I’ve never been a fan of cold showers. Really, there are plenty of things I’ve never been a fan of – bologna, KidzBop, conversations with my landlord. More than most of the myriad reasons to complain I’ve gathered over the years, however, the idea of cold showers have quite literally sent chills down my spine.

Guess what, guys: the showers in our new home in Greater Accra’s East Legon dribble out a certain kind of water – the really, really cold kind. Paired with electricity just barely more reliable than our wireless Internet (hint: neither are reliable) and an abundance of mosquitoes that may or may not have malaria, the first night in Ghana brought with it a reality check: we, pampered college students, would be forced to make some adjustments.

Then came our tour of the city. Dr. Michael Williams, co-director of our program, offered insight into Ghana’s post-independence history as we passed by the gorgeous architecture of massive government buildings such as the Flagstaff House and Parliament. Elsewhere, structures supported by little more than bamboo poles that had been seemingly abandoned while under construction sat directly beside swanky skyscrapers. A stop on the side of the road between Black Star Square and Accra Sports Stadium showcased a juxtaposition of a city with plenty to be proud of – its successful push for independence from Great Britain in 1957, a football tradition that regularly puts Ghana on the world scale, visits from Bill Clinton and Barack Obama that represented the country’s growing foreign relations – and some events its residents would rather forget, such as a riot at the stadium that left over a hundred civilians dead. All throughout, hawkers selling everything from plantains to cell phone minutes, walked from lane to lane as traffic slowed, hustling to earn a few cedis (Ghana’s currency.)

Most affecting, however, was our entrance into Nima. Home to many of Accra’s poorest residents, the living conditions looked to be downright deplorable: piles of trash lined the roads, black smoke billowed from junkyards of electronic equipment, and gutters overflowed with liquid refuse. What could strike an onlooker as charming quirks of a unique culture – shoes left to dry on flimsy rooftops, goats and chickens running free through bumper-to-bumper traffic – felt more like whimsical distractions from the dire conditions that surrounded them. And right there in our wide-windowed tour bus, wielding fancy digital cameras, we sat and watched as the townspeople of Nima watched back. One of our group members called our bus a “fishbowl”. They were right. As we journeyed through Nima, nobody was getting in, and nobody was getting out.

The fishbowl feeling returned later that day after we ate lunch in Osu. Back on the bus, a few more hawkers surrounded us. One, selling sunglasses, was particularly persistent.

But before I tell you about that, I want to tell you about an art museum we visited on the outskirts of the city at the end of our tour. The three-story building hosted a collection of stunning sculptures and paintings, and overlooked the Gulf of Guinea, a beautiful view compromised by the mass of black plastic bags floating in the waves. One series of paintings stood out amongst the rest – thickly layered acrylic paintings that from a certain distance resembled a random array of colors. Upon further inspection, what they were meant to depict became clear: a crowded marketplace. Faces, no more detailed than a splotch of black, blended in to the chaos of reds, blues, greens, oranges, and just about any other color one could imagine.

As the paintings suggest, much of Accra is overcrowded. However, its residents are anything but faceless. And no face is an ingrained in my mind as the sunglasses hawker in Osu. He passed by my window and looked at me, so I smiled and nodded. To him, this meant a potential sale. So, as our bus sat in waiting for what felt like an eternity, he locked his eyes on me, waving his display, hoping I would break. Soon, his gaze of persistence turned to frustration. Then, sadness.

So what was I supposed to do? I had no need for another pair of sunglasses, yet surely they were cheap. What would be an inconsequential dent in my bank account meant so much more to him. I’ve come to Ghana to learn and to experience, not to spend money in the name of feeling like a good person. But sitting inside an air-conditioned bus, the act of shaking my head at a man as hope vacated his eyes felt like an affront to humanity.

And then we drove away.

I went home and took a cold shower, and you know what? It was damned refreshing. A bit of a shock to the system, sure, but the thick, wet heat of East Legon called for it. The cliché is played-out: white boy goes to Africa and starts to better appreciate what he has. But as I felt the layers of sweat and dirt rinse away after coming face to face with such widespread and abject poverty, the thoughts were inescapable. What role do I play as a foreigner here in Ghana? I’d be lying if I were to say I’ve figured it out. For now, all I can do is take it all in.

Over the past few days, our contact with the local community has grown dramatically – we bargained at a rural marketplace, and watched some of Ghana’s most prestigious football players play an exhibition match at an unassuming dirt field, alongside thousands of Accra residents. As our stay in Ghana progresses, we’ll be stepping out of our air-conditioned bus, and into tro-tros, which are over-packed minibuses that transport locals throughout the city. I can’t wait. Comfort is nice, but comfort is something I know well. Despite living in conditions that I’d describe as anything but comfortable, it seems that the people of Accra are by and large jovial people. Undoubtedly, they know something that I do not.

Like I said, I’m here to learn, and I’m here to experience.

Accra, bring it on.