I’m going to jump to another place – not Nkoranza, not my leave in the U.S., not where I currently am (Accra and Hope for Life), but back to the camp and over to Liberia.

Since even before I left the refugee camp, people have been encouraged to return to Liberia. Many have, but there’s still a significant number who haven’t. This is an update for a couple of people I’ve written about in the past who are now back in Liberia.

I’ve written about Samuel several times in the past (but, I'm not linking to any of those stories because I'm trying to find them quickly and am having a hard time finding them). He’s the one I’ve known for about 1000 years (since 1993), who I’ve seen struggle through and then build himself up from difficult situations time and again. There’s a story about him at this site (but you need to scroll down a bit) – the version in French is what he wrote and is much better written and more accurate than the translation that someone else has done in English.

A friend of mine helped him get through University – other donations from friends helped with some unexpected expenses that arose during his education. Just before the end of last year, after completing his studies, his wife and son returned to Liberia while Samuel remained to pack up their things that wouldn’t be easily replaced in Liberia (primarily text books). He also needed to follow through on his final project, making sure all copies went to where they were needed, that it followed the correct format, etc. Then in February this year he returned to Liberia – where he found it wasn’t so easy to get a job. And then he found that, in spite of staying and following his project through to the end, there were problems with the final result.

But, to sum up the story – he will officially graduate on the 14th – sadly, he won’t be here to walk across the platform and be handed his documents. There’s not enough money for the transport (he’s got some other priorities going on – his family, for one). And he’s also just been hired by Save the Children. So, good things are happening for him – it’s exciting.

Another guy I’ve written about in the past is Otis (another past update on Otis is here). He’s the one who’s a tailor and also does “designing” (which usually means machine embroidering). He does some good work. A little over a year ago he returned to Liberia. It was a long process. He wanted to return earlier, but then was told he could get into a program to help set up his business, and something something something, and he ended up shipping all his equipment back, but then being interminably delayed here by the “helping” organization(s). In the end, no help came through from this group, so he found his way back to Liberia, and met his equipment waiting for him there. His getting through this process of shipping his equipment [not a cheap task, and it included some sewing machines, embroidery machine, generator, knitting machine (that’s the thing that stitches up the ends of the cloth so they don’t unravel)] and then being delayed for a few months with no means of supporting himself was helped by some other friends. (Timing is always perfect – I’ve talked of that in the past – a donation comes when it’s most needed, it seems. This time the friends who sent the donation ended up being the brother and sister-in-law of the friend who had at one time helped Otis to buy one of his machines. So it was nice – kind of coming full circle, staying in the family, etc.)

So he got back to Liberia and was finally able to rent a place where he could start his business.







And gradually it built up and he was doing well for himself. Then suddenly, his sister died. And Otis was the working member of the family, all eyes and open palms turned in his direction to help with the funeral business. That barely finished when his father also fell sick – and again, those eyes were looking his way and the palms were looking to be papered by him. He needed to basically pawn his generator to get the money he needed to help his father. He told me the story and I gave him a hard time for giving up the one thing he most needed to be able to ensure his income in the future.

But it’s a system I can never fully understand. It’s a system very different than the one from where I come. It often seems to be a system that operates a lot on fear – fear of reprisals, fear of poisoning, fear of being “witched”, etc. So – out of fear, people do what’s expected of them, even if what’s expected can seem unfair and if what’s expected holds a person back from getting ahead and moving on in life.

So, this is what was happening with Otis – this system had these expectations of him – and that has led him to do things that will hold him back. But again, things worked out well and a donation came after a few months. He had already worked it out that the person to whom he’d pawned his generator was allowing him to use it – but he had a deadline to pay the balance of the money. Fortunately – another donation came just as needed and he was able to keep the generator.

After all of this, he’s decided he needs to move on – he can’t stay where he is because these expectations will always be on him and he’ll never be able to advance in the way he’d like to do. He very much wants to return to school to study fashion designing. Either that, or at the same time as school, he’d like to return to Ghana, or any other country that would give him some distance from these expectations, to set up his business again. He told me of a school in the States – but it’s pretty expensive. I also know of a school in Ghana (the guy who took over the running of the sheltered workshop where I was the past couple of years attended this school). Again – finances.

He wrote a story for me to share with people who might be interested or able to help him out – but I can’t do that. The story refers to and criticizes a few things, situations, groups, and individuals about which and whom I don’t know enough or have any kind of evidence to support putting all into the blog. That’s why I’ve chosen to do my own summary of what I know about him.

He also sent a few pictures to share, showing his current workshop:

Before I left Nkoranza back in July, I did a blog entry and mentioned that I had a couple more entries I planned to do before leaving. However, the internet café (which wasn’t working too well at that time) and some last minute visitors didn’t make it easy for me to cooperate with my plan. I thought, “no problem, I’ll be going back to the U.S. and will have even faster internet access there.” But now . . . I’ve been back in Ghana for almost a month – so, that plan of catching up while in the U.S. obviously didn’t get followed through upon. Ah well. The main part of the delay while in the States was that I was just being with people where I was at any particular time – does that make sense? I was visiting family and friends from NY to CA, and they were giving me their time and presence – and I really try, when people are able to take time out of their busy schedules because I say that I’m hoping to come visit, to do nothing and want to do nothing more than be fully present to those moments and gifts of time that I’m being given. (Sadly, I’m not always successful in these efforts – I sometimes check my email, answer the phone, send a text – do something that takes me away from that person/those people I’m with at that moment. If a TV is on in the same room (I HATE all those restaurants and bars that need to have a tv within every angle of vision), I can easily become mesmerized by the moving sites and colours – not even aware of what I’m watching other than images blending and moving. And I often regret afterwards my forgetfulness that I can just let the phone ring, the text go unanswered, and the emails wait. And my eyes can be trained not to drift to the backdrop of floating scenes. I ask my friends and family to forgive me those lapses.)

So – I’m going to combine one of the blog entries I hoped to do before leaving Nkoranza with a little bit of an update of my time in the States. There may not be much writing going on here, just a bunch of pictures.

I had mentioned to some friends about painting the septic tank just below my house. It was a big slab of cement in the foreground of this spectacular view of the valley below and the hill beyond. I had visions of doing a mural – sunrise to sunset over an African village kind of theme, planning to blend it in with the colours of the surrounding environment.




Sadly, the really sweet image I had in mind didn’t quite come out on the septic tank. Then rains came and it was hard to paint. So, for a long time – a really pitiful mural adorned the cover of my sewage storage area. I could barely sit or stand on the rock behind my house to simply enjoy the view, not just because of too much wine or beer making it hard for me to stand but also because this childish, unfinished image was there - mocking my "skills".



(Believe it or not, I had taken a series of photographs – showing progress all along the way – from pre-painting, to ½ way with paint tins on the tank, to each stage. My delusions of grandeur had me convinced that the reality of my mind's image would make the process worth documenting - and could lead to world reknown as one of the best septic tank painters in the universe - so maybe universal reknown. I'm sparing you the good - or bad - majority of those pictures.)

The killer part is that it started off with a nice blending of colours – hoping that blending would be the background – going from lighter to darker shades of green, blue, yellow, etc. – enhancing the sunrise to sunset idea.



And this initial background is where I should have stopped. I would have preferred this view during the rainy season. Oh well.

I finally had a chance to fix it up in the last few months of my time there. Sadly, though, a new phone company had come into Ghana and purchased ALL the red paint in the country. (I hate that company. I like red, but suddenly everywhere I looked another shop or house had been painted red with this phone company’s name splattered across it. Awful. I still like the red, but I seriously detest the phone company.) I searched high and low for red paint, near and far, up and down – but no luck. All the little shops up and down every blessed road in the country were painted red – except for the few that competing phone companies had managed to paint with their colours. Anyway – I’m still fine with the result of the septic tank.







There were a few other painting pastimes while I was there – one was my table. It had been a slightly chipped, industrial gray kind of colour at its birth, so I painted it red (this was before the detested phone company came on the scene). Then one night when the power was out (a rare occasion where I was living) I was able to use a few of the paints I had for the septic tank but couldn’t use due to the rain – and I repainted it.



It was done by candlelight and seemed necessary to do no matter what level of lighting because I was going to be gone for the following few days so it would have time to dry.

So – painting - or more like just blending colours. One pastime over the past couple of years.

Another was gardening. I used to talk of digging in my garden when people asked what I had done over the weekend. But it was a little embarrassing at the same time, because it started off small – just clearing the bush, putting in a small sitting area and transplanting a few plants I found around the property.




Gradually, it got a little bigger, and ended up being kind of pleasant, I think.










Even though I was an Agricultural Extension Agent (oh la la) while in Peace Corps (a position gained by being guided to reinforce, during my interview with the Peace Corps, the fact that for a couple of weeks every summer I took care of my grandparents’ garden while they were on vacation), I know next to nothing about gardening.









I mostly know that I get some kind of satisfaction and peace and calm from digging and experimenting in the dirt.









And, as with the murals, I have visions of what I think it really could be. And, as with the murals, those visions don’t become the realities. However, I think the reality was also quite nice:


















So – I think that’s about it. (If you look carefully, in addition to the flowers you'll find some herbs - basil, parsley, lemon grass, thyme, dill.)

I’ve changed my mind – it doesn’t seem right to combine this entry with some of the experiences from the States – those things need separate entries. (And I ended up writing much more than I thought I would.) But that means I’m falling behind on blog entries, because there’s another I was going to do about a second or third favourite pastime while in Nkoranza (taking different kids to the BIG city on weekends – and that would have had pictures of people in it – maybe more interesting than this one), and another with a few stories and updates from some refugees with whom I’m still involved, and still another entry with a little info on the first few weeks back in Ghana. Oh well, I’ll work it out. The blog entries won’t be in any kind of chronological order, but they’ll be in the usual, random, rambling sequence (is that some kind of anachronism – a sequence that’s rambling and random? I don’t even know since I sometimes think I just use words I’ve heard and read without fully understanding them; although I usually try to use them with confidence so that other people who think they know what they mean and think I’m using them incorrectly question their own judgment and understanding of the words since I’m pretending to be so confident in my verbosiveness).

My younger sister, Karen, warned me when I came here to be careful, that I have a tendency to pick up characteristics of different people. She was specifically referring to an autistic guy I worked with in the states for awhile who would spontaneously clap his hands and do a high pitched screech at the same time. A kind of fun, amusing characteristic to imitate at times – or, at least I thought so.

After living in Ivory Coast for 2 ½ years and then in Ghana for another 2 ½ years I decided to return to school, and wanted to live somewhere in the north – I really wanted WINTERS again (even though I’ve really come to love hot dry and hot steamy weather). I ended up in Chicago. I needed to take my GRE, and wanted to focus just on that and on finding an apartment before looking for a job. But, things have a way of working out on their own, and it doesn’t matter all that much. I went to look at one “wonderful”, probably “deluxe” studio apartment that ended up being another trash heap, and on the way back to the EL saw a help wanted sign in what turned out to be – after I stepped back to look up higher at the wall – a West African restaurant. How to resist? I had just come from 5 years in West Africa. I went in and Grandma took my name and number to pass onto her son-in-law. That night I received a call and ended up being hired as manager of this restaurant, which then became a main and wonderful part of my life and experience in Chicago. Those first few months of mine in Chicago I was only working in the restaurant 6 nights a week. Grandma (the Nigerian mother of the owner) was the main chef, and the person with whom I spent most of my time. We’d take buses and subways to museums and other places from time to time. People would look at us and think, “hmmm, maybe . . .”. After all, I called her Grandma; her father was Scottish, so she’s fair skinned; I’m fairer skinned (my ancestors a mix of English/Polish/German/Danish/Swiss) – but I could see people’s minds working – “hmmm, maybe - -- -- - - - who knows? A couple of generations, blah blah blah, blee blee blee.”

As is customary in my blogs and conversations – I digress.

I managed Ofie (the restaurant - it's now closed, though, so, sadly, no good website to refer you to) throughout my time in Chicago. This also involved being the host, the busboy, the waiter, occasionally dishwasher, the salad maker, inventory taker, etc. (it was a small restaurant). In waiting on tables, I could always overhear customers discussing me, wondering where I’m from, etc. etc. Some had the courage to ask me – thinking South Africa, Boston, East Coast, Australia, U.K. and I forget where else. No one ever guessed Wisconsin.

My sister is right – I pick up the characteristics of people I’m with. I don’t really think of it. Sometimes it’s just mannerisms that I like. Sometimes, behaviours that amuse me. Sometimes maybe just too much exposure. This goes for speech patterns, as well as behaviours and mannerisms. While working in the refugee camp and spending a lot of time up/down in the truck to hospitals and wherever else, I always listened to BBC. People I met often thought I was from the U.K.

Della –



a wonderful guy here - - -he’s the focus of this blog entry (and it’s only taken most of one page to get to the focus). I think he’s my age. I think he might have been OK educated at one point – his English is better than some of the caregivers/staff. I think he lived in Accra for awhile. I also suspect that maybe he drove trotros or taxis or was a mate or somehow was involved with transportation. He LOVES cars, trucks, caterpillars – if it has four or more wheels and a motor – he’s in awe and over excited.



If I walk with him in town, there’s regular comments along the lines of, “Steven! Look at the Caterpillar! Nice one.” (The “Caterpillar” can be any rusted junk heap of a tractor – it doesn’t matter – it’s always a “nice one”, and it’s always worth getting excited about.)



Della has great, imitate-able and useful expressions. If the smallest thing – like a bead – falls down, or if you’re walking and take a step off the main sidewalk (intentionally or not), Della will call out, “HEY! Accident!” (I don’t think he says this if a serious accident really happens – like if someone really gets hurt or if something really gets damaged.) There’s another guy here who, for some reason, Della doesn’t like at all. He always tells me, “don’t mind him – don’t mind John.” And if someone is really disturbing him, he tells others to call the police – or better yet, he just shouts out, “POLICE!!” If Della likes the shirt you’re wearing, or if you’re wearing something new, he’ll come up to you and say, “Look at your shirt! NICE one!” If I’m with him, there are constant questions (sounding like demands) of, “Steven! What is this!”, “Steven! Where is your key!”, “Steven! Where is your bowl!”, “Steven! Where is my money!”

The answer doesn’t always matter – I can tell him, “your money is in the TOILET!”, “my key is in the TOILET!”, “the policeman is in the TOILET!”, “the driver is in PRISON!”, etc. and he chuckles and says, “NO!” and then proceeds to tell me where and what the thing is he’s asking about.

So many Della-isms and Della speech patterns (emphasis on certain parts of a sentence, sing-songing other parts, etc.) have become a part of regular dialogues I have with other workers here at PCC. I use them, they use them, we don’t even think of them, and it’s all understood and always good for a smile or laugh (if we notice we're doing it, which isn't always the case anymore).

I probably won’t continue using them when I get home, though – even though my sisters Karen and Rose would be entertained for a moment or two, and my mom would be annoyed for a day or two, and some of his expressions and speech patterns would entertain at least me if I said them – especially the “HEY! Accident!” one. But, just like the clapping my hands and doing a high pitched scream at the same time behaviour quickly faded when I saw that I was the only one amused by it (other than my sister Karen . . . at first) – I have a feeling the Della-isms will fade in time.



Della, in his "office" at the workshop: "Steven! Look at my office!"