can't imagine that branding them with national labels really says much about "them". And so far I don't have a grasp of a collective, subjective perspective on life guided by shared cultural assumptions and shared histories--things I generally believe constitute part of what it means to belong to "a culture". I'm still too fascinated by the ideas of "identity" and "culture" and "self" to offer anything substantive.

By the way, Joanne, Mads, and Shelly went home November 2. The dynamics of our household have therefore changed, affecting me perhaps more than most of the students. I won't go into much detail about why each of them decided to go, for they are not my stories to tell. Joanne had been sick for about four weeks straight, of varying intensity, and it was not healthy for her to be here another month. The first four weeks were also the most turbulent for us, as individuals in this house and for Ivoirian society in general. Try to imagine a very tense and unpredictable political atmosphere permeating the consciousness of society, flowing through local and international air waves, heightening the suspense for all attuned ears and eyes...this is what most of us perceived as going on "outside". Maybe the fact that our big pink house is surrounded by a wall helps us feel like we live in a compound, and that what happens socio-politically happens "out there", beyond the horizon of our home. The separate paradigms of "inside" and "outside" the house did not isolate us from feeling tension in the air, sometimes so thick I could've stabbed it with a knife. It also didn't keep the atmosphere of unpredictability and suspense neatly on the other side of the wall. We all felt it as part of reality, albeit to different individual degrees, the invisible presence of tension manifesting itself in various ways. Furthermore, the tension was kept alive and fed by our entertainment of these ideas, created and confirmed by events and people's reactions to them.

I'm in no way suggesting that feelings of tension, unpredictability, suspense, and danger were exaggerations of what was going on, or merely fed by people's paranoia or senses of adventure. Yet one person's sense of danger differs from another's, as well as one's sense of what is "normal" and what is not, as well as one's sense of responsibility for others, etc. Given the variety of personalities, life experiences, and ways of coping with uncomfortable situations living together under one roof, the group dynamic was bound to be discordant at times... If this is any sort of background picture, imagine furthermore our strained efforts at reaching a "consensus" everytime we thought of adding a rule or standard to the growing list. Most saw this process as an effort toward increasing our safety and addressing the concerns voiced by members of our group (extended to our African friends who feel responsible for our safety and well-being). There are also those who were concerned about their "freedom" and ability to "experience Africa", who viewed the growing concern for our safety as a growing threat to their good times. Generally, I found the concensus building processes to be quite draining, especially given the lack of good communication skills and "commitment to process" ideally required. I have a deeper appreciation now for different forms of power sharing and decision-making approaches. And I've certainly expanded my operating definitions and concepts of "respect" and "authority", living out a new sort of respect for people and dealing with authority in ways I never had to before.

The first weekend in October was the intended announcement of the running candidates, a very sensitive issue considering the country passed a referendum while governed by the military coup that would prohibit a popular candidate from running due to his parents' national origin. Basically the country was prepared to hear that he would not be allowed to run and was worried about how his supporters would retaliate. The government imposed a curfew from friday through monday, prohibiting people from being out from sunset to sunrise.

We started our classes that weekend to help pass the time and distract us from our groundedness. They were interesting, and it did help set the pace of our days. It was the first sunday of my life when it was too politically unstable to go to church, to be attending class instead of Mass. By Tuesday things seemed "normal" (pas de problems) and we started going out on little trips to the market, the supermarket, discotechs, etc. The weather was not too bad the first few weeks, warm and humid but nothing of the oppressive heat I'd been expecting. Wednesday night I went to Anthony and Albert's church for the second time, experiencing something very new. I think people who've been to holy rolling, speaking in tongues and laying on hands, Appalachain-style evangelical services might have felt more at home than I...whose Catholic and Unitarian upbringing didn't prepare me phenomenologically. I don't want to go into a "thick description" of the service at this point, but I enjoyed it overall. I remember the messages of the sermons, direct and sincere. I also remember that as "Pastor Paul" spoke in English, Anthony translated in French and another man translated into a dialect of Twi, an ethnic language spoken here. I think it's amazing that in a francophone country a church would go out of its way to preach in two minority languages. The building itself was very simple, in it were four rows of benches and a podium in front. There wasn't an alter, a cross on the wall, or Bibles, hymnals, or missals. Just people. During the service time was given for "prayer", in which everyone stood up and walked around shouting their prayers, waving their hands and swaying their bodies rhythmically. The cacophony of voices, shouting in different languages and clapping hands and shuffling feet--nevermind the sweltering heat--made it difficult for me to pray...being used to enough silence to hear myself think. Yet I managed to each time.

Tomorrow I'm going to Ghana for a week with Reshelle, Amy Sue, Dialo, and Albert. I am so excited! I will add more to this text as soon as I get back. Love, Julia

SEPTEMBER:

Dear readers,

I welcome you all to read this. Throughout my stay in Cote d'Ivoire, I will be describing some of my experiences primarily for my family, friends, and the faculty of WCC. However, I want to share these experiences--what I see, do, and feel--with all who are interested in the program, or who consider going next year. Since I will be revealing this from a personal, highly subjective point of view, I ask you to consider my two concerns. First of all, please remember that what I express is only my perspective, colored and shaped by my previous knowledge, experiences, values, and levels of comfort with my surroundings. Secondly, realize that I am taking a risk by sharing openly, and that I trust you to respect my stories and all the people they'll involve.

Those of you who don't know me might benefit from a little biographical information. My mother's side of our family is French, and I've been raised biculturally and bilingually along with my sister, brother, and American father. As you may know, Cote d'Ivoire is a former French colony; and so I bring with me a twinge of guilt for belonging (proudly at times) to a heritage which includes colonial domination and cultural tyranny of the people hosting me. So far this awareness has lingered over me like a dark cloud, a creepy shadow that never leaves me. I am 22 and have lived in Bellingham the last two years, going to Whatcom and then transfering to Western to study philosophy. I have traveled many places throughout my life, including Europe, S. Korea, and Mexico, and will undoubtedly compare Cote d'Ivoire to these foreign cultures (you may be surprised how often I said while in Korea "this totally reminds me of Mexico..."). I have great interests in religions and spirituality (by the way I'm Catholic), and I'm sure this fascination will become apparent later...

dear friends, family, and the rest, This summer in Spokane has been great. Somehow I don't feel like I'm more prepared for Africa now than I was 2 months ago--but I am. I'm not nervous about anything, but very excited. Usually Cote d'Ivoire still lives in my dream space, along with ideas and plans and utopic visions of my future. Somehow it doesn't feel as real as going back to school next winter. However, when I attend meetings or start packing items, a twinge of reality sets in and the daunting awareness exilerates me. I'm really going to Cote d'Ivoire! I've been doing a bit of reading about African art, and books off our curriculum list, but it's not grabbing me yet. I've found myself much more attracted to Thomas Merton, saints, contemporary theology, and even catechism. I don't regret the fact that I'm not reading more "africa" text because I feel that, in a way, I'm leaving more room for discovery, a fresh territory that won't be too structured with others' interpretations. I know that as soon as it "kicks in" I will be devouring knowledge like an insatiable beast! For now, I'm finding a friend in Thomas Merton, and he is doing a lot for me. Maman is great and I'm so glad to have spent these months with her. It is also wonderful to have Papa, Gregoire, Ann, and Michel (dad, brother, sister-in-law, and nephew) in Seattle this summer. It's been great to see Mamie, Beth, and Nathalie too. Until next time, Julia

© WCC African Study Project