Finding a Home in a Ghanaian Orphanage
My stomach dropped. Fecal matter was not my forte; I had never each changed a baby’s diaper, despite the fact that I had four nieces and a nephew. I guess this was just one of my many facets of living in an orphanage compound in Ghana , Africa , that I would have to learn to get used to.
“Bahhhh! Bahhhhh!” I heard behind me, startled by the inhumane sound.
“Get out!” Allision shouted, shooing the goat forcefully out of the house. “The goats, as well as the kids, aren’t supposed to come into the volunteer house. Both do anyway, as you will see.”
Yes, I could definitely see things were going to take some getting used to.
The house was simple yet clean and made of cement. There wasn’t always electricity so the house had a bit of a dim feel to it, and there seemed to be no end to the amount of drop-down spiders that liked to repel from their webs to get a closer look at you, but other than that and getting used to no toilet and taking cold bucket showers, things appeared to be pretty standard to my usual way of life. Couches in the living room, a bed and pillow, windows, more spiders…
“You can do this,” I thought to myself. “Travel isn’t just about laying on a beach in Aruba or scarfing pasta in Italy . It’s about immersing yourself in a culture as well as leaving a positive impact on those you come in contact with.”
Allision continued to explain the rules of the program. “We ask that volunteers play with the kids for at least five hours a day, although it’s really up to you. We had one girl who left last week who probably spent 20 minutes with them a day. She would just sleep all the time.”
“Why did she even bother signing up to volunteer at an orphanage in Ghana?” I asked.
“She said she had always wanted to visit Africa,” Allision snickered, rolling her eyes. “Do you want to meet the children?”
I hesitated a bit before nodding. I was still mentally adjusting to the fact that I would be bucket flushing other people’s shit for the next month. Maybe I should go for a walk first, although even that seemed a bit scary at this point. Finally, I lifted my feet and began following Allision. When would I ever be ready to meet 35 orphans who would be looking to me for help? I guess never, really, until I adjusted my mindset and moved forward.
The actual orphanage was only a few steps away on the other side of the dirt driveway. When we got to the gate, I paused for a moment, tightening my stomach and breathing deeply to help calm my nerves. Then, without letting myself think another thought, I stepped inside.
While I was expecting the scene to be something like on those UNICEF commercials, it wasn’t. It was more as if a playground full of children from my hometown had been teleported to rural Ghana. Half-deflated soccer balls and popped tires replaced the shiny new toys many American children played with, and I’m not sure the gyrating-inspired dance moves would have been deemed appropriate at my local Long Island primary school, but when you stripped away the cultural and class differences, these were simply children who just wanted to play.
Within moments I had three little boys tugging at my arms begging to be picked up while the older girls led me to their make-shift beauty salon to braid my hair. Although they asked me my name, they couldn’t seem to care less that I was a stranger; they just wanted someone to play patty cake and tag with.
There were a few elements of culture shock that took getting used to, simple things like learning how to wash the dishes and what was the appropriate way to greet someone. Yet, as the days wore on, these elements of discomfort were quickly replaced with a complete ease and assimilation into this enormous family.
At first I was a bit reserved, unsure what the protocol was for disciplining children. I would notice Nana throw his bother to the ground and literally kick him in the stomach until he was choking, or John chuck a rock at Portia’s head, and would merely whisper “That’s not nice” before inching away from the situation. These weren’t my kids, after all; who was I to yell at them?
It wasn’t until one day I witnessed an older boy, a man really, from the village slap one of the girls across the face in the orphanage’s living room. She ran out the door and down the street, half crying half in a rage, and I literally felt sick to my stomach. My mind didn’t have time to process the situation, however, as my instincts had me herding the children out the door as quickly as possible, away from the violent situation and to a safer place. I couldn’t even see or hear anything as the pounding of blood in my brain seemed to echo in my head so violently I was seeing red. I stood by the door making sure the man stayed inside. In that moment I knew, without a doubt, that these were my children and I would do anything to protect them.
Thinking back on my time at the orphanage, it was probably a myriad of things that helped me with the assimilation process; Wofa teaching me to dance and tickling me when I messed up, Issac making me a traditional snail lunch, Kristen relentlessly trying to teach me ” the debbie game” until I knew all the words to the song, Ruth and I staying up late washing our clothes and laughing at the funny noises the goats would make. These small almost insignificant moments were actually pretty damn significant, and when I put them all together I knew I’d found a second home.
When it came time to leave, I was no longer thinking about dirty toilets or drop-down spiders; I was thinking of my children. And even months later, I still think about them everyday and write to them from time to time. It’s comforting to know that no matter how much time passes, I’ll always have a home in Ghana.
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