Kwabena's African Soccer Debut

I thought my soccer career was over when I handed in West Point's uniform more than two years ago. But last Saturday I joined the Marfokrom Under-17 team to play in a two day tournament in a nearby village. The experience was sensational, and the details are many. Rather than make this into a full length Sports Illustrated story I'll focus on the highlights: football ages, singing and dancing, and match-fixing.

This was a travel soccer tournament. But rather than load up the team's minivan-caravan in a hotel parking lot, our team met at the fork in the road that serves as the center of Marfokrom and walked a mile down the road to Otoase, the village hosting the tournament. When we arrived we watched a few of the first matches, as there were three age groups of four teams at the tournament: Under-12, Under-14, and Under-17. Why, as a 21 year old, I was invited to play, was a confusing question initially. Enter football ages.

I'm 21 years old. But my football age is evidently less than 17, as no one seemed to have a problem with me joining the U-17 Marfokrom team for the competition. As I would later learn, every player in Africa has a 'football age' and an actual age. In fact, I was one of the youngest players in the starting 11 at age 21; our forwards were both 25 and our goalie was 28. Thus, the U-17 age bracket serves as the men's league. After seeing the cuts, scrapes, and bruises that I left with (no shinguards in Africa), I'd hate to see what would happen to a kid under the age of 17 who attempted to play in this league legally.

What was more fascinating than the football ages was the pre-game rituals. After suiting up in our Arsenal jerseys, we began to prepare for the match. As a warm-up we simply ran in a circle for about 10 minutes, and then passed a ball between ourselves briefly. But the real excitement came with the singing and dancing that ensued following the stretching. In a very tight circle, with the captain standing in the middle leading us, we clapped, sang, and danced. Though I didn't know most of the songs, I did recognized a few from church. We sang about seeing "Jesus standing on a corner singing Alleluia day by day," and then concluded with what amounted to a remix of the Lord's prayer. The captain then led our team in an actual prayer (a child translated roughly for me), and then we joined hands in rows of two to walk onto the pitch. This type of warm-up definitely trumps the solitude of listening to your iPod alone in a dressing room or hearing a drawn out pep-talk. When it was time for kick off, these guys were loose and ready to go.

What I love about soccer/football/futbol is that no matter which continent you play it on, the game trumps any language barrier that might exist. Our coach 'featured' me at center-midfield, a position that relies on communication to direct traffic and through balls through the middle of the pitch. Still, I was able to play confidently and use the simple phrases "ba bra" (come, pass the ball) and "coh bra" (pass and go) to work with the surrounding players. I was pretty rusty, but managed to play well enough that the supporters were pleased with the "obruni's" (white man's) performance. Every header and pass was echoed with the crowd's happy approval and shock at my participation, as an American, in the world's game.

Our team tied the first game 1-1, lost the second 1-0 on a last minute header, and lost the last match 3-1 after we sold it so another team could get 1st place (no kidding). The latter practice is called match-fixing. After our bad luck in the second match, I was psyched to go out and get a win in the third match to finish respectively, with a win, a loss and a draw. My team had different ideas. In the first half of the last match I set up our team's one goal, collecting an assist before sprinting my hardest to catch the goal scorer as he darted to the corner for his celebratory dance with the team. But in the second half I was taken out, and our team gave up three goals in quick succession. Confused, I asked our captain why we broke down; and worse why he did a somersault after the final whistle. "Because we sold the match," came his simple reply.

We sold our final match because win or lose we wouldn't have gotten first place, so we wouldn't have collected any prize money. But by selling the match to the champion, we could collect a small share of the reward and come out with something to show for the weekend's efforts. Fascinating. Morally appalling... but fascinating. It was an amusing ending to a tournament that I will not soon forget.

Internet Cafe Computer Lessons

Most children in the village where we live have never seen a computer before. There isn't a single computer in our village, as the internet is far too expensive and the capabilities of a computer are completely unknown. A few of the people in the village have e-mail addresses that they check monthly, or whenever they can get to a computer with a broadband connection.

For this reason, my most rewarding trip to the nearest internet cafe came last Friday afternoon, when I spent an hour teaching a 12 year old girl named Adwoa (the same girl whose parents invited me to dinner Wednesday, see "How to Eat Banku") about the parts of the computer, and how to type in Microsoft Word.

Watching her react to the appearance of letters on the screen that coincided with her pressing 'keys' was magical. I let her type whatever she could, in English and then in her local language, and then printed a picture of her using the computer, with the words "My name is Adwoa, I am 12 years old, I live in Marfokrom," printed below. She tucked the printout neatly into her bag, and told me she couldn't wait to show her mother.

The internet will soon spread to more and more parts of Ghana, which will quickly close the knowledge and development gap, as more use it for learning, studying current events, and accessing the global marketplace. To take just one example, our 'counterparts' who we are assisting sew quilts that they eventually sell on e-bay to Americans for a price four-times what they would sell for in Ghana. With this in mind, I'm convinced iSolutions are coming to Ghana very soon. But for Adwoa, typing for an hour alone was an overwhelming introduction to the magic of computers.

How to Eat Banku

Adwoa (pronounced Awed-jo-wah), one of the third grade children I each here, invited me to her house Wednesday night to have dinner with her mom and dad. I have a lot I could write about Adwoa, who has become a favorite of our group's for her smiles, manners, and English speaking ability, but for now I'll stay focused on dinner. Enter Banku.

I learned how to eat Banku on the fly last night. What I thought would be a cordial conversation and introduction to the parents of one of my students turned into dinner and a movie. And just as you only need one TV for many to enjoy a movie, you only need one bowl for many to enjoy Banku. So Adwoa, her father, her baby sister, her mother's brother, and I shared a bowl of Banku, dipping our sticky hands back into the bowl after each finger-licking-good bite.

Banku is a corn-based dish that is served hot in a bowl, in addition to a soup of some sort. It's eaten with your right hand (using your left hand for anything, especially food, is taboo as it is reserved for hygiene purposes), so prior to the meal a bowl of soapy water is passed around for all to use to wash only their right hands.

The meal was a phenomenal experience. The language barrier was difficult with Adwoa's non-english speaking parents, but Adwoa translated a few of their sentences to me that came through crystal clear: I should enjoy the Banku, come again on another night, and take Adwoa home to the United States with me once she finishes her high school education.

I told them, politely, that I could do 2 out of the 3; it was what I couldn't do that broke my heart. For now, I'll just continue to enjoy the Banku.

Adwoa, above, in her school uniform, accessorized with some of our group's stickers.

Omelets and More

You just can't beat the smiles that come with a hot egg sandwich and a bottle of bubbles. The Kumasi market was exhilarating last weekend, the soccer match was thoroughly entertaining, and our beach trip was tremendous, but the memories I'll cling to most when I leave Ghana in two weeks will likely be the little ones, like those formed around a small cooking pan and an open fire.

After taking notes on how to make a quality omelet or egg sandwich from the master street vendors in Kumasi, I crunched the numbers on ingredient costs and found that I could cook omelets for myself and a dozen friends for the cost of a Big Mac meal from the McDonald's menu at home. So we - my 8-10 year old friends and I - collected the ingredients and got to work.


Once the fire gets going, the simple egg omelets with onions and toasted bread take only a few minutes to make. And as the pictures show, many hands make light work.

As each omelet comes off the fire, we split it into as many different pieces as there are mouths present, and throw another egg on the pan. The smiles, laughs, songs, and appreciation of the kids for the simple treats, all added to the great taste of the end product, are more than worth the ingredient costs.

When we're not cooking, we sing songs, kick a soccer ball around, and share the bottles of bubbles that I brought to pass around. Each one brings its share of smiles that I won't soon forget. I can get all of the ingredients to make plenty of omelets back home - but I'll miss the company the most.

Football Fabulous

Kumasi's famous soccer team has a call sign its supporters use when passing on the street: the initiator yells "Fabu!" (short for Fabulous, the club's nickname), and he expects to hear "Kotoko!" in reply. Wearing the red uniform of Kumasi Ashanti Kotoko I executed this passing ritual every 50 paces or so this morning.

Today was gameday in Kumasi. It was the last day of the season in the Ghanaian premier league, and the first day that I have ever witnessed a live African soccer match. I picked a good one to attend, too, as the game pitted two clubs from Kumasi against each other: Ashanti Kotoko and King Faisal. Ashanti Kotoko is the club with the largest support base across the country and possibly across Africa, so I'm guilty as charged to the claims of jumping on the bandwagon. Even so, it's difficult not to like a team with the swagger of the Yankees, a history that involves its inception by an Ashanti tribal king, and a porcupine as a mascot.

I attended the match with my trusted guide Adjei (pictured with me in front of the stadium's gates), an arist and friend of our team's Ghanaian counterparts. Like in England, hooliganism puts a stain on the game of football in Ghana. Adjei helped me look out for violent fans and thieves, both of which we saw at the match.

Two Kotoko fans and 'tigo' (a cell phone service provider) phone vendors, who gave me a free shirt like the one the girl has on, in exchange for getting a picture with me on their phones.

It was an exhilirating spectacle. Two goals were scored - one by each side - in the opening 10 minutes. Two more beautiful goals later the match ended in a 2-2 draw.

The football match essentially came with a soundtrack, as a band complete with drums and trumpets started playing music and leading chants during the warm-up period and didn't stop until well after the final whistle. The crowds were at once passionate and intelligent about the sport and their team (a rarity at American sporting events), and enjoyed watching me stand and chant, cheer and sing right along with the locals.

The King Faisal players celebrate a goal by running towards the crowd.

Adjei and I were dissapointed when the final whistle blew, as we wanted to see the Kotoko side come out with a win instead of a draw. But alas, that's football. And today it was fabulous.

Supporters of the Kumasi Ashanti Kotoko football club.

Kumasi's Central Market

A trip the market in Africa is like doing your Christmas-Eve shopping in a mega mall with only used car salesmen as vendors. The crowds are endless and the salesmen are aggressive. Shop after shop are lined next to each other for miles in every direction, creating a scene that looks (and smells) like shots fromSlumdog Millionaire.

Kumasi, Ghana's second largest city and home to the largest market in West Africa was the destination for our team's second weekend getaway. So far, I've found that it's a good place to find bargain priced soccer jerseys, learn about the culture of the ancients in Ghana, and enjoy a roadside omelet.

We had the opportunity to tour the palace of the most renowned tribal king in Ghana (of the Ashanti tribe) and visit a few crafting and potery villages, but time spent in the marketplace has been the highlight by far.

The market's merchandise options are many. There are vendors who specialize in cleaning and selling shoes (my new Nike Sandals cost less than $10, my friend's new Teva's only $3), to those who sell chickens, to silverware and dining sets, to Bibles, to apparel, and just about everything else in between.

While in the market, there are a variety of refreshments to choose from. Bread and margarin (2 dimes), pure drinking water (3 pennies), cornbread (dime and a nickel), and plantain-chips (35 cents) are what I usually opt for, while many of the girls buy the ice-cream packets (a quarter) at every opportunity. Each of these delicacies is served in style, too, as the vendors carry their products on their heads, hands-free most of the time, as they bob and weave through the hustle and bustle of the market. My favorite treat remains the roadside grilled corn and fresh omelets. The omelets aren't difficult to make, but when the professionals do it (the 10-12 year old girls and their mothers) they toast the bread to perfection and pack the veggies in with the eggs just right, all in about 3-4 minutes flat. And for the American equivalent of 2 quarters per omelet, you can't beat the price.

Shopping in the market is a contact sport. Elbows and shoulders bump constantly, children grab at your arms to try to drag you to their mom's establishment, and taxis and tro-tros screaming down the side roads turn walking down narrow streets lined with gutters into quite the balancing act. My highlight was yesterday, dragging a child on my arm, being followed by a middle-aged woman who wanted me to take her home with me to America, ducking my head and shoulders to avoid the massive bowls full of merchandise the young girls carried on their heads, and watching my feet so as not to step on the loose chickens that had escaped their owner's nets. A bit more hectic than the Midland Mall.

The most exciting part? Bargain prices. The common saying is that "there are no fixed prices in Africa." So depending on your approach, you can walk up to a vendor and name your price, or ask his, in what becomes a spar for a compromise somewhere in the middle. This is at once the most enjoyable and the most stressful part of shopping anywhere in Ghana, as the vendors will surely hike the price when they see a foreign skin color. The cards I play are to say that I'm a volunteer (which lowers the price slightly from 'tourist' level) and a football fan (which amounts to a brief conversation each time that shaves off a few cedis) first, before demonstrating that I speak and understand much of the native language, and know when I'm being told the "obruni" (white man's) price rather than the "obibini" (black man's price). I always want the obibini price, of course. And while I'm sure I never quite get it, I like to think I get close. All of this, of course, takes time, begging the question of whether it's worth 10 minutes to save a quarter on a soccer jersey. Maybe it is - maybe it isn't. But to pay the face value is not only a lame attempt to engage in the pursuit of a lower price, but also an insult to the Ghanaians, who expect to have to work for a high price on each sale.

What makes it all worthwhile is the glimpse into an entirely unique style of business transactions and commercialism. The public aspect of the culture is made especially clear in the markets, where salesmen often seem just as interested in socializing with one another as they do in making their sales. Amid the excitement of the market I've had many conversations about soccer (I'm headed to a match here Sunday afternoon), my family life, and the culture in Kumasi.

So during the Day-after-Thanksgiving sales this November, when folks around are yelling, falling, and stressing, I'll be thankful for my training in the markets of Kumasi.

Our Living Conditions

Bucket showers, cooking over an open fire, mosquito nets... this is the way we live. Our 'compound' is a quarter mile down the road from the village of Marfokrom, the community in which we teach. So far we've established collectively that the compound isn't as nice as the hotels we've opted to stay in during our weekend escapes; nor is it malaria-proof, as multiple members of our team have been side-lined with malaria-related illnesses (maybe myself included, though the nightly 103 degree fevers have gone away thanks to antibiotics).

A few small inconveniences notwithstanding, our living conditions still far exceed those of the children we work with. Keeping this in mind helps most of us keep the complaining to a minimum. Some of the nuances of village life in Africa are worth explaining:

The bucket shower was surprisingly easy to get used to. The picture displays all of the necessary equipment needed to indulge in one of these cleaning rituals: a bucket full of water and a smaller bucket or bowl. The idea is to recycle whatever water you can over the course of the bath. Starting with your hair, you wash yourself over the bucket, reusing much of the then soapy water for arms, legs, etc. The girls with longer hair definitely have it the worst.

Cooking over an open fire has been an adventure for all of us. After four girls on our team went to the hospital with food poisoning caused by improper cooking a few weeks ago, we've taken the practice quite seriously. We cook our meals on what the locals call a "kropot," taking turns sharing the duties. The first picture shows Solomon, one of our local counterparts, helping me prepare omelets for the group a few days ago.

Mosquitoes feed at night, which makes sleeping under a mosquito net imperative. This picture of the mat I've slept on all summer captures the essence of my bedroom. It's not memory foam, but it gets the job done.

Ghanaian Ping-Pong

I've learned that playing table-tennis here is a good way to make friends, earn trust, and learn about Ghanaian culture. But it's not quite the same as it is back home.

In Michigan, I have a ping-pong table in my basement. It's a beautiful table with hardly a scratch on the surface. Our paddles are well kept, and if they ever started to tear I used to drive out to a local sports store to replace them with the new, cool, professional-style paddles. My basement's floor is also flat.

Over here in Ghana - where I'm convinced that 'table tennis' (not ping-pong) is the second most popular sport behind soccer - the playing conditions and equipment are a bit different. The table wasn't bought, but built. The paddles, some of which are wrapped in black electric tape, have been used for an endless number of hours on every day that it hasn't rained (and on some that it has) for over a year. And the wooden surface (rotted and slanted in some corners) sits upon a slight hill next to the main road through the village, requiring players to alternate sides at the end of the first game, and halfway through the third game, to be fair.


Over the course of the last few weeks, I've played more than a hundred games of table tennis, and count each of the more than 20 competitors I've faced as a new friend. Initially, most were surprised to learn that the 'obruni' knew how to play the game at all. But after watching me win more than I tend to lose, and do it with a smile and a handshake after each match, the guys in the village now count me as a respectable opponent.

Because of the emphasis on community, trust and integrity are the backbone of a Ghanaian's reputation. Playing table tennis allows me to prove my value of fair play, honesty (did the ball hit the side or top of the table?), and integrity over time.

And the greatest part of it all? The players are incredible. Playing in basement ping-pong tournaments back in the day prepared me somewhat for the talent pool here. But, for better or worse, while American children are studying, riding bikes, going to organized sports practices and dance recitals and heading off to the mall, the children in Marfokrom (who aren't playing soccer) are playing table tennis. This accounts for why it took me over a week to beat the 12 year old boys here, and why I'm just now getting good enough to win consistently with some of my peers.

Kwabena the Preacher

My invitation to preach came two weeks ago, at the conclusion of a nightly church service held by the village's only congregation. Being that it was really more of an order than an invitation, I told them I was more than willing to speak for a few minutes during a Sunday service.

Reading from the book of James, I spoke to the church of about 30 members about how Christians are instructed to respond to trials. An interpreter translated after each of my sentences, and a child read the entire chapter (James 1) prior to the beginning of the service.

The highlight of the morning came when I neared the conclusion, and surprised the congregation by reaching for my second Bible, which was the Twi version. I closed with Hebrews 12:1, reading the text from the Twi Bible while the interpreter read from my English version.

The body of believers enjoyed sharing the morning's service with a Christian from across the Atlantic, and those of us from the group who attended thoroughly enjoyed the dancing and singing that goes along with the praise and worship here. It was a Sunday to remember.

The Crossroads Cup

While the arrival of President Barack Obama to Ghana may have been the primary focus of most Ghanaians last Friday, the Crossroads Cup was the main event in Marfokrom. The Crossroads Cup was a "football gala competition" (or, as we put it more simply in the U.S., 'tournament'). The event was a smashing success, despite the consistent rainfall throughout the day (reminiscent of the Midland Invitational Tournament back home) and the home team's heartbreaking second place finish.

The planning process stole most of my attention on Monday and Tuesday, as we invited six teams from local village primary schools to participate in the event held on Marfo's pitch. Tuesday we met to discuss rules, prizes, and 'balloting' with the school headmasters and the coaches. I explained the organization of the tournament: two groups of three, winners play for the silver Crossroads Cup, second place in each group play for 3rd place. A total of eight matches would be played starting at 11am. We agreed on 20 minute halves, a 36kg 'weight limit' for players (weighed before the matches), and that every team would get a prize for participating, while the winners received footballs and the cup. After the intense meeting came to a close, the men balloted for which group their schools would compete in, and left to inform their players to start training.

Friday morning school was canceled in Marfokrom for the event. The kids made final touches to the field with their machetes, built a shelter using bamboo and palm leaves for us to sit under, and put the nets on the goals. Meanwhile we tied the banner that our group painted to bushes next to the main entrance. All was ready for the arrival of the players and the opening kickoff.

Once the tournament itself was underway for a few minutes, I got goosebumps for the first time since my arrival here. Making this soccer tournament a reality for this community was one of the most rewarding things I have ever been part of. The games were close, the kids were soaking wet but still excited, and the spectators were so jittery that they encroached well onto the field from all sides.


On the sidelines, children beat drums and sang chants as the home team played its matches. The adults yelled out Cedi (dollar) amounts to the players, essentially offering bribes for the first goal, and yelled in the tribal language. By midday, the entire community and many members from the surrounding villages had shown up to the field to watch.

Fortunately for the spectacle, the home team emerged as the winner of the first group, which put them in the final match. The finish could have been taken right out of a movie's script, as a 0-0 tie forced the teams to resolve the match in a penalty shoot-out. With hundreds surrounding the goal and the 10-12 year old players, the shoot-out was quite the scene. Unfortunately, the home side lost, forcing us to let another village's team hoist the cup we purchased as the first prize.

Hugs, tears, high fives, smiles, and thank-yous were all shared with us as the prizes were presented. These kids aren't likely to ever make it to play on the world's stage with Ghana's great football heroes. But thanks to the Crossroads Cup, these kids had a chance to experience the thrill of competition to its fullest in Marfokrom on Friday, just like I did in the 'glory days' in Petoskey, Midland, and Ann Arbor.

Kokro bite - Weekend at the Beach

In Ghana, $50 covers a weekend at a Beach Resort. $3 for travel, $6 a night per person for lodging, $3-4 a meal for food, and a few left over for souvenirs. Not a bad gig!

Last weekend we left our village to just get away for a few days. The week prior several of the girls had gotten sick, Bryan was diagnosed (and recovered from, easily) Malaria, and emotions were running a bit high. The beach cured most of us. Kokro Bite, a small beach resort where you can take dance and drum lessons, play beach soccer endlessly, and challenge travelers from Ghana, England, and Holland to table tennis matches, was quite the spot.

The highlights of the beach are the fishing boats, barefoot games of soccer, the music, and the food. Scrambled eggs never tasted so good as they did on Sunday morning. The picture below is of one of the 2v2 matches I took part in. The little man on the right, Jodwenta, was my teammate.

The only stain on the team's weekend was money that went missing (theft suspected, unfortunately) and a girl's BlackBerry that got washed up with one of the high waves. Unfortunately those aren't waterproof yet.

Still, as the pictures show, it was a great time with lots of smiles and relaxation in a more hospitable area. A fantastic retreat.

The Tro-Tro

Want to lose weight? Find a fiance? Maybe just travel for cheap? You can do all of this and more on a simple ride on a Tro-Tro, the Astro-van-styled vehicles that dominate the public transportation scene.

Tro-Tros are privately owned shuttle vans driven down the poorly built roads of Ghana by a young man, usually between the age of 20 and 40. I haven't been able to find the life-expectancy of these drivers documented anywhere, but I would expect it is quite a bit below the national average of 59, due to the cruising speeds, road conditions, and other drivers. Some Tro-Tros have predefined routes that the drivers cruise, picking up passengers along the way. Others drive around at random, yelling "bra! bra!" (come! come!) as the locals walk by. Each driver is accompanied by a younger "mate" who collects the fares, recruits passengers, and keeps order in the overpacked vehicle, sometimes while literally hanging out the sliding side door. (We suspect the mate's life expectancy is much lower than that of the driver.)

Losing weight on the Tro-Tro happens, whether you like it or not. Mostly water-weight lost through sweat, as the vans pack in as many human beings as possible as they cruise the roads. When full, most Tro-Tros pack 24 into their vans (driver plus two on the front bench, five rows of four passengers, and the mate). But it's a bad idea to attempt to estimate the mate's idea of the van's capacity; on one trip from Accra to nearby Nsawam, our van packed almost 34, by my count. But with others laying on your arm, sitting on your lap, yelling passionately, or maybe all three while trying to breast-feed, it's hard not to shed a few pounds.

Getting engaged is a bit more rare, and I've yet to see it happen. However, I have witnessed several of the girls on our team be proposed to while cruising the pot-holed dirt roads. The romantics usually get right to the point: "Marry me, white girl, and take me to your country!" Any takers?

Travelling for cheap is by far the best takeaway of taking the Tro-Tro. Our 2-hour trek to the capital city, Accra, costs just 2 cedi ($1.40) a person. Soon - perhaps after another post - I'll depart this internet cafe to find a Tro-Tro that will take me back to my village, 20 minutes away, for 70 Pesewas (less than $0.50). Wish me luck!

Kwabena the 1st Grade Teacher

In America a lot of fuss is made about backpacks. Are they too heavy or awkward for our kids? Will they cause back problems later? Are children carrying too many books to and from school?

In Ghana nobody asks those questions. Instead, each morning every student in Marfokrom's primary school carries a stool on their head to and from school. Stacked on the stool, they often carry bread, drinking water, breakfast, or whatever else may be of use to the teacher or class. After waking up, they make a few trips to and from the well (80 lb. water jugs are also carried on their noggins), help mom with whatever else is needed, bathe quickly, throw on their blue school uniforms, and finally mount their stools to head off to school.


On this day they were reintroduced to their new 1st grade teacher, Kwabena. I had been out of commission since last Friday because of illnesses among my 'brothers and sisters' (six of our team members got grossly sick Sunday night, one with malaria, others with suspected food poisoning) and yesterday's Republic Day celebrations, Ghana's Independence Day. But today I returned to action, teaching and playing from 8am - 1pm.

Teaching is hard work. Maybe the understatement of the century. After 3o minutes of teaching English words (cow, cup, spoon, goat, etc.) to the kids from a book provided by World Vision, I looked at my watch and thought the day should have been over. But we were just getting started. We worked on English words, spelling, sounds, the alphabet, and ended with a review game before our 45 minute recess of soccer and 'waakye' (beans and rice).

Next was math, where we worked on basic subtraction until Kwabena lost complete control of the room. In a very poorly thought out attempt to restore attention, control, and order to the chaos, I took a bottle of bubbles out of my pocket. I regained the attention of the children, only to watch control and order dive completely off the deep end. The real teacher returned and laughed at the sight of 30+ schoolchildren crowded around the 'obruni' (white man) who wielded bubbles in his left hand and chalk in his right. Using his whip, the teacher reinstated order to the room through intimidation pretty quickly, and hijacked the remaining 30 minutes from my control.

Lots more to discuss about the school, but the pictures speak volumes about the learning conditions. Pens, pencils, paper, and chalk are all in short supply. The children are eager to learn, but lack access to resources that will enhance the quality of their education.

The lesson here is simple: instead of complaining about whether the Jansport or Nike book-bag supports the back best, we should first remember to be grateful that we are to be able to have books to fill a bag with at all. And when you get a minute, try balancing a stool on your head, too. It's harder than it looks!

This last picture was taken by one of the eight year old students, Adjowah. Few things are better than making a child smile. And between bubbles and a digital camera, this is not a difficult task.