Smelly Chicken

During the time I posted my last blog posts, I was evacuated to my host uncle's house because of a chemical disaster.

I realize that sounds terrifying. Yeah, it was, but it stunk even more than it scared me. I'm hosted in a villiage called Atwima Boko. Boko is a green paradise full of tradional dwellings and...poultry farms. One of said poultry farms' storage rooms exploded at the beginning of December amd released agrochemicals into the air. I noticed a foul scent one day on my way home from school. My sister told me about the disaster, but I didn't think much about it. I guess something in me believed it would be cleaned up within a few days by Emergency Services. Funny, after my experiences in the first week.

The very next morning, I awoke to the smell (awful...think of old cabbage and rotting meat together) inside our house. My host family were not in the common room, so I peeked in the spare bedroom to look for a family friend who spent the night (Emily's old host brother)

Smelly Chicken (cont)

What I saw in that room made my heart jump. Sleeping on the matresses were two very tiny people! Our guest was nowhere to be seen. I almost screamed, but my host dad came in the room just then.

"Is someone sleeping in there?" I asked.
"Yes. My wife's brother's kids."
I breathed a sigh of relief. What my sleepy brain had pegged for shrunken strangers were my baby cousins.

My host uncle lives next to the poultry farm where the accident occured. The family came to sleep in our house, which is up the road aways, to get away from the scent. However, the smell got worse and worse. By that morning, it had spread not only around Boko but throughout all Kumasi.

A few minutes later, my two-year-old cousin Yaa (pronouced "Yow") emerged from the room. He took one look at me and screamed. I smiled, held out my hand, and drew near...and he burst into tears. (Yaa acted like I was a boogeyman all morning...which confounds me because he'd never seemed the least bit afraid of me before)

Smelly Chicken (cont)

"Pack some clothes," said Daddy. "We're leaving."

To where? For how long? How many people are coming? Before I could ask any of these questions, I was in Uncle Francis's car with Ma, Daddy, Kofi, Atta, and our guest. We drove down the long, familiar road out of Boko, covering our noses with wet handkercheifs. Atta and I squeezed on top of each other and laughed all the way into town. The situation was by far the oddest one I've ever been in.

It stunk, so bad breathing was difficult, all the way to the city limit. Inside, I was praying for all my neighbors who couldn't get out.

When the car pulled up to depot junction (right by my school), my siblings and I got out and got in a drop taxi.

"Where exactly are we going?" I asked at long last.

"Dad's brother's place." I had met our paternal uncle on several occasions, so all my nerves left.

I spent the day and one night at his place. It was a large house full of people, and I enjoyed my time there.

Smelly Chicken (cont)

December 7, the morning after our evacuation, was Election Day. All my family rushed back to Boko to go and vote. By then, the scent was gone from our house, but the polling station was still a stinkhouse. The pollmasters actually handed out surgical masks and asked the voters to wear them while waiting in line.

Just like Kofi's emergency the first week, the disaster reminded me I live in a developing country. In the US, evacuation orders would be issued and officials sent to clean the place up immediately. Here, the carless must fend for themselves.

Again and again, I am struck by the layers of this society. If you work hard in life, pursue a good education, it is possible to attain a high standard of living. My host family has a comfortable house, plenty of food and clothes, even clean tap water(!). However, working hard and excelling school cannot ensure there will be an ambulance if your child is in danger. It cannot ensure that anyone will help you if an agrochemical leaks.

Smelly Chicken (cont)

I am troubled by these things. I have faith in Ghana's people. I believe they'll change Ghana for the better. But...just as I said before...how many people will suffer before that happens?

And as much as I love Ghana, I see that I cannot raise children here. As beautiful, rich, and deep as the developing world is, I will play it safe.

It grieves me that most people don't have that choice.

Truth and Fact

A fact is solid, something you can touch and hold. Truth is a liquid...as soon as you think you have it, it slips through your fingers.

In Ghana, facts are taught in school. The teachers literally read from the textbooks--what they teach is exactly what they are told to teach. The students dutifully memorize word for word whatever is in the book. (I lost points on an assignment for writing "parents must set a clean example" instead of "parents must set a good example".) My classmates can recite the definition of seperation of powers, but would they recognize a partisan judge if he sentenced them?

In Ghana, truth is more elusive than ever. Maybe it is discussed in the choppy, tonal languages that I will never understand completely. But if Ghanaians discuss truth in Twi, Ewe, Ga, and the rest, what stops them from doing it in English? Nans speaks less English than Ghanaians, but he and I can chat about philosophy and discuss the meaning of life.

Truth and Fact (cont)

Fact is also preached in the church in Ghana. Evangelists are everywhere, shouting: "Repent! Convert! Jesus is the Son of God and that is a fact."

I don't see how that can possibly be a fact. Facts are proven. Facts are of the mind.

Truth, on the other hand...truth is too deep to be proven. It's of the soul, of the guts. "Jesus is the Son of God. That is the truth." Now that statement alows for discussion, for meditation. One is free to think and talk and decide what one believes. But whether one believes in a fact is irrelevant. A fact has been proven by the scientific method.

But how accurate is the scientific method? If it's not perfect, is there such a thing as a fact?

And as for truth...what is it exactly? Is it relative? Absolute? Both? Neither? Where does it come from? These are questions for a good discussion, not a blogpost. I thrive on discussions like that, I love the feeling of truth slipping through my fingers.