Things I Understand as Normal in the US

1) Continuous song play on the radio.
The radio seems always to be on at my house. The station varies, but it usually is tuned to either a gospel station with intermittent sermons dispersed between the songs or a "hiplife" station. (Hiplife is the modernized, hip-hopified version of traditional Ghanaian highlife music, which is has something of a Caribbean feel to its mellow, keyboard-enhanced, smooth sound.) Curiously enough, when I am listening to a song, usually on a hiplife or American pop station, the songs are interrupted every 20-30 seconds either by a DJ's announcement or the station's jingle, or perhaps even by clips of the daily news. "...you can stand under my umbre-'It's Kwame B!'-ella, ella, ella, eh, eh, eh, eh-eh-eh..." I guess Ghanaians' attention spans can be as short as Americans'.

2) Calcuim from dairy products.
Luckily for me, my host family is very hospitable and tries to make me feel as comfortable as possible, whether by permitting me to occasionally forgo the traditional fufu with smoked fish stew and eat chicken nuggets instead or not laughing too hard when I spew forth some serious(ly flawed) Twi, and so I actually do get calcium from dairy products such as the milk and cheddar cheese they buy specially for me. However, one evening after finishing my meal--a mound of rice garnished with a deliciously spicy tomato, garlic, and ginger stew, some frozen peas, and a chicken leg--our house help said to me, "Jessie, it is okay that you don't eat the chicken skin, because there is so much fat there. But why do you never eat the bones?" Perplexed, I responded that I don't usually (ever!) eat bones in America, but she informed me that I ought to because they have "so much calcium to make [my] bones strong." Crunch, crunch! I can now add to my list of new foods I have tried in Ghana chicken bones.

3) American table manners.
I came home late the other evening to find my host mom, Helina, sitting on our porch and enjoying the cool breeze along with a meal of kenkey (mashed fermented corn with a consistency somewhere between smooth grits and mashed potatoes, but a little firmer) and pepper stew.

"Ena, maadwo, good evening," I greeted her. "Yaa nua," she replied, "Mepaakyɛw, bra ne yennidi, please, come and eat with me." So I sat beside her and took in my fingers a glob of kenkey pinched from the lump from which she was eating, and dipped it in the stew where she had dipped her glob, and wrangled away a piece of the sardine she was eating, and put it in my mouth. "Only very close friends eat this way," she told me.

Eating with one's hands is normal here in Ghana, and I have quickly learned that it is not a pleasant experience to consume a steaming bowl of omo tuo ne nkateɛnkwan, rice balls and peanut soup, on laundry day after my knuckles are rubbed raw. Yet there's something comforting about just eating, not worrying about whether this fork is indeed for the salad or whether I should have saved it for dessert. Of course, Ghanaian table manners are different in other ways (eating with the left hand is inappropriate, so I have learned to be proficient with a fork in my right hand on the occasions when I use one; savoring one's food by eating slowly is uncommon; belching at the table is not viewed as particularly offensive), but no matter who you are with, you will probably be invited: "Mepaakyɛw, bra ne yennidi."


These are just three of a multitude of differences I have discovered over the last 6 weeks (6 weeks?!), and there will be more to share. Tomorrow and Sunday I am going to a wedding, which I expect will highlight even more cultural differences for me. For now, enjoy the few pictures I have been able to upload, and I assure you that you are in my thoughts and prayers. Yɛbɛhyia!