As you read this, Katie and I will have passed three whole days since our last official day of fieldwork. After meeting with the many helpful community members who directed us to the functioning boreholes, we set out by ourselves to what Katie believed would be a representative sampling of the non-functioning boreholes. It was on these excursions that we realized a few things: GPS-enabled knowledge of these sites and your relative location to them means nothing and will never supplant local knowledge; we were smart not to have done these samples on the days when we were led around by our guides since they would have tired of our existence and left, or killed us out of boredom; that we have spent way too much time together without taking a break. In reference to that last bit of wisdom, let it be known that if ever you decide to have a public argument (inasmuch as these things are actually “decided” upon), do not do it when 50+ people with a meager grasp of English are tending to your every word. Thanks to us, many a Ghanaian were blessed with the knowledge of words I am too sheepish to mention at this juncture (though I’m not at all sheepish about typing them, as you all well know).

So yes, we are finished collecting the samples (YAY!), and now comes time to relax. This Saturday we will plod the weary route toward Ouagadougou (which in Mossi means “forget about Ghana, the only food worth eating is in Burkina, bitches”) for another much-needed break from the travails of our stay in Ghana. And as weary as I’m sure we are sounding fleshed out on computer screens the world over (all five of them), let it be known that there is still much work to be done, mostly on Katie’s part.

As for me, I was able meet one of three lifetime goals , the first of which was realized almost ten years ago when I made someone puke out of pure exhaustion (okay, maybe the carton of milk consumed a few minutes beforehand played a crucial role, but so too did the calisthenic torture I doled out, dammit). A few days ago, as Katie was choosing from a book loaded with all the available patterns for this one local weaver, a bunch of kids decided to come over and play a game favored among the youth (the older ones love, with all their heart, “Bicycle Chase”): “Stand Around and Look at the White People Until One of Them Moves at Which Point You Should Run Away and Not Let Them Touch You Because if You Do They Will Rip Your Face Off and Eat Your Insides.” That’s a rough translation from Fra Fra, and one based solely on the children’s reactions to our presence, but I will say that while enjoying a beer one time with one of our guides, some children who gathered to watch us drink were told that if they didn’t leave us alone we would come out and chop off their heads. No lie. After that, we never really wondered why kids were somewhat terrified of us.
Anyway, having had a good day, I was willing to play the aforementioned game with these kids, and I hid behind the corner of the building and chased them across the street. Everyone got away except one, who tripped trying climb out of a shallow ditch. It was like something out of the movies: she looked back at me over her shoulder, began trembling, and the tears commenced. Now, most of you who know me will agree that I hate children, especially since they poop and pee all over the place and can’t earn a living and all, but I would never hurt one, and so I dropped the monster façade, stooped down to pick her up, and told her, in english, that I would never hurt her. It did no good. As soon as she was in my arms, she stiffened up, looked me straight in the eye, and yelled “BLAH BLAH BLAH,” which I took to mean either “my dad will kill you if you hurt me,” or “you’d better put me down,” or “I’m gonna fuck you up, asshole,” and given that she was no older than 5 or 6, I was undeterred in my placation of her anger. Until she peed on me.

I didn’t know what was happening until I was soaked from my hand to my elbow, and for those of you who have handled babies before, that’s about 10 gallons of piss. It was all over my shorts and looked as if I were the one who peed, but all I could do was laugh, and all Katie could do was laugh at me and call me a moron. “I’ve been peed on,” I said as I returned the girl back on the ground. I stepped over her as she lay there supine from the fright, and not until I got back across the road from her did she get up and run away. I never even got to thank her, for how many of you can actually say that you’ve scared the piss out of someone.

Some pictures:

This post goes out to all the animals in our life.

First, the chickens.
So, the first time someone gave us a chicken, it was at the end of a painful day. The day was not hard, it was just long because our local contact had not ridden a bike in 9 years (so he says) and so after sprinting to the first two boreholes of the day, he pretty much died. I’m serious, he walked his bike for long periods of time and that was not much slower than his riding pace! Plus, he is an assembly man (I guess kind of like a Representative) and so had to stop to talk to ev-ry-one. Man, it took all day, but he was very nice so it was all good. Anyway, at the last borehole of the day, while he was panting (a.k.a. slowly begging death to come and rip the life from his body) under a tree, he told us to “wait small” because his friend was coming. All of a sudden we see this guy walking towards us with a chicken in his hands at which point Mo leaned over to whisper “Oh man, please don’t let that be for us.” But, of course it was. So our contact is tying the legs of the chicken together telling us how they want us to have this chicken and Mo is trying to explain “But we don’t eat meat, please you keep it” to which the reply was, “Oh! Don’t worry, it’s a chicken, just make soup with it!” Hmmm. So first they wanted to just “hang” it off my handlebars, but I blackballed that idea real quick, so we tied him to the back of Mo’s bike (on the rack) and every time he hit a bump the thing squawked and we would apologize to her. We brought her home, untied her in the house because we wanted to feed her and give her water, because then she would be our friend, before we set her loose behind our house. Of course, as soon as we placed her on the floor, she produced one huge shit on the floor, did not like our food or water, and was put outside. She still hangs around the house, but does not come when we try to feed her. Then, just this week we received a rooster and the story repeated itself. The rooster actually hangs around and lets us feed him, but the guinea fowls of the area are like a major gang or something because they attacked our poor rooster one day. Of course, Mo and I went running out of the house to chase the guinea fowls away---I’m sure our neighbors are having a good laugh at us.

Now the insects.
Not pictured are the ants that I have been battling in the kitchen (and let me tell you, I am losing big time). The other morning Mo and I got up for a day of work and I lifted my coffee cup off of the counter where it was set to dry overnight and there were hundreds of ants and their little larvae underneath it. I quickly put it back down on top of them all and shouted for Mo. Thousands and thousands of ants had moved in underneath our dishes overnight---it was gross AND since they were underneath our coffee mugs, we were forced to deal with the situation before our morning cup of Nescafe. The whole thing was repulsive---we poured boiling water over all the dishes afterwards.

Now the creature in the picture, but first the backstory. So these little weird flying ant type bugs come in through the ceiling at night if we put the light on and, honestly, I find them so gross. They are like little ant larvae but with wings (termites maybe?), so I force Mo to turn off the light while we watch or read off the computer at night. Soooo, this one night I convinced him to leave the light off while we watched some Soprano’s and afterwards I was off to bed so I flipped the light back on for him and on the wall was the biggest, hairiest spider I ever saw outside of the zoo. Of course the first thing I say is, “I’m going to go get Ai!” I run off to her room and drag her into the living room to show her but she will not get closer than 10 feet and she starts scratching like she has fleas and all she can say is “oooooh. . . nooooo!” over and over and over again. Now it is time for a house vote: I say I don’t care, but don’t kill it, Mo says leave it and Ai just shakes her head, scratches her arm and says “oooooh. . . nooooo!” She does not have a mosquito net anymore, and so says she will not sleep knowing that it could crawl across her at night and goes outside to find a young boy to get rid of it---but Mo and I tell her he is just going to kill it. So she runs to her room and comes back with a box that we (by “we” I mean Mo, of course) manage to get the spider into and throw outside. The hand next to the spider—yep, it’s mine (I’m brave).

Finally the baby animals.
There was a baby goat on our porch the other day that seemed to be a loner without a mama (the mothers usually stay very close to the newborns and if you pick one up, they just kind of stare at you and will follow you until you put their baby back down, it’s how Ghanaians catch some of the adults for slaughter—using the babies as bait.). So, Mo picked up the baby to snuggle and no mama came to his rescue. Now we are convinced that it has no mama (or mama was last night’s dinner?) because every goat it tries to follow butts it away. It was so painful because little goat cries sound like small children crying and this goat would just walk around our house crying all day long. . .almost made us cry. At this point we decide we cannot let him starve (although feeding him is just fattening him up for someone else’s belly. . .it was a real moral dilemma). We tried to feed it (I guess baby goats don’t like cabbage) and follow it around. Finally, 3 days later, we see it feeding at some mama, so we are no longer worried. I know we have mentioned Mo’s obsession with handling other people’s livestock, well, he now has dragged me into that club. Those two lovely baby goats in our arms are two new twins born only a few days ago (I think they like us).

The tree is a picture of a perfect looking mango tree---it’s almost mango time and I cannot wait! A few more weeks and my mango addiction will start again!

Today (Feb 26th) was our last day in the last zone, and so unofficially we are done, but we are not ready to call it yet. We have a bunch of gaps that I want to try and fill in and then we have to sample the capped wells in some areas to compare values. Friday and Saturday I am spending in Feo with Ai doing another borehole usage count.

M: One thing I’d like to mention to those of you who regularly pedal a bike is that, unfortunately, half-wheeling faster-than-thou masochists exist in Ghana as well. The first time it happened, or at least the first day we noticed it, was not long after the day I was mistaken for a woman twenty times or so. On our way back from Bolga, Katie and I, riding at what we would consider a leisurely pace, came up to a man who was dressed like a waiter for one of the local restaurants. He was either on his way to or from work when we greeted and passed him. Not five seconds after he returned the greeting he was passing us back up. While I was content with chalking that up to his being late for something, when he got a 10-second gap on us, he began slowing again. We passed him, again. He sped up and passed us, again. I think you know how this plays out for, oh, a mile. Pissed, Katie and I looked to each other, authorizing the ensuing onslaught of well-developed muscle groups intent on one thing: putting this chauvinist (male, Ghanaian, or otherwise) in his place.
While at the time I deeply regretted having to rip his legs off, I have come to peace with our ego-driven exploit since each and every time we’re on our bike we come across some bozo pedaling a dinky little singlespeed step-though shitpile of a bike picked from the bottom of the last container from China who has something to prove. Frankly, it’s annoying, especially since they only do it because we’re foreign women passing him (and here I use the gendered pronoun because women never participate in this type of behavior). We’ve come a long way, baby (but please don’t start smoking).

Gotta goat.

Up next: calf. . .look at those heifers run.
More soon.

Another successful week!

Ok, well I will talk about the photos (the videos will not post with the given internet service. . .will try in Bolga when we are there next. Sorry.).

Toby from Cooper Union visited to check on arrangements for when the students come this summer. It was really nice to see him, but unfortunately he only spent one full day in Bongo, and much of that time he was caught up in meetings that I was not privileged to attend. BUT, we did go to the lab and wash some containers for him to bring some water back to KNUST in Kumasi. The normal band of children showed up at the borehole to watch, plus some extras since there were sooo many white people there (four of us) and there was water being splashed around. It was really funny to watch these kids. . .they really make me laugh.

The next set of photos is of Mo holding a baby lamb.

The photo below is of two children in the Beo area who were playing their drums for us while we worked. The drums are really pretty cool: modeled after the local style but constructed from “trash” items. I really love them, I wish I had enough luggage space to have them make me one to bring home! (The other photo I included because I was not in any of the pictures this time around). The video that follows is of them playing the drums, typical rhythms that are heard not only when biking around, but also in the local music that is played on the radio.

As for everything else, just working really hard is all. Below I have included a map of Bongo areas (also referred to as “governances”), so that you all can appreciate how hard we are working. We have completed Soe (pronounced: Soo-oy), Namoo (pronounced: Nah-mo-oy), Bongo (pronounced: Bohn-goh. . .the Os are long), and Beo (pronounced: Bee-yoh). On Monday we will sample all of Balungu (pronounced: Bah-loong-goo) leaving only two governances to go. Yea.

A few good days in Bongo.

K: Wednesday we rode to Beo for the first time (only knowing the really long way) off of directions given to us by Richard (“there will be a sign where you turn that says Adoboya”. . .there was no sign) to meet our contact and hopefully put in a day of work. You see, Richard was supposed to have word sent to him on Tuesday, but of course on Wednesday, Ayindoo was surprised to meet us AND could not work that day since he was on his way to a meeting in Bongo at the District Assembly (hopefully, not to meet us). So, following Ayindoo back along the shortcut to Bongo we considered the day a success since we not only met Ayindoo and got the cell phone number Richard did not know he had, but we also learned of some cool single track to ride to Beo that cuts the commute in half.

Then on Friday, we had one of the best days yet. The worst part was waking up with a food hangover at 6am. But riding the trail back to Beo was so peaceful. It feels cut off from the rest of Bongo District (which one could say is pretty cut off from the rest of Ghana, so you get the picture). It seems the more you remove yourself from town centers, the quality of people increases. Ayindoo was not only very nice and friendly, but possibly one of the smarter people in Bongo. He knew more and was able to tell us more about boreholes than most people who are employed to do so. Riding back home all I could think about is that I feel really lucky to be here . . . I guess that is when you know it was a good day!

M: Last thursday was my birthday and, given that I probably worked on my birthday 8 out of the last 10 years (work being a less traditional definition in some years, more conventional in others) I took it off. We celebrated by eating junk food. Not only is that type of stuff rare in these parts, buts when you can find it you’re paying 2-4 times as much as you would back home. How did we justify such an extravagant use of money and empty caloric intake? Well, considering the lack of variety in the our local diet and the fact that sweets over here have no high fructose corn syrup, a day of ice cream, cookies, coffee, and cheese couldn’t be all that bad. I estimate that we had about 8500 calories that day (and by estimate I mean I’m pulling a number out of my ass. . . big enough to address the enormity of our resultant food babies, but small enough to lie this side of hyperbole. . . maybe), but it was one of the more delicious days I can remember. We’ve included some pictures of the festivities.