Jump 43-Rick's Skydiving, Petersburg, OH

Suck-pop

Once again, I found myself 10,000 feet above earth, left arm hanging limply from my body, flapping in the wind as I plummeted towards the ground at 120 miles per hour. I never wanted skydiving with a dislocated shoulder to become a familiar feeling; I never wanted to spend 3 days a week in the gym just to be able to do the activities my friends do; I never wanted to be disappointed in my body for failing me when I need it the most.

I watched Chris and Larry in the air as I tried in vain to reduce my shoulder into the socket. Chris looked at me playfully, beckoning me to come and join their skydiving games. Our eyes met; his, shining and jovial; mine, serious and somber. As I waved Chris away, Larry buzzed by him, and Chris's attention diverted to Larry as they played high speed cat and mouse games. I locked onto my altimeter,waiting for it to show 5000 feet so I could open my 'chute and end the bad dream...

I was 8, back in Milwaukee. I was in the backyard of a nameless friend of my mom. Late summer; lush green grass; barbecue fired up; the smell of charcoal; picnic table covered with a red gingham tablecloth held down with plates of watermelon, Lay's, pasta salad; children running around. 
     "Wanna see me dislocate my shoulder?" my mom's friend asked me through his wide smile. I nodded at him shyly as he rolled up his left sleeve. My eyes grew wide as his shoulder joint seemed to sink deep into the socket.


...8000 feet...


I was 12, now in West Virginia. I was the new kid. New school, new friends, new classrooms plastered with new inspirational posters. "Knowledge is Power!" "An Education can take you Anywhere!" I sat next to Ross in the back of English class. I leaned over, head still turned to the chalk board, feigning attention to the teacher.
     "Wanna see me dislocate my shoulder?" I whispered beneath my breath, just audible to Ross. He nodded at me, attention diverted from class. His eyes grew wide as my shoulder joint sunk deep into the socket.


...5500 feet. I reached for my pilot 'chute. 5000 feet. I pitched it into the wind. I felt no pain as the parachute stood me up and my arms snapped to my sides. Maybe it was because I expected the pain to be worse. Maybe it was because my shoulder had been out of the socket so many times before. Maybe it was because my mind was somewhere else...

I was17. Crack! The softball rebounded hard and fast off of the bat in my direction. I sprang up, but it was just out of reach. The tipped ball landed just inside of the outfield. I swooped low in full sprint as I scooped the ball. I turned to first base as I skidded to a stop. The earth gave way beneath my feet. The sound of tearing blades of grass and the loss of friction led to my first Suck-pop. I grunted as I heaved the ball to first base and grabbed my left shoulder as I rolled in the grass, unable to stand.


...3500 feet. I steered my canopy towards the landing zone, making only right turns. I grabbed my left toggle in an attempt to reduce my shoulder. I relaxed my mind, then relaxed my left shoulder, and pulled hard. All an effort in vain. I stared at Chris on the ground and spiraled down slowly towards the target...

I was 18. It was early January in the first winter after that fateful softball game. My shoulder had already Suck-popped a month earlier at Snowshoe Mountain. It had become weak ever since I stopped physical therapy. Today was the tryouts for the WVU Snowboard team. 
     "We know you're good on the rails; let's see you hit some jumps," the president of the team said. I rolled my eyes and flew towards the lone jump in the park. I landed hard with an annoyingly familiar suck-pop. Without saying a word, I unstrapped my board and walked to the car. Dejected and embarrassed, I sped off.

...600 feet. I held both steering toggles in my right hand. Chris stared up from the ground, finally grasping what was wrong. Unable to turn, I leaned hard in my harness. The 'chute hesitated and turned slowly over my harness. 300 feet. Chris was in a half run towards the landing zone...

"Just like jump 39," I thought.

...100 feet. I prepared for the hard landing...

Dear Ghana-Buduburam Refugee Camp, Ghana

Dear Ghana,

     After the amazing summer we spent together, you deserve better than this, but saying goodbye to you in person is too hard for me to do. I hope you will understand that even though I love you, I need to do this. I need to get back to my life in the US. I need to leave you.
     I will always remember the weekends we spent together in Cape Coast and at the waterfall in Wli. You were just so beautiful; I was absolutely speechless when I saw you; I couldn't take my eyes off of you. At the waterfall, I could have just stayed and listened to you whisper to me forever.
     I owe you so much for guiding me through so many new experiences. I cannot thank you enough for all that you have shown me. It was all just amazing. I wish I could repay you for introducing me to so many good friends. Sam has been so good to me since I met him, and the volunteers in Swedru, I will never forget them. I hope leaving you doesn't mean I can't still be friends with them. I know that you knew them first, but I just can't take losing both you and them.
     I feel bad about not giving you more of my time; I was always working or busy with friends. I should have paid more attention to you. I should have traveled with you to the North. I should have learned more about you. You deserve better, Ghana. I have no doubt that you will find someone else. Even when I was with you, I saw how others looked at you. You will be fine without me.
     I still love you, Ghana, and I will miss you more than you ever know. Leaving you is hard, but I need to do it for me. I only hope that you will understand, and I hope that someday when you've forgiven me, I can see you again.

Love,
Julian

Missed-Buduburam Refugee Camp, Ghana

I missed my home; my bed cozy and warm,
The floors creaky and dusty with the floorboards years worn,
And the walls that let through a cool summer's breeze,
And a chilly winter's gust, through the gaps you could see.


I missed my family; their embrace, their love,
The time spent with friends, the squeeze of their hugs,
And the way that they know when my smile is gone,
That I need help and a shoulder to lean on.


But I wish I missed not my home or my bed,
And I wish I missed not my family or friends.


For I have a home here, a home with a bed,
A place to lay down and a roof o'er my head,
A home that is frequented by family and friends,
Who know something is wrong if my smile e'er ends.


And with two beds and two homes,
And two families and friends,
I can miss the ones missing,
And know when I'm gone,
Their support is not missing,
It is ever as strong.


I will miss what I miss,
And cannot guide it,
Or miss not what I miss,
Or even to hide it.


I will always miss that which I'm in need of,
The people, the places, the things that I love.

Forget who you are, be where you are-Cultural Center; Accra, Ghana

It was almost 9 when I arrived in Accra. It was too early for the tourists to be out in the market, and the only noise was the drum carvers tapping away. Martin and Sam were in the shade of a mango tree between their drum shop and the soccer pitch. Martin sat on a cracked djembe shell wrapping his knee and lacing his cleats; Sam stood leaning against a failed elephant carving and picked at his nails. I wasn't sure it was him; it had been a month since I had met Sam on the beach of Kokrobite. I stood behind them and watched the soccer match waiting for some hint that it really was Sam. As an elderly Ghanaian turned to offer me his seat, Sam took notice and beamed at me.

"Julian, my brother, how is it?" he said, smiling wide as he stepped towards me with arms outstretched. I pulled Sam in close. I had only spent a few hours with Sam in Kokrobite, most of which we were on the dance floor for Big Milly's reggae night, but he had captivated me with his chivalrous nature towards our group and his sincerity in speech. I had come to Accra to see Sam and learn how to make drums.

I spent the morning in a circle of drum makers, straddling various djembes as I finished their lacing. With each weave, my motions became faster and more fluid; with each weave, the skin on my soft hands tore as I stretched drum head tighter; with each weave, I forgot more of Julian and let myself become a drum maker. As we sat weaving, lacing, sanding, and staining djembes under the shade of a palm, every difference between me and Rastafarian drum makers dissipated into the afternoon heat. My mind drifted from the work that was waiting for me back at the refugee camp and settled on the sound of the ocean nearby. My eyes glazed as I gazed past my drum to the soccer match; I silently laced my djembe. My mind resettled on the game. My hands didn't care what my mind was doing. They no longer needed my mind to finish their work. The moved quickly and effortlessly. I stood the drum up and finished polishing the base before setting it in the sun for the skin to dry.

It was already 3 o'clock; I was starting to remember Julian and forget where I was. "I think I'm going to head back to camp. I've got work that needs to get done," I said to Sam as I walked towards the front of his shop.

"You are welcome to leave anytime, but I've just ordered us food," he said through his wide smile.

"...I should get going." I couldn't forget Julian.

 He heard the hesitation in my voice and handed me a finished djembe. "Do you play?..."

... Julian was gone again. The African drum maker was again in my body. When we had finished eating our stew, palms still sore and red from drumming, we wandered into "the Jungle" for drinks. The shanty town spanned the gap between the arts market and the beach. The blasting music and cloud of pot smoke that defined the Jungle went largely unnoticed by the tourists occupying the market and the sandy shore. The Jungle was never passed though by tourists; it was only passed around, by-passed. It's only occupants were the various craft makers who lived there and a handful of Cameroonian business men who came there for the cheap food, plentiful drinks, and promiscuous women. After winding our way though the narrow alleys we stopped in front of the white house, a description Sam used even though more than half of the white paint had chipped or pealed off. The inside of the house was clearly visible through the large gaps in the exterior walls. We stepped in and continued up the stairs. "This is where I sleep sometimes when I don't feel like going home," Sam said as he unlatched the trap door to the room above. As I stepped up into the dusty, sunlit room, I could see that the white house contained only a neat row of sneakers and Sam's "sometimes" bed. It was a thin mat that could hardly hide the feeling of the floorboards beneath it, but it was good enough for a place to lay one's head after a night of heavy boozing and smoking in the Jungle.

We continued out onto the 360 degree balcony that wrapped the house. As I stepped out of the door, I momentarily looked down as the floorboards flexed beneath my weight. The rickety house creaked and swayed in the wind and finally came to be motionless again. I looked up. The view was a stunning juxtaposition to the claustrophobic alleys of shouting women, drunken men, and blasting music that lay just below the balcony on which I stood. In the distance, waves crashed into the sandy shores as tourists screamed in excitement and ran to keep the bottoms of their jeans dry. The smell of alcohol and ganja gave way to the aroma of sea water that accompanied the soft ocean mist that just barely reached the house. To our right, we could see the tin roofs of the Jungle sprawling out into the distance. Straight ahead was the beach, and to our left was arts market.

Sam and I sat silently, backs to the white house, bare feet on the railing. We stared into the distant beauty and listened to the world around us. A Ghanaian flag flapped and snapped in the sea breeze; the waves hissed and fizzled as they hit the shore; the djembes of the market let out deep bass notes and high slaps. It was all music to my drum maker's ears.

Update from last time: Apparently the cure for homesickness is exercise. I had been working long hours and not taking time for myself and my body. After a few mornings of working out, I feel like Julian again.

Finding the cure for homesickness-Buduburam Refugee Camp, Ghana

After 8 weeks in Ghana I was struck by an acute case of Ghanaian Homesickness. 

This condition can be brought on by long stays in West African countries while experiencing extreme fatigue due to a week of emotional roller coaster rides. Symptoms include: tearing up after meeting someone from PA that reminds me of home, feelings of sadness accompanied by sighs (especially when looking at date of my return flight), strange cravings for cheeseburgers and sushi, dreams that the final Harry Potter movie will actually come to Ghana, and recurring thoughts of family and friends.

Symptoms may worsen if fatigue is exacerbated by severe dehydration and malnutrition due to diarrhea on Sunday night. Symptoms may be lessened with application of copious amounts of peanut butter, chocolate, and other sugary substances; however, patients should still seek treatment.

If symptoms last more than a few hours, seek hugs; if available, cry into a shoulder or a pillow. Look through pictures of wild parties and summer vacations posted by friends on Facebook. Western remedies include texting of close friends and family, but studies show that actual phone conversations may be more effective at combating the sickness.

 Presently the only known cure to Ghanaian Homesickness is a Delta flight home on August 16th.

Thank you to everyone for your support. I love it here, but I miss you all.

Life is Precious-Buduburam Refugee Camp, Ghana

"Julian, are you on camp?"
"No I'm on my way home from Volta."
"Julian, I need to tell you that......"
"I can't hear you, Amelia. I'll call you when I get back."
"But Julian, I ........" click


After two more hours of travel, I had completely forgotten about Amelia's call. I pushed open the door to the guesthouse, dumped my weekend bag on the floor of my room, and fell asleep with only my toothbrush unpacked.

The next day as I dished out food with Amelia by my side, my mind was on the internet cafe that I would be visiting in a few hours. Amelia abruptly continued the conversation from a day earlier. "You know Precious?" My mind raced, I remembered that I hadn't called her the previous night. "Agnes's little sister Precious."

I knew her; Precious was one year old. She was the younger sister of my favorite child Agnes. Precious was the most beautiful child I had ever seen. Her eyes shined, and they seemed to smile at the world as they took it all in. Her hair was short and curly; it was a lighter brown than most people on camp which suited her lighter shade of skin. She giggled uncontrollably when Agnes tickled her. She usually gave a sharp shriek when she saw the color of my skin. I had played ball with her exactly one week ago. It had been the first day she had not been scared of me. She had toddled over to me and handed me the ball. I lifted her up, and she sat in my lap, happily cooing.

"She's gone. She died on Sunday."

My mind spun. I stared at the floor and let the intense emotion wash over me. My mind couldn't grasp the situation. My face grew hot, but the tears wouldn't come. I was far away from my body. Amelia put her hand on my back. Her touch reconnected me with the world. The floor grew blurry as my eyes filled with water and tears streamed down my cheeks.

By the time Agnes had come to get her food my eyes had dried, but they still betrayed me with their redness. Agnes sat next to me; I stroked her back as she ate her cassava and stew. Her calm face and collected manner had tricked me into thinking she had come to terms with the loss of her sister. After two bites she pushed her bowl away and stared at the floor.

Agnes had always been willing hold my hand for hours but had refused all offers to sit on my lap. She didn't resist now as I lifted her into my arms and cradled her.I held her tight and rocked her as we cried on each other. Everything that she had held back from me came out as she started to sob. Everything that I had held back from her came out as I started to sob. I needed to hold her as much as she needed to be held.

Agnes holding Precious

You don't know Jack-Buduburam Refugee Camp, Ghana

My favourite questions that I have been asked in Ghana and the answers I gave:

Q: What is malaria like?
A: The flu. Headache, sore throat, body aches, extreme tiredness, fever, hot and cold flashes. (I recovered in a little less than a week)

Q: Why did you make us slaves?
A: Although I did not make anyone a slave, I think it was just because the people at the time could do it, so they did. It was a profitable business. Maybe they saw Africans as a lesser being because of their skin color and the way they chose to live. (This was my first week here; welcome to Ghana)

Q: Isn't Julian a girls name?
A: No. (No one here has heard the name Julian before except the Ivorians because they speak French.)

Q: Condoms really ruin the experience of sex for me, as soon as I see one in the bedroom, I'm just not interested anymore. What should I do?
A: I'm not going to be there at the moment so I can't tell you what to do. They make a lot of different condoms, maybe try another type. If none of them work, try to use other methods to prevent pregnancy and spread of disease. (During my AIDS/HIV community outreach)

Q: Have you ever eaten dog?
A: No. (and still no.)

Q: I know that giving a girl oral sex can give her lots of pleasure, but I know diseases can be spread that way. Would you give any girl oral sex if you are going to have sex with her?
A: Wait until you are in a relationship with a girl first. You should probably know her fairly well and know whether she has any STD's. Also if you are in a relationship or in love, that just gives you all the more reason to want to give her pleasure, and that makes the experience fun for you too. (This was followed by a discussion on American sexual culture versus African sexual culture. It was really enlightening.)

Q: What if you are in a relationship and the person loves you, but you don't love them back?
A: I don't think it works that. I think you both have to love eachother. (5 minutes later..."I love you, Julian.")

Q: What is the food like?
A: Rice and stew. Cabbage stew, pepper stew, groundnut stew, stewed potato greens. (I eat anywhere from 2-5 cups of cooked rice a day. If I don't eat any rice, I don't feel full.)

Q: Are you losing weight?
A: Yes, but I eat about twice as much as I did in the US. (I like to run in the mornings or play soccer. Also, walking is the main mode of transportation here. My guess is that I walk 4-8 miles a day in addition to any distance that I run.)

Q: What is the first thing you will eat when you get back?
A: A cheeseburger, then sushi. Really good sushi.

Q: Do you get homesick?
A: I haven't yet. I expected to be when I had malaria. When I travel I always feel homesick when I'm extremely tired or sick. (I do on occasion get overwhelmed with emotion. There are few people here who I consider close friends, and there are even fewer that I would talk about my emotions with. I sometimes tear up when I'm telling other volunteers outside the camp about the lives of some of my friends on camp. That's about as close as I've gotten to homesick)

Q: Do you miss home?
A: I miss my family and friends. I miss seeing familiar faces and getting hugs from people I know. I miss talking with people who have grown up in a similar situation to myself. (Sometimes I really just want to have someone here who can see the camp through the same eyes that I see it.  The other night the moon was really full and bright and beautiful and all I wanted was for someone I knew to be here to stare at the sky with me.)

If you have more questions, please post them on the blog wall and I will answer them. Thanks for all of the good questions so far!