Trashy bags

I have a friend who keeps sending me links to interesting stories about Ghana. (She too is in a mixed family).  This is great because it saves me having to look for them, or getting an RSS feed organised myself. The latest is the story of Trashy Bags, a venture in Ghana which recycles the gazillions of plastic bags that are thrown away every day. I was very pleased to hear about it because I was appalled by the plastic pollution when I was there, and it sounds like – except for this enterprise - it hasn’t changed much.

The problem is, that it is so hot there you have to drink all the time (at least I do),  or if not drink, then pour water over your head at frequent intervals. And at every street corner and lorry park, there are teenage girls (usually) hawking ice waterrrr. In plastic bags. You drop the used bag wherever you are standing cos there’s nothing else you can do with it. Until now – with Kwabena Osei Bonsu recycling the bags into fashion accessories. Can’t wait to get one.

My theory about the pollution is that until recently all packaging in Ghana – banana leaves, corn husks etc – was totally biodegradable. It didn’t matter if you dropped it.  It does now of course, but it takes time for habits to change, & anyway, who are we, in eastern countries, to throw the first stone? Ahem.

I should point out tho that here in Oz we have our own recycled placcy fashion too. Reverse Garbage has a shop called M.A.D in Sydney where you can get all sorts of goodies.

Ok, ok, this post was not about mixed families.  But my internet has been down all week & I’m just hastily compiling the post at an internet cafe in Melbourne, with whatever was immediately to hand, so don’t expect too much ok? I’ll be back on deck soon with more exciting installments.

Colorblind cupid

I was just cruising around the net, as you do, when I came across this US site – http://colorblindcupid.wordpress.com/: musings and entertainment on interracial and intercultural relationships and families.

At a glance, it looks like it’s on pretty much the same track as Border Crossings, so thought you’d like to know about it. The mix is different and CC is a group effort, unlike my blog, therefore the experiences are more diverse (China, India, Guatemala & white – but no African). Also it’s been going for a while, so has more of a following than this, which is still in humble beginnings.

Don’t abandon Border Crossings! But check it out … There’s so little written on these kinds of families & relationships in Oz, I reckon we need all the connections we can get!

BTW – I note they do not have a “Hair” category! Lucky b***ers.

Easter ethics

The other day I posted on cultural sensitivity. Today I’m doing ethics, cos it’s Easter. Not because I’m spiritually moved by the current religous festival, but because it’s one of the great annual choc-fests of the western world (the others being valentine’s day, mothers day …).

Now I’m going to be very hard-line here – I don’t think you can be involved in cross-cultural relationships with Africans & not care about fair trade. Africa, an incredibly resource-rich country, supplies much of the world’s cocoa, tea and coffee. In Australia these are symbols of comfort, relaxation, indulgence & pleasure. So I think it’s only fair that cocoa, tea and coffee producers get to enjoy a similar level of comfort, relaxation, indulgence and pleasure.

I’m not saying all Africans have terrible lives & awfully unhappy. Just that there’s an enormous gap in standard of living between the producers and the consumers. I think many people would be appalled to know that – for example – in DadaK’s village, where most of the villagers are cocoa farmers, there is no running water or electricity, and when I was last there one of his nieces was diagnosed with scurvy. I know that was a while ago, but I don’t think much has changed. Certainly it hasn’t in the power & water department.

So … make sure those farmers get a better deal in the global market place: buy fair trade easter eggs today.

The cultural sensitivity wardrobe

Someone I know travelled to Dubai recently and I was wishing she’d gone two days earlier, because then she might have witnessed DadaK and Obapaa trailing hand luggage, children, and big pink teddy from one end of Dubai airport to the other in order to change flights. Apparently it took them 45 minutes. I think it would have been a sight.

Anyway, Silkcharm is in Dubai to deliver some training and her blog reflects on negotiating a very different cultural environment, in particular, wearing the abaya (veil) while she was there.

Well, I had to laugh. Not about her post, but about the enormous variations in what is culturally acceptable dress.

I’d been picturing her in something rather fetching, like the Emirates hosties wear – a little maroon pillbox and a sweeping cream veil that frames the face. I think she’d look pretty good in that. The reality was a shapeless black bag. Sad.

My Ghanaian mother-in-law soon put me straight on acceptable skirt lengths when I was living with her some years ago. I thought just above the knee was both stylish and modest (and cooooool, it’s so hot there), but no. There I was, sitting quietly on the verandah, when she approached me with an ntoma (length of cloth), made me stand up and wrapped it around my waist. Okaaay. Skirt length now extended to mid-calf.

This seemed a bit rich, coming from a woman who regularly came home from the farm to sit topless in the family courtyard. The last time I saw my mother’s breasts would have been before I learned to knock on bathroom doors.

Perhaps in Ghana breasts are primarily seen as functional. Breastfeeding women think nothing of whipping out a breast over the top of their blouses, rather than discreetly shoving the baby underneath as we do in my culture (and then getting thrown off the bus/out of the cafe). Whereas the area from navel to knee is – well, off limits to the general public, shall we say. Except when well hidden by figure hugging skirts.

However, to be fair, my experience was in the village and ten years ago. I can tell that times have changed. But if you check out these pix at lifestyle.ghanabase, you too will wonder how many Ghanaian Nanas are desperately waving ntomas at their navel-flaunting grand-daughters.

So do I plan to go topless in Ghana? Not on your nelly. I don’t know that breasts-as-functional applies to obroni (foreigners). It’s probably a lot more complex than that anyway. However I will show cultural sensitivity – at least till I’ve scouted the territory – and not wear shorts. (ActioMan would say that’s not cultural sensitivity, that’s protecting people).

I expect I’ll have to settle for caftans.

So long, and thanks for all the Milo

When in Ghana 10 years ago, ActionMan and I would often breakfast at street stalls. Sometimes we’d have an omelette in a bread roll, washed down with Milo. ActionMan’s brothers & sister all start and end each day with a cup of weak, milky Milo. It seems to have become part of Ghana culture, just as it’s part of Australian culture.

Now in Milo you have a truly bicultural drink, at least in terms of our family mix: Milo originated in Australia, and while I haven’t done the research, I’d guess there’s a good chance it contains Ghanaian cocoa. As it happens, most of DadaK’s family are cocoa farmers. I wish I could say mine were dairy farmers, it would be such a neat match, but alas, we were in beef.

But I digress. I mention Milo because earlier this week I came home from Sydney International Airport with a 1.5 Kg tin of Milo, a small jar of hazelnut spread, and a very damp hanky. Anyone with Ghanaians in the family will spot where I’m heading with this.

On Wednesday night DadaK, Obapaa, ActionMan’s cousin, and all his siblings, took off for a long holiday in Ghana – maybe up to a year. ActionMan and I will be joining them during the Aussie winter. I, at least, am going to miss them enormously. I told ActionMan’s brothers they would need to bring a bucket to the airport to catch all my tears. On Tuesday they offered me a nice yellow one. (But I managed without it).

In the weeks leading up to this landmark event, huge suitcases started sprouting from the floor in DadaK’s home. I viewed them doubtfully. I hefted one. I tactfully suggested that maybe they borrow some scales. Discussions ensued as to how much in excess of the 20kg per person allowance they could get away with. Consultations with other Ghana returnees established you could get away with quite a lot. I remained dubious, but held my peace.

Vivid in my mind were visions of other airport farewells, of Ghanaians with suitcases spilling toilet rolls, shoes, cans of mackerel, six-packs of new undies, and, of course, tins of Milo, all over the floor as the travellers agonised over what they could safely leave behind.

And now these visions are probably also vivid in the minds of the long queue of non-Ghanaians who were waiting behind DadaK and Obapaa at the Emirates check-in the other day, while they tried to eliminate over 20kg of excess (except there were no toilet rolls this time).

It certainly added a welcome element of farce to an otherwise weepy occasion.

The first time I witnessed such a scene, many years ago, I was perplexed. Why woud you take tins of corned beef to Ghana? Why not save your money and buy it when you get there? But I understand the logic now. Ghana is not a rich country, and expatriate Ghanaians have a big financial responsibilty to their families back home. Visiting family in Ghana is not like visiting family in the US, or Europe, were you might chip into the kitty and buy them some duty-free, but that’s about it. Essentially, you support the family while you are visiting. And Ghanaian families tend towards large (ActionMan has about 40 cousins in Ghana).

So over the nine or so years since Obapaa was in Ghana, she has been shopping. One day she’ll buy a couple of extra tins of beef, another she’ll buy up big on undies at a sale. This, she assures me, works out cheaper than saving the money to spend in Ghana. Even when, as she & DadaK have done, you pay for a space in a container to ship all that accumulated gear. And what you can’t fit into the container, you try and squeeze into your luggage. Although I still don’t quite understand why you would try and squeeze in two bolts of Ghanaian cloth. Taking coal to Newcastle? But I’m sure there’s a good reason.

The end result is that when they are in Ghana, DadaK and Obapaa will have a ready supply of gifts for all-comers, plus a small stockpile of food to add to the family cupboard. This will considerably ease the financial pressure of fulfilling their obligations.

20kg per person isn’t really much, in this context. Especially when your friends are hoping you’ll take a few small items back to their families too. Fortunately, the check-in was generous and Obapaa and DadaK did get away with quite a bit of extra weight, but they still had to cull a lot. After sorting through various suitcases, they ended up with a large plastic bag that, apart from the Milo, was mostly full of new clothes (apparently all belonging to other people).

I thought at this point that it would all go home with me and I’d get a lot of visitors over the next few weeks as people collected their rejected stuff. But no, they were determined to take it all. And they did – almost. They deserve awards for determination and persistence. One of the people seeing them off (did I mention we made quite a large crowd?) went in search of plastic bags, so the excess could be carried on as hand luggage – in addition to what I’m sure was far too many over-size, overweight cabin bags and a huge pink teddy. Lucky for them, the crutches went in the hold.
The last I saw of the family, as I stood morosely clutching my newly acquired tin of Milo and my hazelnut spread, was Treasure clamouring to be carried through customs, which meant the teddy had to be carried by someone else. They were quite loaded down, but even the four year old did his bit.

And the Milo? We don’t drink it. But … the use-by date is not till 2009, and when we go to Ghana in May/June, our luggage allowance will be 50kg each ….

So it’s Yo to the ‘Fro

DadaK approved of the combed Afro the other night. He nodded seriously and said, “It looks fine, but you must keep it well”. This counts as a major shift for him, so I hope ActionMan appreciates it

ActionMan has had an important hair-ally in his stepmother, Obapaa, who runs a braiding salon, and is therefore used to all kinds of adventurous hairstyles. Once before, she did a big condition & comb – his hair looked amazing. Now I’ve got rid of the worst of the tangles, she’s offering to do it again, with a slightly different product combination, that may make it easier for him to manage.

And check out this hair bling blog, for proof that not all white mums are hopeless with African hair. You too, can braid with the best of them!

Hair Despair

What blog about African heritage children/teens would be complete without a section devoted to hair? Kinky, bushy, nappy; cornrows, dreads, perms, braids; product, product, product!

I used to think, being the mother of a boy, that I’d escaped the hair despair of other non-African mums. Yes, I could laugh smugly at a friend’s story about how mixed children in England got called one-bunchers, because all their white mothers could manage to do with their hair was tie it all up into one recalcitrant bunch. I could tut-tut when desperate mothers straightened their daughters’ hair (all those chemicals!). And naively, I would think it could never happen to me.

And then ActionMan started high school. And decided to grow his hair …

I should have seen it coming, I suppose. He never was that keen on grooming, for a start, and most of his friends have long hair. Long straight hair.

But becoming a teenager seems to have coincided with the realisation that his hair belongs to him, and he’s decided to assert his rights about how he wants to have it. This assertiveness has resulted in months of (me) hunting for a good comb, experiments with product after product, the realisation that some hairdressers are more interested in a product sale than in your son’s actual hair, and more family conflict than I really want to deal with.

I was a child in the 60s. I remember the shock of the Beatles’ long hair, the disgust with long-haired layabouts, the public debate and disapproval, the first long haired politicians. But it all seemed to blow over fairly quickly. I wasn’t expecting to revisit it in 2006/7/8, and in my own family …

In Ghana – apparently – men are expected to wear short back and sides. Clean geometric cuts are ok, but bushy (Afro) hair and dreads are considered dirty. It’s a source of shame and embarrasment to DadaK that his son has bushy hair. For months, after it all started, he would greet me with “We have to do something about ActionMan’s hair”, instead of “Hello, how are you?”.

I don’t really care if ActionMan has an afro or not. My position has been: Have it long if you like, but wash and comb it. I think DadaK views this as me being a permissive wimp of a mother, and perhaps he’s right, because ActionMan just ignores both of us. I.e., he keeps it long and doesn’t comb it. To do him justice, he does wash it.

But of course, when you don’t comb Afro hair, dreads start forming. This is why I find myself, every few months, spending a few hours combing out the knots in ActionMan’s hair. Or is it because I’m a permissive wimp and a more robust parent would just haul him off to the barber? I asked myself this question last Wednesday night as I hunched over his hair for nearly three hours, armed with two combs, an assortment of conditioners, scissors for the bits I coudn’t manage to detangle, and bands to tie the combed bits out of the way.

The conclusion I reached was: well, maybe, but what a great excuse to play with his gorgeous hair! It was a strangely soothing activity, possibly adddictive, and I was quite pleased – considering I’d never done it before – with how it looked all tied into little bunches. One-buncher indeed! Snort.

Of course the bunches couldn’t last. He did show them off to a couple of friends, and we have photographic evidence of the style (at left), but, well, they’re not really a guy thing. At least the combing has results: the dreads have gone and he has managed to comb it every morning since. Yes, I know that’s only two mornings – let’s think positive. The real test will be what DadaK thinks. We find out tonight …

Wo din de sen / What is your name?

Do you have one, or many?

If you are of Ghanaian background, you probably have quite a few: day names, given names, family names, Christian names, nicknames, order of birth names, thank-god-you’re-here names, etc. etc. DadaK has quite a few, and they vary depending on who he’s with. He’s K to his wife, which is an abbreviation of his day name. I call him by his Christian name, which is how he introduces himself to white people. Some of his friends call him Opia, which is a nickname that corresponds to his order of birth name, and other friends (the younger ones) call him Uncle.

Confused? Yes, and loving it.

But don’t think Ghanaians have a monopoly on interesting naming practices. I too have many names. When I was growing up in rural NSW my cousin called me Fred and the swimming pool attendant called me Frank. (Did I mention I’m female?). My Dad was called Bill but that wasn’t his real name & some people in the community were convinced there were two of him. I was surrounded by people called things like Bluey (red heads) and Snow (white hair). Not to mention the Smithys, Gazzas & Mazzas …

As a young adult I had an identity crisis and changed my name myself for a while, to Jess Walker (J-walker, get it?) and Ghanaians who met me during that period still insist on calling me Jessie. I kind of like that. Some of the family in Ghana call me Mama J – hence the name of this blog. Maame is Ghanaian for Mum, and MamaJ was already taken as a blog name (grrr).

My Ghanaian day name is Afia & I am fourth born – Annane. I’ve known this for years but it was only quite recently that I made the connection that this is the feminine version of Kofi Annan! What’s also cool is that I probably share this name with thousands of people!

As stated in a previous post, I’ll be using psuedonyms here and I may expain them as I go along. Or not. But just for the record – I think DadaK & ActionMan (our son) are pretty obvious & I’ve just explained MaameJ. I’ve dubbed ActionMan’s stepmother Obapaa, which means good woman. And she is, but it’s also the name of an adinkra symbol which is commonly seen on Ghanaian cloth. (Actually I can’t find it online, but that’s what DadaK tells me. Perhaps he was having me on? I’ll keep you posted.)

I haven’t come up with names for ActionMan’s half-siblings except for his baby sister.  After four sons DadaK and Obapaa had a daughter, and her (real) name is in the ‘thank-god-you’re-here category’. I’m sticking with that trend, and am tossing up between Gifty and Treasure. Stay tuned …