Rules of the Road

As drivers we are required to follow the rules of the road. A yellow light indicates we proceed with caution. Depending on our mood, we may press our foot on the brakes or speed through the intersection before the light turns red. Red means stop, no split second decisions or risk serous consequences. Consistently driving above the speed limit guarantees a ticket is forthcoming; it is just a matter of time. Rules of the road exist to keep us safe. When we ignore them, we do so at our own peril, and in worst-case scenarios, inflict harm on others as well. Ultimately, stop or you will be stopped.

When I get a speeding ticket, I tend to spin it metaphorically, as a sign for me to slow down. For a while I drive more cautiously, slow my frenetic pace, and try to engage more appreciatively with life. Eventually, I pick up speed and return to my previous ways until the universe delivers another red light. In addition to speeding tickets, I am slowed to a crawl when I get sick. Control is lost, and you are at the mercy of medical professionals you may or may know. Life suddenly becomes tentative and terrifying. This week I took ill and was admitted to the hospital with a bacteria infection. I was well acquainted with the staff at Lister Hospital in Accra after taking five students there, and sitting through several shifts on the ward until one student was released. The doctors were hardly surprised when I showed up; in fact, they seemed to be waiting for me.

Despite moving past the half-century mark, for the most part I move about as I always have. The signs of aging are visible, and some mornings my aching bones prevent me from bolting out of bed as I once did. A degenerative meniscus that has yet to be operated on grounded me from running; however, I still go to the gym, ride my bike, lift weights when time allows, and do physical labor around my house. In my mind, I am able to do most things, even when I ought to hold back and ask for help. My kids seem to share this ageless view of me, and since their dad is 18 years older than me, he is the recipient of their indulgence. When I feel sorry for myself I scold them for it. Being a young mom who grew up with her kids and fed into the can do anything image, I take my share of the blame for their treating me as if I am invincible. Perhaps it is wishful thinking on all our part.

The doctors at Lister Hospital in Accra are excellent, as is the overall care. I had complete confidence in them, and when the doctor read my lab results he informed me I had been sick well over a week. He was quite firm about admitting me, and when he discharged me, his instructions were clear – rest is as important as the medication. How did I not notice I wondered? Then again, when you are running 24/7 with your team to ensure your students and every detail of the program is executed to the best of your ability, there is little time to attend to yourself. This happened to me when I brought students to Senegal, and really it is no different than other times I have taken ill while caring for my children and working. Goes with the territory.

When the group departed Wednesday morning for a 3-day trip to Kumasi, I stayed back in Accra. On my first visit to Ghana we did not make it to Kumasi, and was looking forward to my first visit; however, I erred on the side of caution. A schedule packed with activity was not what my doctor had in mind so I complied and remained in Accra alone. Once the bus departed I was torn between regret and feeling confident I made the right decision. I began to read my book and woke up two hours later. I fixed some makeshift soup with chicken broth, an onion, and noodles. After lunch I picked up my book, attempting to read while the World Cup game provided background noise. Three hours later I woke with my book on my chest. I no longer doubted my decision.

Being sick gave me reason to pause for the first time since moving to Austin - actually, well before then. I had been on a constant roller coaster for a long while, traveling back and forth to Texas for the Mart Project, Senegal, and three trips to Europe before March of last year. In the span of a year I left California after 35 years, bought a house and set it up from scratch, and one week after completing the first year of my PhD program I spent five hectic days in California before departing for Ghana where I hit the ground running. I have a weird belief that I can will away illness with mental toughness. Needless to say, though often successful, it does not always work. Adding this to my reluctance to ask for help can be a dangerous combination. The universe as a way of outsmarting us though, and if we poses any sense at all, we will embrace the notion with nothing but gratitude.

Here in Accra I am wrapped in a blanket of solitude. I move slowly, walking to the Koffee Lounge to drink decaf tea, eat food my stomach will tolerate, and get online. This café has become our dinning room with Dinah as our hostess and provider of healthy, delicious foods and a wonderful space to socialize, work, and observe a slice of life in Ghana that closely resembles a café in Austin filled with Ghanaians. Africa is not just aid appeals with faces of starving children; it is modern life with professionals, families, and a diverse population of customers who enjoy good coffee, Asian fusion food, and smoothies. It is excellent service, clean and attractive environments, and uniquely African style not aiming to be a poor imitation of the West.

Being alone in Accra, I have been able to think, read, and most importantly feel the life inside and around me. Walking back and forth to the café street rhythms take hold - music and chatter, laughter of children, street vendors hawking their goods. I am a single entity, glanced at or ignored, moving about as I once did in my previous travels. Being quiet alters your perspective, grateful for a smile or greeting, you become more humble and receptive, less imposing. Only then have I arrived at my destination. Moving quickly and rushing about, whether it is in Austin or Accra, dilutes the essence of absorbing and feeling an environment. We have come to over rely on our props and tools, our access to information in the virtual world preventing us from connecting in real time. Sitting still is scorned as laziness and a waste of time. How else are we supposed to take notice of beauty otherwise overlooked and the nuance of humanity? Incessant chatter prevents listening; constant movement avoids eye contact with a stranger and perhaps the exchange of a smile. I am as guilty as anyone, when I get going nothing seems to slow me down; that is unless I am stopped by forces beyond my control, hence the red light, speeding ticket, or worse yet – becoming ill.

When working with architecture students in Senegal, my colleague Muhsana Ali and I pulled away our student’s props. We confiscated their notebooks, cameras, measuring tools, and sketchbooks. We asked them to feel the land as preparation for their design, and their tools were distracting them. Their anger was not easily masked, or their panic at being stripped of their props. We instructed them to walk the land, smell the scents, listen to the sounds, inventory the colors. Find a spot and sit still, close your eyes so you can begin to visualize a design that is in harmony with the land, the culture, and residents. We may as well have been talking in ancient Greek; however, we were insistent. Creation is emotive as well as cognitive, perhaps more so. Regardless of the distribution, it requires a blending of the senses and takes into consideration context. There is no one path to any destination; however, the ability to stop in our tracks and reflect cannot be underestimated.

Here in Accra I am in pause mode. One moment I am a blank stare, and the next pondering the Chinese presence in Africa. I take my medication and sleep when I am tired. In the quiet I hear my own thoughts unraveling, a car door slam, dogs barking in the distance, and as was the case yesterday, rain pouring down with a vengeance. I feel both insignificant and an important part of the universe, with either way fine by me. Next week at this time I will be in Austin, back in my beloved house with Pepsi and Pearl. All that is Ghana will go with me. Memories of Jonathan walking the streets as if he had lived here all his life, Frank carrying me in circles when I arrived, dancing with Renee at Taverna Tropicana, gut busting laughter with Kwame, long talks with Dorie in the van, watching the students in their individual and group process, waiting for George to arrive when he was only five minutes away ten minutes ago, a decaying slave fort with life swelling around it on a Sunday afternoon, and the kindness of the staff at Lister Hospital when I was my most vulnerable. It takes so little giving to receive. Life offers us infinite possibility for growth, joy, and connection. All we have to do is follow the rules of the road.