Living in a developing country is like taking a step back in time… rather living in Kute is like taking a step back in time. There is no running water… no flushing toilets, no sinks, and no showers. Everyone uses fire to cook. I do believe that I’m the only one in Kute to have a propane tank (and I still think that cooking with no running water is a hassle, imagine if I had to cook over a fire… I would starve.) Everything is washed by hand… clothing included (they always laugh at me when I ‘try’ to hand wash my clothing and then they ask how we wash in America… With a machine!) No one own cars, and the only way to get out of my village is either by foot, bicycle, or the random cars that are periodically waiting at my small lorry station. There is still barley no cell phone reception in my town (that is at least for Ghana, lately I’ve been getting better Togo reception). I usually have to hike out of my village to call home, or wait till I’m in a larger city. Everything is spread by word of mouth… (Almost scary how fast word travels… especially about the ‘white girl’ in town.) Everything is done by hand, well most everything. Life is rather simple.

So the other day when I had this grand idea to try and make corn chips, I went to the market to ask where I could buy maize. The lady stands up and motions for me to follow her. She leads me to what I’m guessing was her house and starts shelling out some corn kernels (not like pop corn kernels, but rather corn kernels that are shucked from the cob and then laid out to dry and eventually ground into corn flour) into a bag. It was almost exhilarating knowing that the maize this kind lady was giving me was from her farm, that her family harvested, and then dried and that they would eventually take to the mill to get ground for making banku (another typical Ghanaian food substance). I walked away with more corn than I knew what to do with and went to the mill.

The mill… a steal machine probably out of the early 1900’s located in a rusted out shack with a few boards and tin roof holding the building together. The grinder was run on gas (diesel I’m guessing) and was operated by a loan man, sitting next to the grinder feeding the grain in to the mill to be ground up. There was a small line as I guessing that people from the bush (they were calling me yevo, and everyone in my village now calls me Sister Abra) were there to get their maize ground as well. I waited my turn, watching as these small Ghanaian children had their maize ground for their families, loading the fine flour into large basins that they then carry away on their head.

While sitting there I had this thought that I’m eating more pure than I’ve ever eaten in my entire life, and yes I was raised eating mostly what came from our farm, but at the same time still not knowing 100% where all my food was coming from. It’s not like my family was growing the wheat flour that my mom used to make her bread, or the beans that my family ate on a semi regular basis. But still we knew where our veggie, eggs, and milk were coming from. We always made our own bread, granola, and often my dad would make his own cheese. But here in Ghana I’ve been to the rice fields. I pass the maize, cassava, ginger, tomatoes, peppers and onion plants when I go running. The chickens run wild. I see the ‘small boys’ killing rats, bats and grass cutter for protein for the stews. I’ve watched the butchering of goats and chickens. Everywhere I go someone points out mango, avocado, cashew nut, and papaya trees. Plantain and banana trees are mixed in with every crop. Sea salt is harvested fresh from the ocean. And they make their own palm nut oil (and boy do they like their oil.)

It’s almost as if living in Ghana I’m partaking in the 100 mile diet. It could be called the ‘Local Ghanaian Diet’ even though mostly what I cook for myself has a ‘Molly twist’ to it. But the rice, maize, beans all the veggies, and fruit are from Ghana. The peanut butter and coconut oil, salt, and chili powder all Ghanaian. I’m living simply Ghanaian… or so to say.