31 January - Home again

Whether you believe in a god or, like me, are an unbeliever, there is but one thing you need do to feel yourself enveloped within the thick, warm, soft feathers of an angel's wings: spend a week at a refugee camp, travel over 30 hours back to your home, and then pay the slightest bit of attention to your bed. Never has the cushion of my mattress felt so gentle and caressing to my tired limbs as it did last night, nor have I felt so grateful and aware of what I consider "simple pleasures" - a thermostat, my cat jumping on my bed to awaken me, my morning tea, my CD player filled with my favorite Irish tunes.

Life is beyond inequitable. I can't begin to imagine what it would take to bring countries such as Ghana to the standards I take for granted. Yes, there are some modern shopping malls, nearly everyone has a cell phone, there is electricity, and some homes are rather luxurious. But for the average Ghanaian - and certainly for the Liberian refugees at the camp - a life like mine looks light years away. May I at least have the good sense to be grateful for what I have.

28, 29 January - Back in Legon

This morning, Grace, Sue, and I set off for the Wild Gecko, a small artisan's shop where I bought some Kente cloth and gifts for friends. We went back to the mall for lunch, and I got some African textiles for a friend.

Peter arranged for me to attend a graduate seminar on oral tradition and performance at the College of African Studies at 2. The All-Africa semi-finals were scheduled for 4pm, with Ghana playing Algeria, and I hoped to catch most of the game. The professor told me the lecture would last about 2 and 3/4 hours.

I learned a great deal from the lecture. This was a small graduate seminar, only 6 students. At one point, the professor asked the students about other classes in which they had discussed the concept of performance. One young woman mentioned her gender studies class in which they discussed the importance of phallic performance in African male culture. It was to the extent that if a man were diagnosed with an STD, he would not find it so problematic, as the disease proved that he could "perform." I wonder about the connection of that line of thinking to the rampant HIV/AIDS on the continent. We also talked about performance in religion and at funerals. I was interested that these students laughed about the dramatic performance that is part of the religious experience in Ghana.

Three hours later, the lecture was still going strong, and I saw no sign of conclusion. I excused myself and got back for the second half of the game. Ghana won, 1-nil.

On Friday, Peter, Grace, and I went to a large artisan marketplace on the coast of Accra. Along with the many tempting items of jewelry, wooden items, kente cloth, and dolls were beautiful oil paintings and museum objects. Included in the collection were some pretty fantastic coffins sculpted to resemble fish, birds, a Nike shoe, a beer bottle.

I flew over with a large and a medium suitcase. I figured I'd come back with the smaller of the two after giving away so much to the schools. But after this morning's purchases, I decided the larger suitcase made more sense. I've accumulated papers, drawings, books, souvenirs, and gifts along with remarkable memories.

27 January - Buduburam Refugee Community School

I had a fitful previous night taking a couple hours to get to sleep. In spite of the fan, I could not get cool, and my whole body ached so much that I could hardly roll over. I finally got to sleep, only to be awakened by a bad leg cramp. My bed – I suspect the nicest one, as my hostess is so gracious – is a double-bed sized mattress made of about 2” of soft foam on wooden bed slats. I can’t seem to get the hang of angling myself such that the edge of a slat isn’t digging into one of my hips.

Abeeku told me that he and Serwa would be considered middle class Ghanaians – Peter suggested that they were probably a bit above that given their TV and two bedroom home with some plumbing and electricity, and Serwa’s university degree. That would make them roughly equivalent to someone like me in the States. So, middle-class Ghanaian: no air conditioning, no computer, no regular running water, no dishwasher, washer, dryer, or vacuum cleaner. We usually took a bucket of rain water into the shower stall along with a plastic cup to use for pouring the water over our bodies to soap up and rinse off rather than actually using the shower. There was no hot running water. No soft, thick bed mattress or pillows. No car. I know they are running the fan for my sake and would not typically have it on. Middle class Floridian: central air, two computers, modern kitchen and household appliances, car. The difference in the environmental footprint is tremendous, as well as ease of lifestyle.

En route to Buduburam for my last day at the camp, I noticed a road sign that read, “Dr. Adam —Specializing in madness, asthma, dysentery,” and a handful of other unrelated maladies. There was also God’s Grace Auto Parts and Not My Will but His Beauty Salon (does that mean if the client doesn’t like the outcome the beautician is not responsible?)

I spent the morning at the Buduburam Refugee Community School. Kofi, the principal, said there are about 200 in the secondary school but that they would not all be there. He said, “They have lots of problems. When they are hungry, they don’t come. They need to find something to eat.”

Many classes I visited were taking paper and pencil quizzes. This is the poorest of the three schools I have visited. There are no books, no fans, bare walls. I could not read some of the quiz on the board in one class because of the glare from the sun. When Kofi and I walked across a soccer pitch to go from the primary to the secondary school, he caught up with a boy and asked why he wasn’t in school. The boy said he needed to buy a uniform but did not have the money (they are required). Kofi told him to get one and be back in school by Monday. I asked about him. The principal told me that the boy’s father had been a vice principal at the school but was resettled in the US in 2006. His mother was still in Liberia. I asked if he lived in an orphanage, and Kofi said that no, he was left to fend for himself, living in a lean-to that had been his father’s. This is not so unusual a story.

There were two teachers’ lounges – both small rooms with a couple dusty tables and chairs. One had cupboards for the teachers’ use. The “auditorium” was the largest room. It was three-sided with one long side open to the courtyard, and there were some long tables and chairs there. Kofi said that there would be an assembly on Friday (the students would not all fit, so many would be in the courtyard. At the assembly he would announce honours students, and there would be an academic competition: the 12th graders against the rest of the school. I wish I could be there for it.

Kofi gave me lots of school budget and inventory information. The budget is tiny, and after expenditures, he had a balance of about 26 cedis in the bank (about $18). He was thrilled about the scholarship I donated on behalf of my colleagues in the States so that his most promising student could take the national graduation exam, and also deeply appreciative of the supplies I brought. In his office I explained to him that one of my dear friends had also made a special contribution and asked me to give it to the school most in need. I determined it to be the Refugee Community School. I said that gift was to be used for the students, not for the office. Then I pulled out the new laptop with an 8-hour battery. He was overjoyed. “Now, finally, my students can touch a computer!” he said. “And I can carry it from class to class!” He had me take a photo of him with the computer while he held a photo of the donor, and he stapled the donor’s photo on his office bulletin board.

In the 12th grade, Kofi announced the scholarship donation as well as the student who will receive it. Her name is Fatu, from the southwest section of Liberia.

I met up with Peter and Grace in the afternoon. I wonder how I would have managed another day. My body has finally caved with various system shutdowns. Once we got to their place back at the University of Ghana Legon, I took a quick shower and lay down for two hours. It will be good to have the couple days there before the 30 hour travel back to the States.

26 January - Carolyn Miller and a fishing village

Carolyn Miller is a 1-9 school that is free,’ though the children must wear uniforms. I spent 15-20 minutes in each grade. Every time I walked into a class, all the students stood and said in unison, “Good morning, visitor. How are you this morning?” I responded “I am fine, thank you. How are you?” And they replied, “We are also fine, thank you. Welcome to our __ grade class.” I saw no one using or carrying a cane in this school.

Grade 9 was studying aggregates and talking about sand as a common aggregate used in Africa. The teacher pointed out the uses in an African context as compared to in developed countries. When I visited Grade 8, the students were having a “pre-technical pictorial drawing class” in which they were working on perspective drawing. Grade 7 was reducing fractions to their lowest common denominator as well as working with exponents and square roots. I also saw cross-multiplying and basic algebra on the board.

The Grade 6 class was learning about STDs. The lecture combined sophisticated terms and language with religion and a bit of misinformation. The teacher said that God said we should only have sex in marriage. He also said they could catch syphilis from toilet seats. On the other hand, he used clinical terms for specific germs and had the students repeating terms such as gonorrhea, syphilis, and AIDS. He spoke of the importance of prenatal care and of the need for personal hygiene. It has to be tough to maintain when you live in a place with no running water.

The fifth graders asked questions of me. They wondered about the care of orphans in the US, classes in the States, teaching methods. I learned that here, the teachers, not the students, move from class to class for upper level classes. This class was learning about exponents, mixed fractions, and equivalent fractions. When a student responds individually (rather than a group response), that student stands to give the answer. After some group and individual responses, the teacher gave the class several problems he wrote on the board to work on paper.

Grade 4 was working on learning about water: “Water in the river is dirty because is has impurities. Pure water has no smell, no taste, no color.” Papers taped to the wall had information about the Protestant Reformation, endangering the environment, and similes and suffixes.

The third grade was learning about computers and other electronic devices. This school does have 5 old, but running computers that are connected to the Internet. This is rich, even in comparison to the new UN school. In second grade, the children were taking a spelling quiz. They would stand one at a time, face the back of the room, and the teacher would go through the words on the board that they had to spell out loud: station, sleeping, direction, remember, embrace, jacket, salvation, struggle, citizen, and rainbow. And first grade was studying masculine, feminine, common, and neuter nouns. The teacher would say something like, “I have two dusters in my hand. Which one is the female?” The class responded, “Neither.” So they are called what? Neuter gender.

Kojo brought Milike to the school so I could donate the secondary school scholarship money through him. I told Kojo I had to split money and school supplies I brought between the three schools and gave him 80 cedi’s to use for children who needed a uniform but could not afford it. I felt he might be a bit disappointed. I’m feeling that people seem to expect more than I can give. Certainly the stereotype is that Americans are all rich and can afford it, and certainly, in comparison to the refugees, we are. Still, our relative wealth has its limits. As I look around the camp and the greater environs – local communities – I have to wonder what massive amount of money would make a difference.

The school held a drumming and dancing assembly in my honor, and it was fantastic. I will add photos to this blog when I get home – without my photo software I haven’t been able to load them properly. At the end, most of the kids wanted to touch me – it’s an odd feeling. I have a couple wonderful pictures surrounded by the students. I do love their spirit in spite of such difficult lives.

Abeeku collected Serwa and me and dropped Serwa off for a hair appointment. We stopped at a dressmaker. He and Serwa had a Ghanaian dress made for me! It is quite beautiful, of green, blue, and white. We then drove on to another seacoast fishing village. In the car, Abeeku tried again to hold my hand. I told him that in the States only people who are a couple do that. He continues to tell me how much he will miss me and wants to call me every day. It’s getting tiring to be diplomatic.

A long-standing debate in anthropology is the problem of “exoticizing” so-called "primitive cultures." Ironically, I feel more like a creature on display here than the conditions I am trying to observe and photograph. Even traveling in the car with the windows down, people stare and kids chant “Obruni!” Perhaps part of Abeeku’s behavior is that he is championing around the lone Obruni in his community that he feels he can touch at will.

The fishing village was very dusty – there is very little grass anywhere – with strong smells of dead fish in the heat and throngs of people trying to sell things. Masses of shrimp were lying on thin cloths on the ground. I watched hens and a goat scamper through it just before I could snap a photo.

We watched fishermen mending their nets, and I enjoyed watching some children swim in the ocean. On our return to the car, Abeeku saw a woman carrying large sea snails on her head that he decided he had to buy. After a long bargaining session, she began to cut the shells away from the flesh with a large, dull knife. This took about an hour. Fortunately, we ate the fish Serwa bought from a woman yesterday, and not the snails, for dinner tonight.

25 Jan - new UNHCR School; Winneba

Serwa said we would leave by 7, but we left just before 9. Abeeku ended up driving Elizabeth all the way to Accra to borrow the car. I thought we would get an earlier taxi, but we didn’t.

We did walk to an intersection in hopes of getting a taxi. As we passed a mother her three children, the kids smiled and began chanting “Obruni! Obruni!”(It means "white person.") I guess I’ll remember that word.

I felt good to get to Serwa’s school. She arranged a meeting with the teachers. They went one by one telling me what they wanted – books, computers (they only have one or two), a tank for water collection, a feeding program, transportation for the kids who live far away, more supplies, sports equipment. One woman even pulled me aside and asked if I could find her a man in the States. I laughed and said, “I can’t even find one for myself!” She laughed and didn’t press me further. The male 6th grade teacher asked for pen pals – now that, I can do. I explained to them all that I cannot promise anything, but I will apply for a grant.

I started in Serwa’s kindergarten room. The kids were very sweet. I went through a couple pages in their text book, then I told them the story of my blind horse, Magic. I had them laughing as I acted out how he would trip if I didn’t teach him “up” and “down.” There was another teacher in the class that liked to swing her cane around. Every teacher has canes. I noticed more snapping of them and carrying them with the early grades (through 2nd) and not in the older grades, though they were available. Serwa did not carry one.

I went to the other kindergarten teacher. She was more stern and didn’t seem to have good management skills. While she was looking at some children’s coloring, three kids on the other side of the room were hitting each other with their shoes. One got up, to tell I think, and she hurried him back to his seat. Another was sound asleep at his desk. She scolded one for coloring out of the lines. To the boys who colored the girl instead of the boy, she said to the class that they were now girls. Homosexuality is a crime in Ghana. She did smile a few times and tell some children they did very good, beautiful.

We went out for recess. I was having trouble turning off the flash on my camera. Every time it went off, the children screamed (in delight). They tried to play with the jump ropes I brought. One girl was quite good; I think they have not done much with jump ropes.

When we went back, I began the rounds, starting with first grade. They were working on ones and tens. They use a lot of lecture and group repetition. When the teacher is pleased with a child’s answer or the class, she may say, Good! Clap for this child, or Clap for yourselves. After class recitations and individual answers on ones and tens, the teacher placed several examples on the board for them to do silently at their desks. Later in the day, this class was working on active verbs in English. With the younger grades the teachers use native language and English.

The second graders were drawing rainbows. The teacher was looking for evenness in the bands and seven colors. In third grade, the teacher was working on organs, specifically, the senses. Again, there was much use of class repetition. For instance, when one child volunteered that eyes were an organ, he said, “Very good! Eyes are an organ.” Class, Say ‘Eyes are an organ.’ The class said the sentence. The teacher repeated; the class repeated. And again, a third time. He also quizzed them on the functions of the sense organs.

In fourth, the children were converting from grams to kilograms. The teacher was showing them how to move over three places. I missed the fifth grade. I was very interested in the sixth grade that the teacher had citizenship education written on the board and under it, domestic violence, abuse, and disputes. He was talking about parents and fights and some things that cause them to fight.

Kojo came by before I could get back to the 5th grade and asked me to walk to the Carolyn Miller School. He had some of the children working on drawings for me. (On Sunday I gave him a sketch pad and asked if students would draw from one of these themes: what makes them happy, a story about their lives, or the bravest thing they ever did.) They are going to be amazing. I asked him about making a contribution for the children to take their exams to get into senior high, and he told me that UNHCR pays for that. They do not pay for the national exams at the end of senior high, though, so some promising students cannot apply to university. I asked how I could donate money for the kids for a few scholarships. He suggested Milike, their chair of education on the camp (and former minister of education in Liberia).

He walked me back to the UNHCR school, and Abeeku collected Serwa and I, I thought, for a trip to the ocean. I am sure they are being gracious by Ghanaian standards. But by US white middle class educated culture – all of their actions this afternoon were completely new to me, and I struggled to remain patient and calm. Samuel keeps repeating, Professor Jody! Are you happy? Are you enjoying yourself? We want you to feel at home. Of course, “at home” for me includes a great share of independence, and here I am very much at the mercy of my hosts.

We spent at least an hour for Abeeku to decide what kind of oil and where to buy it for the car. Then we went to the University of Winneba, Serwa’s undergrad school, so she could pick up some transcripts and get someone to write her a recommendation. That had to take two hours. By then I didn’t feel like going to the ocean. I felt filthy from the sand and dust blowing onto my sweaty skin all day, and I wanted to get some work done before tomorrow. But we went anyway, and the road was overrun with people and market sheds. It was barely wide enough for one car, Then I discovered that they were actually looking for somebody. It was a pastor to whom Abeeku wanted to sell a suit. We finally found the guy and traveled the rutted roads to his house where I was left in the car for a while. I got out to take a photo and the car alarm went off (it goes off at nearly any touch or movement).

I was asked to come in. One of the pastor’s children, a toddler-aged boy screamed in fright when I came in – he had never seen a white person. All the conversation was in Fanti so I couldn’t follow what was going on. I was getting beyond weary. Finally, they said we would leave. Then the pastor had to say a lengthy prayer. We went outside and they visited some more. I was starting to get cranky. FINALLY we left. Then we stopped at another market where they knew the woman, but not for long.

Abeeku is making me uncomfortable. He will hold my hand, entwining his fingers in mine, call me Professor Jody! repeatedly and for no reason – he just seems to like to say it, tell me he will visit me, ask to embrace me (I politely refused), tell me he will miss me and wants to call me every day. I’m not sure if it is because I am like a novelty that he sees as bringing status or something else, but I am not used to being treated in this way, and I don’t like it.

24 January - Sunday at Serwa and Abeeku's Home

Ghana comes to life early in the morning. I slept fitfully, as the pillows were hard and lumpy, and the linens smelled of goat. I smell of goat.

When I came out of my room, Serwa asked me to come look at the chicken she bought. It was alive and in a bag in the kitchen. She gave me a huge plate of fried plantains and vegetables for breakfast. I asked her to please give me smaller amounts. I don’t want to insult her, but in this heat, I cannot eat large plates full of spicy and heavy foods. I tried explaining to Serwa and Abeeku that when it is very hot, Americans tend to eat light.

Serwa stayed home to cook, and I went to the Pentecostal Church with Abeeku. All the women sat on the right and the men on the left, but Abeeku insisted that I sit with him, so that made me a bit uncomfortable. I was impressed that for this particular service, most of the talks were led by women. I got that they had recently returned from a women’s conference. There was a woman soloist with a beautiful, powerful voice. The prayers reminded me of what one would hear in a fundamentalist Christian church in the US. This was the first time I’ve heard speaking in tongues since I was an undergrad. Near the end, I had to go to the front of the church and introduce myself. As a confirmed agnostic, I find the religious atmosphere challenging. It is even more than one finds in the US bible belt.

Abeeku continues to tell me he must visit me in the US, and they’ve asked me if I can send several of netbooks to them from the States. I worry that the expectations of the people here are far beyond my capabilities.

When we returned to the house, I pulled out my computer to take some notes. Abeeku was quite interested. He asked me who taught me to use the computer, and I came to realize that he had never been on one, though he has bought and sold several. So I opened Word and showed him how to type his address.

We sat on the front porch in the afternoon, and Serwa came outside with Abeeku’s cousin Gideon carrying a large wooden bowl, a tall wooden pole, a bowl of water, and chopped plantain and cassava to make fu-fu, the staple carbohydrate of Ghanaians. You pound the vegetables and gradually add water until it looks like a great wad of pie crust mix. I had a hand at it and also brought out the camcorder, another gadget Abeeku saw as a new toy. I tactfully said I needed to save the space for my work.

Gideon is applying for university. He had about a 33 on his national exam. He wants to be a graphic designer. Apparently Abeeku is his guardian. Peter later told me that if you do worse than 24 you won’t get into a good Ghanaian university.

Serwa brought me a bowl with a large wad of fu-fu on the bottom covered with a spicy peanut soup and topped with a chicken leg. The soup was good, but the spice made me fight back sneezing. The fu-fu is pretty tasteless, but heavy, once again. More than I could eat. The chicken was good, but I was expected to eat it all – I mean bones and all. I told Serwa we don’t eat bones in the US, and she was happy to eat them for me.

Oh, I forgot to mention, I had to eat this meal completely with my right hand. I don’t mean a utensil in my right hand. I mean with my HAND. It was just one more interesting experience for this baby to the culture (me).

I got a slight mental break during the Ghana Angola football match 4-6 (Ghana won). As I watched, I was dripping sweat. I noticed the scent of chicken fat mixed with sweat hanging in the air. I suddenly felt exhausted.

23 January - Buduburam

Happy birthday, Katie!

Peter, Grace, and I left for Buduburam just past 9 and arrived around 10:45. En route, our driver Samuel (pronounced Samwell) thought a bus would let him out. It didn’t, and we had our front bumper scraped. Many of the roads are dirt and deeply rutted, others are a combination of dirt and broken pavement, and where the pavement is good, drivers fly. The roads are narrow, and I am reminded of what a Roman cab driver once said to me: “A millimeter is enough.” Indeed, that’s about all that vehicles here get.

Open markets and people carrying tall heavy wares on their heads are everywhere along the roads. I wonder how so many of them manage to sell enough. EVERYTHING is named after God: God’s Mercy Beauty Salon, Paradise Keys made here, Jesus Saves Used Vehicles, God is Great Fast Foods, In God We Trust Quality Sandals, Guinness/Father Forgive Them. My favorite so far is “Blessed Driving School.” One can only hope.

I will admit my heart skipped a beat when we pulled into the camp. I had to mentally punch myself and say, What did you expect? The Hilton? Grace noticed obituary and arrangement notices taped to the concrete walls. I’ve been told there is no day you are more famous than the day of your funeral. It takes up a whole weekend. You can tell the women going to funerals by their black and white dresses.

[NOTE: All names of camp residents are psyeudonyms.]
We were met by the Ghana government camp manager, a very nice man named Dzifa. We were joined by the Buduburam Refugee Community Secondary School principal, Kojo of the Carolyn Miller Elementary School, the chief security officer Elolo, chief social work counselor, and Serwa, the teacher I am staying with. I got so much information this afternoon that I am having difficulty remembering it all. Dzifa said a great deal about the camp and his opinion about problems resulting from UNHCR management. He said that very few have been resettled from there, and in 2007, the UN left the camp in hopes of pressuring the residents to repatriate to Liberia. But the package they offer to return is only transportation and $100 USD. That’s it; then you’re on your own. They are trying to work out a reintegration package into Ghana, but he does not expect it to be sufficient. He felt that if the UNHCR had put the money into repatriation that they put into building and sustaining the camp, everyone would have returned. On the other hand, there are children who were born in the camp and whose parents have died. They have no connections to Liberia. The camp was opened 20 years ago. He said that many of the people still believe they will be resettled if they wait long enough, and they believe that America is like a paradise. I could understand that – the worst conditions I can think of in the U.S. are better than some I saw in the camp today. Then again, here they are familiar with the culture and customs, they have one another, and though their shelter may be in a metal shed on dirt, they are not homeless.

When Serwa arrived, we went to her house to deposit my belongings. She and her husband Abeeku live off the camp. Their home is nice by Ghana standards. The floor is concrete, but they have electricity and a shower and toilet. The neighborhood is off on deeply rutted dirt roads, and the air is strong of goat scent. They have a fan they are using to keep me cool, and they are very kind.

We went back to the camp office, and Peter and Grace left. I went on with Kojo, Serwa, another administrator for the Miller School, and the HS principal, Kofi. We stopped first at the high school. The rooms are small, and there are only some desks and a blackboard. They teach computer science, but the school only has one computer that is used in the office, no internet. The principal has a proposal for bringing in computers. His students pay 55-70 cedi’s/year to attend (70 is about $50 US).

Then we went to the Carolyn Miller School. Also poor, it has a small library and a computer room with five working old computers and internet service. Kofi told me stories of finding various benefactors that helped build the school and equip it. He used to have a high school there but had to close it down after 2007.

Serwa’s school is a new building built by the UN. The children do not have to pay tuition. The rooms are small but new and nice. Her kindergarten room was loaded with books and supplies (something I did not see in the other schools).

After, Kofi came with Serwa and I to her house. First, though, we stopped at the market. I was the only white face in the sea of throngs of black people.  The smells and the ground and the sights in the market were a bit overwhelming for me, this privileged white woman used to refrigerated meats and produce in an air-conditioned grocery store.

There were piles of dried or smoked fish in the hot, open air. Serwa stopped to buy pork – again, unrefrigerated, open in the hot sun all day - where a man took a cleaver and hacked it up on a piece of bloody cardboard for her. Dinner. I slipped and ended up getting sprayed with some kind of liquid. I had no idea what it was.

When we got to the house, she began to prepare dinner, and Kofi and I talked. He told me about the protest in 2007 when the refugees thought the Ghana government was hiding them and not allowing the US to resettle them. So they planted themselves in a field along the road and would not move for the officials – they wanted to be seen. He said that the Ghanaian government rounded up women and children and brought them far away to a wilderness for several weeks amidst snakes and scorpions then brought them back. He said that resulted in some people returning to Liberia.

He also told me that women came and begged him to close his school. He said that they believed if the children stopped going, then the UNHCR would take pity on them and resettle them. When he refused, they came back with community members and surrounded the school, telling him they would stone it if he did not close the school. He stood up to them, and they left.

Dinner was a huge plate of spicy rice, vegetables, and chewy pork Serwa bought a couple hours ago. After, we went to their friend Elizabeth’s house – a very nice home in the neighborhood with marble floors. She was quite sweet. She works at the ministry of the interior and her husband is an economist.

I found it very challenging to explain American politics – Republicans/Democrats, conservatives/liberals. I found myself oversimplifying a great deal, i.e., most Republicans are conservative, favor big business and military; most Democrats are liberal, believe in social welfare, health care, education.

We talked a bit about foods, and I said we eat lots of chicken. So Serwa said she’d go buy a live fowl in the morning and kill it for dinner. So much work to prepare a meal! I am so spoiled.