More Kente weaving

At this point, I've lost track of days:

I'm learning to weave Kente cloth! I asked the local kente weave master, Steven if he would be willing to let me come watch him for an afternoon. In Ghana, Kente weaving is only done by males, so I was unsure of what his response would be. Luckily he said yes! This morning I went to his residence for the first time to watch him weave. After lunch he asked me if I would like to learn, and of course I said yes! I had been sitting quietly on a stool behind him all morning watching his process, and felt pretty confident that I could do it. He was just doing a black and gold striped cloth (it was a royal cloth. black and gold are royalty colors), on two harnesses...simple stuff. haha. He spoke little english, so I couldn't really ask questions. The loom was very different than the jack looms I have worked on at school. The tension was controlled by a giant rock sitting about 50 feet from the loom, on which his length of fiber was fixed. The heddles were made of string, and the beater was fixed to a stick that was fixed above the loom. It took me awhile to get used to the positioning, I felt like I was squatting low to the ground, because I was! The pedals were just ropes with balls at the end that I positioned between my toes. He was SO surprised that I knew how to weave, he just kept laughing and covering his head with his hands, as if in shock. It was a wonderful afternoon.

Day 7:
Earlier today we took clothing, shoes and medicine to Joyce's family. Her sister just had a new baby two weeks ago and we wanted to bring them a gift. We had Joyce go through the donations we had brought so that the family would be getting things that they were in need of. It was great to be in the household of Joyce. Her family received us so well and we were able to see the newborn baby. When we brought out the gifts, everyone got so excited. It was funny because the Old "mommy" took all of the little girl sized underwear for herself. I guess in Ghana size doesn't always matter, wether its too big or too small, the fact that you have underwear at all is what is important. Tomorrow morning a 72 year old Ghanaian woman will be sporting a brand-spanking new pair of Hanes Her Way cotton panties which read "Princess" on the front.

I know, I know.

Since I returned from Ghana, people have asked me to update my blog several times. I have been meaning to do it, but just haven't yet. So today is the day! It's snowing outside, and I am surprisingly not TOO buried in homework. I'm taking this opportunity to add some photos a long with some short passages from the journal that I kept in country. Enjoy!

Day 1:

-- we then boarded the tro-tro and began our drive along the coast from Accra to Atorkor. It was a good way to become introduced to the landscape, and to see the general living situation and environment of the Ghanaian people. I was so tired from traveling the previous day that I was having a hard time keeping my eyes open. I was thrown from my sleep when I felt the tro-tro quickly jerk far to the right as my body smashed into the large woman next to me, who was holding a shrimp basket and a small child. A truck that we had started to pass decided to make a left turn and we had nearly had a collision. Everyone was shouting! Several men who had been sitting alongside the highway got very upset with our driver and started yelling and fighting with one him. Someone then tried to open the door of the tro-tro to pull the driver out. This whole situation was very confusing, because there we sat, in the middle of the highway, traffic behind us at a standstill, people surrounding our tro-tro all taking sides, tempers rising---and then, as if by some unspoken mediating comment, the argument ceased and we were on our way. It was as if nothing had ever happened. Within a matter of minutes everyone in the tro-tro was lulled back to sleep by the slight swaying of the unstable vehicle, sultry heat and rhythmic gospel music. I had hardly closed my eyes when again, I heard shouting coming from the exterior of the vehicle. I quickly looked around to realize that the tro-tro had come to a stand still and what seemed like hundreds of people dressed in black and red, were outside yelling, crying, shouting and walking alongside the road. There were also several large vehicles that looked like army trucks, their back's filled with people who again, were wearing black and red and wailing. The music was so loud, I was so alarmed. I thought there was going to be a riot or something. I must have looked scared because Paul tapped on my shoulder, I turned around only to see him smiling wide, saying, "don't worry, they are happy. Its a funeral."

how differently we celebrate death.