Having a mohawk in Ghana isn't so bad. For one, my mohawk isn't a particularly abrasive one, it isn't tall and spiky and it isn't brightly colored, although the landlady for the finnish girls
suggested that I color it red. Also, I have taken to wearing a hat during the day in public places.
This is probably a good idea anyway, because otherwise the sun would burn my pale scalp bright red.
Without the hat, though, I attract more stares and jeers then usual. You can't imagine how many times people call to me everyday, all though I can now completely block it out of my mind ( the downside: just before coming here, someone was hissing to me, in that weird way that Ghanaians try to get your attention, and I didn't hear. My friend did, though, and it turns out it was the chief of the village I visited before! very rude of me). Having funny hair only makes this problem worse, although most people aren't hostile, just amused and confused. Actually, most people are under the impression that having hair like this makes me a member of the Italian Mafia. That, or they call out, Mr. T! Mr. T!
In this culture, it is considered unusual and suspect for men to wear their hair any other way than short. I am openly flaunting their cultural norms, and I may be wrong to do so. Ghana is fast becoming a part of the world, but there is certainly a very conservative element still present. This is good, the traditional culture might otherwise be lost in the flood of globalization.
Yet, I will not respect their culture merely because 'culture' the word has a sacred aura to it. There are many things about accepted life here that I objectively know are wrong, i.e. the taboo about having AIDS, corporal punishment at school, etc. I wear my hair in a mohawk not for any particular reason, not to make a rebellious statement, but just because I can; and I feel that I have made some people see this.
Last weekend we had a surprise beach party for Johanna and Heini, two Finnish girls who were leaving for home. It was great. We got there early, piled some rocks up, and built a big fire on top out of reach of the high tide. Then the girls came down the stairs in the cliff to the beach, blindfolded, and we all yelled at them and poured more kerosene on the fire. A whole bunch of guys with drums were there, and as they beat away madly we danced around the roaring fire. Sander from Holland roasted a leg of lamb, we all stripped to our underwear and went swimming and dancing in the ocean, beautiful.
During the festivities, a black man approached me. He looked vaguely familiar.
'Hey, you remember me? I work at the Arts Centre.'
'umm...'
'Look at my hair. I cut it to be like yours.'
Then he bowed his head, and sure enough, the sides of his afro were gone, and all that remained was a tight line of hair down the middle of his head. We both laughed hysterically, and nuzzled our mohawks together.