I'm Ghana go to Accra

How to Write About Africa

2008-10-10T15:20:00.001-04:00

Always use the word ‘Africa or ‘Darkness’ or ‘Safari’ in your title. Subtitles may include the words ‘Zanzibar’, ‘Masai’, ‘Zulu’, ‘Zambezi’, ‘Congo’, ‘Nile’, ‘Big’, ‘Sky, ‘Shadow’, ‘Drum’, ‘Sun’ or ‘Bygone’. Also useful are words such as ‘Guerrillas’, ‘Timeless’, ‘Primordial’ and ‘Tribal’. Note that ‘People’ means Africans who are not black, while ‘The People’ means black Africans.

Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.

In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don’t get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn’t care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.

Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African’s cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it — because you care.

Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.

Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can’t live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love — take advantage of this. If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.

Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with. The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.

Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).

Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa’s situation. But do not be too specific.

Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life — but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.

Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the ‘real Africa’, and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.

Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people’s property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).

After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa’s most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or ‘conservation area’, and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa’s rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.

Readers will be put off if you don’t mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical — Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).

You’ll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.

Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.

~Granta 92

T- minus 23 hours

2007-02-27T16:40:00.000-05:00

And 6-months goes by just like that. Sad to leave, happy to come home, and grateful for the exerience, but right now I have to figure out how to cram 6 moths of accumalated souveniers into my two bags.

I am taking a long weekend in Amsterdam to meet up with Katie and Drew before heading home and am slightly terrified at the weather change. I intended to write a "final report" on my impressions of Africa and still will but it must wait until I get home. So please check the site in a week or so. Work has kept me busy until the last minute here. Even in Amsterdam, I am meeting with Child Helpline International to discuss with them the logistics of setting up a child helpline to provide free direct emergency care to the children of Accra....a side project I have been working on for the last month.

Thank you for all your comments, support, and reading along.

On the Road Again

2007-02-17T07:53:00.001-05:00

One month straight in Accra and the walls are beginning to close in. The traffic, the heat, the teeming masses yearning to call me Obruni all began to take its toll on me. I needed to get out of town, if even for a night so jay (my new roommate http://jaydavidson.blogspot.com), Rob, and I head to Akosambo, the sight of the Akosambo dam which consistently provides the entire country with six glorious days a week of electricity.

We’ve gotten to the point of understanding that the sights are interesting and often beautiful but the social interactions are what makes these trips memorable and Akosambo once again proved this to be the case.

Meet Mr. Cedi.

Mr. Cedi named himself after the local currency. He’s a very friendly man but I spent the majority of my time trying to avoid his hypnotic penetrating stare.

We stopped at his bead factory along the way and were treated to an interesting demonstration on how their glass beads are produced. The beads are made from recycled glass bottles and are refined, placed in molds, and heated in an open fire. Mr. Cedi just loves beads. He explained to us his passion for beads underneath a giant billboard instructing us to bead all that we can bead.

Meet Mrs. Brian:

So a group of schoolgirls coming home from church boarded our tro-tro and yada yada yada I got engaged. Rob started a brilliant rendition of ‘I want to see you my Fader’ a local favorite and the whole car rejoiced in song. Wedding is set for sometime this summer.

Meet Kofi. We were eating along the Volta River at a great little spot when a timid young boy paddled up to the nearby dock and began to patiently stare at us.

He looked terrified to approach us but I invited him to have a drink with us. The owner of the place got up to yell at him and I had to explain to him that he was our guest. Kofi ferries people up and down the river and we told him that we would come back tomorrow for a canoe ride. Sure enough he was there Sunday morning and we boarded his dug-out canoe.

It seemed that Kofi had enough paddling for the day because he handed the oar to me to shove us off from the shore. Kofi confidently directed us upstream and kept insisting we get our mast.

Our ‘mast’ turned out to be a bed-sheet hidden in a nearby tree. Kofi, our fearless captain sat in the front of our canoe anchoring the mast down with his feet while Rob stood, arms outstretched to cast out our sail and propel us along. I don’t know if the scheme worked and we may never find out of we looked inventive or dim-witted to the curious passer-bys.

Now meet giant Brian. People are short in Ghana....isn't that nice? Look how tiny this door was!!

Meet the women and children of bread junction. I’ve encountered this infamous junction twice before on my travels elsewhere in the Volta region and have always remembered it for its aggressive sellers who assault every passing car to try and get you to buy their shrimp, oysters, water, and of course bread. It’s the last stop before crossing the Volta River and a popular pit-stop for tro-tros to feed the traffic weary and hungry passengers. The last onslaught I experienced here I was damn near forced to buy bread when, with a brilliant sales pitch, a woman crawled in through the window and held a loaf in my lap until I was uncomfortable enough to hand her 5,000 cedis.

Rob and I gots to talking and devised an ingenious battle of might and will. We would join these fearless vendors. We will join them and sell bread. The stakes: boasting rights and swelling pride. The plan: buy bread from bread ladies, sell it at market price, give the revenue back to the bread ladies to buy even more bread, and the first one to sell three loaves is the winner. See if you can spot the Obruni in this pic:

It was difficult to explain our plan to the bread ladies so we opted to just start selling hoping that they would catch on. As we started to manically chase the passing tro-tros with the rest of the vendors I wondered if we were overstepping some sacred territorial boundary between these sellers. I imagined us getting stabbed with their shrimp skewers, pelted with sachets of water, and suffocated with big delicious bags of bread. A much more pleasant scenario developed as the bread ladies excitedly applauded our efforts. With Rob’s long arms and gift of gab I was the underdog. Every passing tro-tro and taxi was a potential sale and when the first car pulled into the junction I kicked Rob in the shins and flailed my arms as fought for position amongst the other ladies. I stuck my hand though the window and repeated my ingenious sales pitch of ‘bread bread bread bread 5,000 5,0000 5,000 5,000’ and was met by amusement and confusion to the marks riding the tro-tros. After uncomfortable persistence a lady bought my bread with a smile. I held my money like a trophy and the bread ladies rejoiced and danced with me. I quickly bought another loaf and waited for the next tro-tro to come.

Cunning I am not. Despite our best efforts, Rob and I failed to sell any more bread for the next twenty minutes. But then, a woman, possibly sensing my growing desperation, asked for two loaves of bread!!! I only had one loaf of bread with me and clouded in judgment from my success, I unwisely directed Rob to sell her the second loaf of bread. Instead of a 3-1 victory the score was tied at 2-2 and Rob finally sold his third bread before me. Rob pranced around the lot in victory and I am left eternally saddened by my ruinous error.

Meet two idiots who have lots of mosquitoes in their room. Our shoestring accommodation came with a complimentary swarm of mosquitoes. Unbeknownst to Rob, I filmed our attack on the flying intrusion and Rob has diligently uploaded the movie to youtube.com (despite the unorganized and lopsided photos that I didnt have the patience to fix look how tech savvy this blog has become!).

[Rob]The sound is delayed. Don't know why. Closed captioning is therefore supplied for the hearing impaired and unimpaired alike (reads far more dramatically than the reality, anyway):

Brian: Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh.
Rob: C’mon, track it, track it.
B: Oh oh oh oh oh.
R: I see it!
B: Over here!
R: Where?
(Slapping noise)
R: Did you get it?
B: I don’t know…maybe.
R: Too many shadows in the room…maybe…oh oh! It dive bombed passed me.
(Extended pause, followed by slapping)
R: I heard that fucker. Did I get it? I should have got that one. I don’t think I did…
(Laughter)
R: Oh oh oh…oh oh oh…over there.
B: Oh yeah, I just saw it.
R: Where? Where?
B: Oh!
(Slapping)
B: There’s two of them!
(Slapping)
B: Oh my god!
(More slapping)
R: I got ‘em, I got ‘em.
B: Dude, there’s three of them!
R: I got one.
B: There’s three of them. I just saw two more.
R: Ok Brian, they’re panicking because of the…the…the thing. They can’t handle it. They’re going insane. I killed one. Did you see? I killed one.
B: That was good.
R: And it hadn’t bitten us yet. That’s a victory…non-bloody ones.
B: Oh!
(Slapping, then laughter)
R: You had such form.
(Crosstalk)
R: I was quite impressed with it.
B: Shit. Oh….Oh!
(Slapping)
B: Aah! I got it. Nope.
R: Yeah, yeah. What’s that?
(Screaming)
R: What?
B: It was stuck in between my fingers.
(Laughter)
B: That was weird.
(More laughter)
B: Uck. That…I definitely got that one.
R: Ok, that’s only two, though. You said you saw…
B: Oh! Here’s another one! There’s one behind your head. Oh, there’s two of them! Shit. There’s two more…
(Slapping)
R: Oh! Oh, look at that!
B: Oh, there’s still two more. There’s one by the light…
R: Do you see this fucker? I’m just going to smash him into the wall a lot…
(Slapping)
R: It’s paste. I’ve made it paste. I’ve fallen…fallen into a rage. Did you see the paste? Ok, give us some more. Gimme…
B: There’s definitely another one or two.
(Crosstalk)
R: Oh! Right over your head! Right…oh two, two right over your head! One…there, there, there, there, there, there. Track it with me.
(Slapping)
R: Nope…missed it. Did I!?
B: Oh, there’s another one.
R: I got some on my finger…
B: Or maybe you can…get that one. It’s going for the light.
R: Where? Oh oh oh oh oh oh oh oh.
B: Fudge. Two of them.
(Slapping)
R: Oh look at the fan…look at the fan…(gasp)
(Slapping)
R: Oh oh oh oh!
(Slapping)
R: Aaaaaaaaagh!
B: Nice. There’s another one in here…
B + R: Oh!
(Crosstalk)
R: There’s one on the roof.
B: Fuck.
R: They’re not all mosquitoes…(laughter)…they’re…they’re not all mosquitoes, some of them are like…that’s a mosquito. You see him stuck on the roof?
B: Yeah.
R: Ok, he’s on the move again.
B: There’s a chair right there.
R: Watch him…oh…it’s moving. Keep him…don’t…if there’s others, we’re going to let them get away for a minute, this one is going down. I’m going to kill you…
(Laughter)

The night I got The Fear.

2007-01-21T11:41:00.000-05:00

A giant cockroach had me pinned against the bathroom wall and even though the little monster was at a safe distance away in the shower, I felt its tiny legs and tentacles crawl up my leg. Katie peered in through the doorway using the wall to shield her body in case the infestation decided to miraculously fly onto her face. Helpless, we just stared at the beast and tried to coax one another to rise above their squeamishness and squash the colossal bug. Finally, we agreed on a plan and Katie trapped the roach under the garbage can, its contents dumped on the floor, and I draped a towel over that to imprison our little intruder. We ran out of the bathroom arms flailing with the sound of my distinctively unman-like screaming reverberating in the room.

Glowing from our triumph over the insect, we valiantly agree to spend the next night camping out in the nearby rainforest at Kakum National Park. Late afternoon, we strut into the park and sit down at the aptly named Rain Forest Café to stuff ourselves full of yam balls before the restaurant and the park close at 5. The tourists clear out of the park with the setting sun and soon it’s just a Jew and a girl from the North Shore of Chicago facing the elements of the forest. Now the only patrons in the park, doubts begin to cloud my mind as the ranger points us to a dark path that leads to our campsite. He tells us that we are the only ones spending the night and hauntingly wishes us ‘good luck’.

We pause at the base of the trail before getting swallowed into the depths of the vines and trees and I gave Katie a look of encouragement that masked my desire to turn around. As I try to keep our sprits high by telling Katie how amazing it is to have the whole rainforest to ourselves tonight, a bearded man wearing a soiled shirt and tattered green shorts strode past us through the entrance. With swelling determination he walked up to a tree and began callously hacking at it with a machete with undeniable passion and no discernable purpose. I tried to ignore the ominous sight and pushed the thoughts of machete man out of my mind as we began our 15 minute hike into the forest to our camp sight. We didn’t speak of the hardhearted machete wielding man and I clung to the hope that Katie didn’t see him.

We raced the setting sun to set up our campsite. Three slim mattresses sitting on a platform six inches off the ground and covered with a mosquito net (with holes in it ineffectively patched with band-aids from past campers) awaited us. It was my idea to spend the night at the park, but as I was shaking the mattress off of all its dirt and animal droppings the best I could do was feign excitement for ‘roughing it’. The darker it became the louder the forest grew to be and when the canopy consumed the dying sun the noise was deafening.

There’s not much to do in the rainforest at night and we tried to pass the time by drinking from a flask of vodka. I make another comment about how fun this is and Katie doesn’t even humor me with a response. After passing the flask back and forth with no words spoken between us, I shed any notion that we are drinking socially. We are now just taking sips to dull our senses and rid ourselves from the paranoia that is beginning to mercilessly set in. It didn’t work, and Katie took solace underneath our sheets. It was so dark I couldn’t see my own hand in front of my face but I remained perched upright at the foot of our platform, face pressed up against the mosquito net, eyes crazily fixated on the emptiness of night.

I thought I’d be plagued by thoughts of spiders biting me and centipedes using all their tiny legs to march on my face or at least afraid of a warthog running through our camp or a Jaguar devouring us. But instead, with great intensity, I focused on even greater irrationalities. Katie and I seldom spoke and although there was no one around us for miles we communicated via cautious whispers. I continued my blind stare out our platform scrutinizing the darkness. The thoughts of the machete man paralyzed me. Every branch falling became his footsteps getting nearer, every gust of wind that rustled the trees was his mad search for us, and every move I made was potential to give away our position in the woods.

Refusing to turn on my flashlight I fumbled around for my bag in search of my Swiss Army knife. Machete man was out there dammit, and he is used to navigating around the forest in the darkness! With intense concentration I unzipped my bag one agonizing notch at a time. Katie broke our silence by asking what I was looking for and I was relieved that her question barely came across as a murmur. Unable to admit that I was searching for a knife to protect us from the imminent attack from a machete wielding maniac that she may have not even seen in the first place I lied and said I was looking for some mints.

She pleaded for me to lie down next to her and I reluctantly left my watching-post and curled up next to her. She didn’t say a word, only grabbed my hand and led it to her violently beating heart. She understands! I wanted to reveal my enduring torture. I wanted to tell her that we need a plan. I fought the urge to advise her that if something should happen we don’t think twice and leave our things behind to run through the forest towards the nearest road. That help would certainly arrive if we could just make it to the road. I wanted to ask if we should leave, if she had heard something or someone circling our bed. Did she see the crazy man when we entered the forest? Instead, I just rested my hand on her heart again and resented being put in a position of consoling when I was quite literally about to shit myself – too scared to venture out to the toilet 20 meters away.

Still, I tried to snap out of my downward spiral into insanity and assuage our fears with rational thought. “Katie, this is a government run park” I told her. “They wouldn’t let tourist sleep her if it wasn’t safe.” Shifting the attention away from murder, I added ‘there are no animals in here that can hurt us’.

Katie replied by pressing that we were in a rainforest in Africa and not Yellowstone National Park in Montana. “There aren’t exactly the same safety regulations, you see” she explained. She went on to point out that we were allowed a self guided tour at the government protected Ussher fort where we climbed crumbling stairs and walked along narrow balconies with the banisters long ago ripped off. She reminded me about looking through the abandoned fort’s kitchen and only upon our exit being warned not to enter that area because they are waiting for the roof to cave-in. “Besides, wasn’t that a government operated bus we were riding with no seatbelts and the cabin filled in with smoke and we nearly crashed.” Damn….she had a point.

It was unmistakable now. Something or someone was definitely slowly and calculatingly walking over the woodchips around our tent. I kept silent, thinking that if I didn’t confirm it with words than whatever was out there would remain some intangible harmless thought within my paranoid brain. Katie finally whispered, “Did you hear that?” I held her tighter with one arm and gripped my knife with the other. I tried to rationalize our situation with her by talking about war and how unjustifiably scared we were right now. I tried to philosophize about the stars and night to change the subject. Nothing worked to subdue the fear and I forced myself to sit up to resume my watch at the base of our bed.

And then it happened. In an instant, the depth of the forest illuminated with a greenish glow and after a brief moment the light collapsed on itself somewhere in the immeasurable distance. But for that fleeting moment, I could see everything surrounding us with great clarity. There was no machete man in the vicinity and the forest actually looked quite serene. With a dropped jaw, I concentrated my focus back out into the forest to try to fathom an explanation for the mysterious light. I turned to Katie and asked if she saw the strange sight, but she was burrowed underneath our sheets hiding from whatever was lurking around. She got up and like two crazed predators we stalked the night looking for the source of the light.

Moments later, we both see a contained glow in the near distance effortlessly and silently flying amongst the trees. The light seemed to be about the size of a large bird and a freakish glowing bird was just what I thought it was. And then the light flickered and disappeared.

We grabbed each other’s arm and helplessly sat there. We didn’t dare move. After a few endless minutes the light came back and maneuvered around right in front of us! It changed directions back and forth so much that I ruled out any chance of it being a bird. Soon after, the bastard began circling our campsite and Katie insists that it rested right on top of our roof. For some reason I can terrify myself with far fetched ideas of murdering jungle men but when a mysterious and unidentifiable glowing orb is circling me in the middle of the rainforest I just find it oddly peaceful.

When we were confident it had finally left I softly exclaimed to Katie, “Wow! We just saw an alien!” unnecessarily adding a new element of horror into our evening. With an almost fanatical conviction, Katie contended that it wasn’t an alien but was in fact a spirit. She explained that the spirit was most likely from the two slave castles we had visited that weekend no more than 30 miles away. If anywhere was to be possessed with lost spirits it would be those damn slave castles and the long treacherous trail it took to get there.

Slowly the forest turned on me once again and any incongruent sound enraptured me. Orbs of light and machetes were too much to handle in the rainforest alone. I reached into my bag of tricks and fed Xanax to me and Katie that I had to knock myself out on the plane and we finally submitted to sleep. We woke up early the next morning and I checked to see if I was wearing the same clothes or if my butt hurt and any other signs of alien abduction. Sure enough the ranger came for our 7am appointment for our guided hike confirming at least that time has elapsed as it should. I asked him if there was any animal in the forest that could produce such a glow and he just shrugged and showed me what a cocoa plant looks like.

One of the perks of sleeping in Kakum is that you get private access to the famed canopy walk before the park even opens. The walk consists of several long bridges suspended high above the forest canopy allowing a unique view of the woods from above. I had done the tour months earlier with Liz and Laura and the ranger then gave a long speech about safety. He reassured the group by enumerating all the regulations and explained that a ranger inspects the bridges first thing every

morning to ensure everyone’s safety.

Well, our guide had to unlock the entrance to the canopy so we knew we were the first ones there. Then, he tells us he has to go unlock the exit and he’ll meet us on one of the suspended platforms in the middle. I just laughed and took the responsibility of checking for the bridges durability by jumping up and down on each walkway. It was secure. We stood on platform number 3 and watched for monkeys. Our frustrated guide told us that he knew they were around, but they were being stubborn. ‘Look, you’re standing in their feces right now’, he cheerfully pointed out.

We never did see any monkeys and I was just happy to have survived. Katie and I gratefully left the park and visited an alligator sanctuary where we had breakfast and talked about how crazy and pathetic we had been the night before.

We continued on our trip heading further west along the coast and were back in Accra on January 6th to celebrate Aaron’s birthday with his family who were visiting. Sitting at the dinner table we try to explain to Marta and Rob how terrifying our ordeal was since they had recently recommended it to us and billed it as the best sleep they had in Ghana. The table seemed interested in our forest episode and after a series of prodding we reluctantly revealed our sighting of the mysterious orb of light. Aaron, who had visited the park a couple of weekends prior, passed around a picture he had taken which gave us the chills. The picture was of a plaque that was displayed in the small children museum in the ranger station.

It reads: The mysterious mmoatia

A flickering light in the distance or a whistling sound may signal the presence of the mmoatia, one of the best-known forest spirits. With their black, red, or white coloring, and feet pointing backward, these foot-tall dwarfs will make mischief with unwary travelers.

Be it light, aliens, spirits, or foot-tall dwarfs – I am never going back to Kakum National Park.

Da Trip

2007-01-19T11:05:00.000-05:00

You didn’t ask for it but here’s a day by day description of my holiday trip.

15th – I learned a valuable lesson while I was in a rush to pick Katie up at the airport: Don’t tell cabdrivers you’ll dash them more money to go faster. Stoplights were a mere afterthought and lines of traffic were bypassed on narrow dirt shoulders which was almost as disconcerting as the driver’s manic laugh. I got there in record time and then promptly waited 3 hours for the delayed flight.

16th – Katie confessed that she is afraid of Ghana and made me promise that I would never leave her side.

Toured the Kwame Nkrumah Mausoleum (first president of Ghana) which remains to be the only relaxing open green space in Accra and thus a haven for wedding photo opportunities. I got to see a bride spit which for some reason is still a noteworthy experience. If you ever wanted to view Nkrumah’s old mattress or see your own reflection in the wall mirror that he had in college than the attached museum is a must see.

We visited Ussher Fort which began as a slave trading post and later was converted into a prison that has housed three former presidents. Seeped in more history than Alcatrez you can be free to wander the premises, climb the disintegrating staircases, and investigate the dated cells with a dollar tip to the watchman. Last time I was ushered into the fort by a random man on the street who gave us a tour that he seemingly made up as he went along. I did the same for Katie.

17th – . While there are plenty of things to experience in Accra there aren’t many things to do from a tourist’s perspective. Nevertheless, we went across town to climb an old unused lighthouse that offers stunning views of people bathing in their unroofed showers. Our 'guide' shown on the left.

18th- Brought Katie to the crèche and the cute and friendly kids seemed to assuage Katie’s fears of Ghana. Katie went though proper initiation rights by being peed on. My co-workers were truly excited to meet her and with standard Ghanaian friendliness they embraced her with hugs and enthusiastic smiles and welcomed her to their country. People don’t seem to grasp the idea of a ‘girlfriend’ here so for the rest of the trip Katie becomes my fiancé or wife.

Katie meets my friends for the first time at dinner and spends the evening pouring drinks out of a flask for herself under the table. She is the only one to get drunk.

19th - Went to Creche again that day for the last time in the year. Finished packing and took a bus to Kumasi, the second largest city in Ghana. Katie fell asleep and drooled so much on my lap that it made it look like I pissed myself. I was too embarrassed to get up during the bathroom stop and nearly pissed myself. Arrive late at night in Kumasi. Katie gets first mosquito bite.

20th – The first thing I had to do in Kumasi was secure bus tickets to leave the city and travel further north. Arriving at the bus station, I took my place in line behind a lurch-like Obruni who was traveling to the same place. Due to the holiday season tickets were sold out for the entire week…eep. Katie, Lurch, and I join forces and hail a taxi and go to a different bus station where we encountered a police checkpoint where the lawmen find something afoul if it suits them. In a city where people cram 8 people into a taxi, traffic lanes are merely a suggestion, and going as fast as the road allows is the practiced speed limit our driver was cited for not wearing proper foot attire (sandals instead of boots). Our driver grabbed a fistful of bills and left to plead for sympathy. Just as fast, a stern policeman sat at the driver’s seat and bluntly said ‘your driver has been arrested. Where would you like to go?’ Before the policeman could drive us away the driver escaped arrest with a 30,000 cedis bribe. In the end, we couldn’t buy tickets for the bus till the next morning anyway.

Next, we walked through the largest market in West Africa looking for nothing in particular. This was like a small claustrophobic city divided into sections of stalls where everyone sold exactly the same thing. Maybe it was because we got lost in the shoe polishing area and inadvertently got high off the fumes but we found it nearly impossible to find our way out of the sprawling vendors.

A kind man walked us for 20 minutes to the cultural center where they have a lot of curios made by local artists. The cultural center in Kumasi is what the cultural center in Accra would be if all the vendors took massive doses of pain killers. I enjoyed the passiveness and indifference displayed towards us so much that I bought a painting.

Visited an old English fort that was converted to a military museum and housed an odd and eclectic collection of weapons acquired by Ghanaian military in their various campaigns including the crude weapons used in the Rwandan genocide. The exhibit also proudly displayed a soldier’s ration pack from the Ghanaian tour in Burma which the soldier apparently saved and lugged though battle for the duration of the war and left uneaten, surviving on snakes and bamboo shoots because he found the ration pack that interesting. When the man returned home safely he discovered his love of hats and began collecting what would soon be the world’s largest collection, putting him in the Guinness Book of World Records and making him the ‘world’s coolest person’ according to Rob. It was a great tour except that the curator periodically quizzed us to make sure we understood what was going on. We never really understand what is going on and were shamed out of the museum.

Back at our hostel one of the employees had a crush on Katie. Desperate to see her, he knocked on our door at 11:00 to hand us a complimentary roll of toilet paper. Thoroughly sketched out, we locked the door and went to bed.

21st – Woke up to the pitter patter of rain but it turned out to be the bathroom leaking. Katie and I opted to charter our very own tro-tro to take us directly to Mole National Park with lurch and two other Americans that we had met the previous day effectively saving us an entire day of traveling with public transport. The farther north we went the more rural, drier, dusty, and bumpy it became. Six hours into our trip with only 2 more to go our tro-tro had to stop for crossing cattle and stubbornly refused to start. Little Miss Sunshinesque we had to push the van until it was able to shift gears and one by one hop into the tro. We had to stop in the next village which allowed us to take a picture of this man so all was not lost.

Since we arrived at the park a night early we did not have reservations and unfortunately the place was packed. Instead of leaving defeated we just stood there for an hour looking sad and depressed until they would accommodate us. As it turns out, they cleared a storage room out for us and laid mattresses on the bed for the five us.

The first night, in a series of bloodthirsty nights, for the love affair between Katie and the mosquitoes. Bite count after the night: 65

22nd – Woke up at 6am to depart on a walking safari through the park! Probably the best deal in Ghana, a two hour tour where you are guaranteed to at least step in some elephant poop cost us a little over a dollar each. Everyone in our ten person group seemed to get swept up in the excitement of the safari and all tried to walk as stealthy and quiet as possible. However, our guide’s cell phone kept ringing and he picked it up every time for extended explanations about why he can’t talk on the phone. Despite the intrusions, we saw warthogs, alligators, baboons, antelope, and a bunch more less interesting animals. Luckily, the ranger’s last cell phone ring was to inform him that elephants had been spotted right outside the hotel! We trekked back up the same path we hiked down and were face to face with two wild elephants. Me and Katie kept creeping closer and closer to the wild beasts until
the elephant turned toward us and threatened to charge. The ranger instinctively drew his gun on the great beast and we instinctively got the fuck away from the elephants.

After lunch we rented bicycles and within a minute my chain had fallen off and the brakes stopped working. We both fell off our bikes but eventually made it to the closest village: Larabanga. Larabanga is an interesting small village where everyone is Muslim and they speak their own unique language. The focal point of the village is an ancient mosque replicating Sudanese architecture supposedly built in 1421, making it the oldest extant building in Ghana.

Survived the bike trip back to Mole just in time to see a group of monkeys playing outside our room. They allowed us to get within a few feet of them and we watched them chase each other in circles, pick bugs out off each other’s backs, and jerk off. So like us.

23rd – Woke up at 3:45am to catch the only bus out of the park which leaves at 4am and it incredibly left on-time. Northern Ghana has its own unique climate and it was freezing outside in the early morning. Shortly into the ride the bus stopped and herded us onto a bigger bus amidst mass confusion and angry passengers. We surrendered to the flow as usual and had to trust our bags would follow us but were actually handed money as we boarded the bus (a first)!

A peace corp friend of mine has been developing an eco-tourist village tour program so we gladly called the guide to check it out. It turned out to be the highlight of the trip and really is worthy of its own blog entry but here’s a brief explanation anyway. Our guide, Walisu, was so grateful for our participation and all the villagers were terribly welcoming and happy to see us. We had visited the eco-tourist project with two Obruni girls that we had met and most of the older men assumed that I was touring their village with my three wives. We were shown demonstrations in pottery, shea butter extraction, and palm nut oil distillation. Then, we visited the home of the oldest woman in the village who, despite her age, occupies her day with the tedious task of spinning cotton by hand. Her wasted shaking hands produced about a dollar of profit in 2 weeks and I was compelled to purchase some cotton from her to always remember the deplorable sight. Throughout our excursion a steady beat and faint chants could be heard from a distance. Walisu informed us that the community had organized for their weekly dancing and drumming. We asked him if we could watch and as he excitedly led us toward the music he turned to me and said, “I can tell you are a good dancer. I can’t wait to see you move.” I tried to explain to him that I lacked moves and that I was in fact moveless, but he refused to listen. My palms turned clammy and my heart matched the intensifying drum beat as we neared the celebration. Walisu had to ask the chief if we could attend the session and the man ceremonially handed us a kola nut to welcome us. The men all wore Bimnaa traditional aprons that accentuated every twist of their bodies as they performed their dance. Dust engulfed the dancers as a woman devotedly laid water beneath their feet. After the performance, I was given the traditional outfit and was mercilessly dragged out of my seat. I began to imitate the dance moves I had just witnessed and immediately the circle of hundreds closed in around me as they riotously cheered and shouted in enthusiasm.
Walisu told me that it is customary to show your appreciation to the musicians by paying them a small amount as you danced. The villagers pointed to the ensemble of the dozen drummer’s foreheads and I went around slapping bills to their faces. Then, I became a cheap male dancer for hire. Woman poured out of the circle to press coins against my face and body and wholly befuddled, I just kept dancing for them. At that moment Katie danced into the circle with a bill suctioned onto her forehead and with mounting enthusiasm from the crowd we placed our foreheads together to transfer the bill and in a perfect moment locked eyes and just enjoyed being in this bizarre scene together not knowing what the fuck was going on. Katie then took her turn in the middle of the circle.
I asked Walisu if the talking drums were in fact talking during my performance and he explained that the talking drums were asking me what dance I liked. I think I might have confused the drums by responding with ‘spastic white boy boogie’.

24th – Decided we wanted to make it back to Accra for Christmas and boarded a 14 hour bus ride back home. The bus played a movie that starred the Nigerian equivalent to Mary-Kate and Ashley Olsen except these two twin boys deviously sabotaged their evil step-sisters relationships and then framed them for breaking the house rules which led them to be beaten by their father. Then the boys stole their father’s life savings and celebrated with a painfully long 3 minute scene of them grinding and gyrating to music on their bed. The plot must have gone over our heads because everyone hysterically laughed and we were just disturbed.

25th – Christmas was spent with my neighbors who lovingly cooked dinner. Then, we exchanged gifts and danced around the streets with sparklers singing happy birthday to Jesus.

Katie’s bug bite count: 93.

26th – On the road again. Destination: Cape Coast. Splurged on a hotel and experienced my first hot shower since I’ve been here. Took four showers.

27th – Took a day trip to the neighboring city, Elmina, to visit the oldest building in Africa and the sight of a former Portuguese turned Danish castle and horrific slave trading post. We climbed up to the Governor’s balcony where he would order all the female slaves to assemble in the courtyard and picked one to be cleaned so he could rape her to death.
Crawled into the ‘condemned cell’ where troublesome slaves were literally crammed into a tiny dark room where they were not fed and
temperatures soared. The original skull and cross bones that decorated the entrance is a testament that no one left that room alive. Next, we were shown the group cells where the slaves were forced to eat, sleep, and relieve themselves. Filled with as many bodies as the room could physically hold, a large percentage died from disease and exhaustion. Dead bodies were tied to rocks and thrown into the sea while the survivors eventually left though the Gate of No Return in the largest forced Diaspora in history.

That night, Katie hurriedly tip-toed out of the bathroom and frantically pointed to an oversized roach that had crept its way into our luxury. We both helplessly stared at it, both too squeamish to squash the infestation. After a long bout of staring, Katie threw the garbage can over it and I draped a towel over that, and we ran away screaming and shut the door.

28th – Glowing from our triumph over the cockroach we decide to take on nature by camping out in the rainforest at Kakum National Park.

But before we left, we toured the British answer to Elmina castle which was a fort with even larger cells to hold more cargo in the form of African slaves.

See future post for details on the fear that is Kakum National Park

29th – Thrilled to see another day we were rewarded with a private ‘canopy walk’ maneuvering along a series of suspended bridges 40 meters off the ground and spying on the forest below.

High-tailed it to the beautiful beaches of Axim. Opted for the ‘village rooms’ as the budget option at the hotel and learned that village rooms was not a euphemism for basic lodging but was in actuality a room in between two villagers.

Took a 2 hour canoe trip to visit a village that is built on stilts. As it turns out, the villagers had migrated from Mali centuries ago escaping conflict. They built their village on the water to protect them against attacks. Why they still are living on stilts remains unanswered.

Experienced a perfect sunset.

30th – Arrived in the coastal town of Busua. Busua is set on an attractive and safe beach that is dominated by hotels and people leaching on to the tourist industry there. The first person to greet us was a guy that referred to himself as Dan the Pancake man and made us promise to come and buy his pancakes. Later, we met a desperate man who called himself the juice man who would harass you to buy his fresh juice and became irate at every refusal. Still later, we met the Pants Man who sewed pants out of flour bags which I couldn’t resist buying. Spent the afternoon looking for the muffin man and Duff man but they remained elusive.

31st – Another New Years Eve away from home. We treated ourselves to a nice dinner and spent the night drinking at our hotel and ran out to the beach to ring in the New Year. There was no giant clock to cue in the new year and the various cliques that littered the beach failed to synchronize their watches. Over the span of 4 minutes there were 9 separate countdowns accompanied by their own fireworks. Later, Katie throws up the most expensive meal we had eaten in Ghana.

1st – Hungover, we stumble into paradise two towns over in Akwidaa. The Green Turtle is an eco-lodge set along an idyllic palm lined beach. There are about 10 bungalows that are solar powered, the shower water is recycled to water the plants, and the self composting toilets smell really bad.

Katie bite count: 121

2nd- I’m woken up early in the morning by Katie fighting with the door like a lunatic. She is pulling at the door and frantically exclaims “The key broke off in the lock and we’re locked in!!” Caring more about sleeping at that moment than our impending doom I rolled over to go back to bed but Katie pleaded for me to get up and uttered the four words that makes any trapped experience all the more excruciating: “I have to pee”. I started to crack up but I was quickly reprimanded with a stern look that implored me to get out of bed. By the time I reach the door Katie is already holding her crotch and kicking her legs high as she does her pee-pee dance around the room. Now, I just lose it and am getting tears in my eyes from laughing. Katie laughs too, but begs me not to make her laugh and make it worse. I go over to the door and sure enough the key is hopelessly jammed into the lock. I turn to Katie and as she carries on her pee-pee dance she screams, “Brian, it’s an emergency!”
I look out the window and no one is around. We were not left with many options. I start to ram my shoulders into the door to try to break the door down hoping that the entire bungalow won’t come crashing down if I succeed. Katie’s just dancing there the entire time stuck repeating a mantra of, “I gotta go, I gotta go.” As I continued to bust the door down Katie exclaims, “I can’t wait. Hurry, find me something to pee in!” I’m hysterically laughing as I glance around the room which had virtually nothing in it. The best I could do was hand her a wicker basket. Not wasting any time and not really carrying about the gaping holes in the basket she pulled down her pants and peed in the basket in the middle of our bungalow. It was then that we figured out that our room was slanted as her pee slowly trickled out of the basket and escaped out the door. A satisfied Katie stood up and told me how good that felt. We tried our best to clean up our pee stained bungalow before calling out the window and getting someone to rescue us. The lock was later fixed that night but we agreed to stop locking it.

3-6th – Go boogie boarding, hike to a secluded secret beach, and lay in the hammock enjoying the beach before heading back to Accra.

7th We celebrate Aaron’s birthday via a nice dinner that his parent’s treat us to and then rush to the airport. I grudgingly say goodbye to Katie who leaves with over 135 mosquito bites. She left me feeling homesick for the first time in Ghana. Then, I lost my phone which further added to the feeling of alienation, but at the time of writing I keep keeping on and am doing great. My new number is: 011.233.246939904

Happy Holidays!!!

2006-12-14T12:28:00.000-05:00

I just wanted to wish everyone happy holidays. I'll be travelling the next 3 weeks with Katie and will probably not be able to update the blog during that time.

All the best,

B.

Adaklu is our Ho

2006-12-14T11:10:00.000-05:00

I stepped off the tro-tro and shook the leg that had been unnaturally propped on a duffel of yams for 3 long hours and waited for the feeling to come back in my foot. An elderly man, chancing that his cane would support his weight, called out, “You are welcome to Ho”. Anywhere else I would have thought he was a pimp with bad grammar, but alas, I was in the city of Ho in the beautiful lush Volta region. The Volta is a place where Mr. guidebook writer himself, Philip Briggs, claims that only 5% of tourist get the chance to experience which is a shame. Sorry old man, no time for chit-chat for I had come with my neighbor Aaron to Ho on a mission: to climb Mount Adaklu!

[Some background courtesy of Briggs] Oral tradition has it that the Ewe of Adaklu migrated to the area centuries ago, in order to escape the oppressive rule of King Agokoli in what is now Beyin. When they settled around the mountain, they slaughtered and roasted a cow, and divided out the meat –an act of sharing to which the name Adaklu refers. I’ve said it before and I’ll say it again: sharing is caring.

We paid an exorbitant price of $10 for a taxi to take us to the isolated village of Helekpe at the base of the great mountain. Under peace core supervision, Helekpe and the neighboring communities operate an eco-tourist project that includes cultural performance, village tours, bat caves, and a guided hike to the peak of Adaklu. I had to wash my hands just after looking at the little furry beast dangling in the grip of a passing villager and thus crossed ‘Bat Cave’ off my to-do list.

The difference between village and city life is in many ways like the differences between John and Joan Cusack: one can be loud and annoying while the other appears to be more laid back and amiable. Lets just say that they are both similar but you are not going to mistake one for the other. Even traveling 15 km outside of Ho, which is itself a very small city by western standards, the changes are dramatic. People lived in more traditional style houses, there were virtually no cars, the air felt fresh, the general pace seemed s-l-o-w, and every person that we saw greeted and welcomed us to an exhausting extent.

We found the headquarters of the project, two plastic chairs on the stoop in front of the bare structure of an undeveloped house, and we were welcomed yet again by what seemed to be the proprietor of the enterprise and our supposed tour guide. He offered us food and we were grateful to accept two egg sandwiches. Kofi, the fifteen year old guide, asked us if we’d like to be shown around the village while the food was being prepared and we had no reason to say no. The tour was, in actuality, an impromptu ‘Kofi reality tour’ as he pointed out where he goes to
school, where his house is, and the shop that his dad owned. We wanted to take pictures of the village and the mountain but our tour guide insisted that he be in all the shots. He was a fan of the dramatic poses and hurriedly ran to the camera after each picture to see the result on the digital screen – always terrifically satisfied.

We opted to return to our egg sandwiches instead of walking another 10 minutes to see his favorite chop bar. The sandwiches weren’t ready and Aaron and I debated whether or not we were really being guided all the way up the intimidating peak. I hoped that we would not be. It was already 10:30 and the sun trumped our spirits with its 90 degree rays of sunshine. After we ate the deliciousness that is a Ghanaian egg sandwich we were introduced to a different guide who was to bring us to the other village where we would begin our climb.

I think the walk to the next village is meant to weed out any potential heart attack victims for the ‘real’ climb. The dirt trail gave way to 4 foot boulders that climbed ever higher to the base of the mountain. We were not physically prepared for the trip. It took us 30 minutes to walk the same amount that a woman carrying a baby on her back and a tray of plantains on her head could do in 15. The boulders gave way to a picturesque little village of 80 residents sitting on a dramatic plateau. Christian, guide #3, was surprised to see more victims of the mountain and was on his way to church. He very politely excused himself and changed into his 50 cent t-shirt to lead us up the trail. We felt bad for that [the church thing, not the t-shirt which was sweet].

First, we had to visit the chief. Supposedly, since the chief was responsible for everyone, we had to formally meet him and allow him to determine if we were fit to climb. We were not. The chief did not speak English and we can’t speak Twi so we stared at each other until Christian explained that it is customary to dash the chief ‘whatever we feel in our heart.’ After tipping two guides and the egg man our hearts began to ache. We didn’t have any kola nuts or a bottle of schnapps to offer him so I dashed him 5,000 cedis and fled. I was just happy I didn’t hear him say ‘turn your head and cough’.

The trail that we used to hike up the mountain was the remnants of an old German mining trail. I think switchback must have made the Germans dizzy or something because right from the start the trail went straight up. After a particularly long series of quad burning boulder steps followed by rope climbing, I began to think that the guidebooks explanation of ‘reasonably’ demanding was not very reasonable at all… this was a death march. As if I needed more reminders concerning how out of shape I have become I had to wheeze my way up the hill as I watched Christian gingerly hop up the mountain in his sandals and one bagged water in hand. I was wearing hiking shoes with a backpack full of sunscreen, bugspray, and 6 bagged waters. I had already drank three but sweated out four. I began doubting my climbing abilities and looked back at Aaron for some inspiration. This is what I saw:

We clearly needed a break and somewhat embarrassed, we asked for a rest. Christian responded with words that have haunted me ever since, “there’s a place for rest up ahead… then we’ll start the climb.” Fuck me.

We rested in a little cave and summoned up some courage for the remainder, or according to Christian the beginning, of our journey. It was now so hot that I started to wonder what temperature my skin melts at. Luckily, the climb was shaded and the rest was mostly guided with rope to assist on the dreadfully steep parts. I closed my eyes and thought of my happy place (any place with an air-conditioner) and trudged on. Not before long we were perched on the peak of Adaklu, looking over the 40 villages that surround the mountain, feeling pretty damn good about ourselves. The view was pretty amazing. I asked Christian what the awesome drum beat was coming from and with deflated enthusiasm he remarked, “Church”…..awkward. I apologized again for taking him away from God and told him if it makes him feel better I wouldn’t be able to walk right again for a month. I think that just confused him.

When I was younger I visited the Indiana dunes, a fantastic scene of rolling sandy hills. I remember trying to run down a particularly steep slope only to be propelled into a vicious summersault eating sand the entire way down until I violently crashed into the people below. Getting down the mountain was kind of like that. Christian’s sister had food waiting for us in the village when we got back and we inhaled the rice while occasionally pointing to the mountain to call it our bitch.

Christian walked us back to Helekpe and we sat under a tree for a tro-tro to take us back to Ho. We sat for a long time. We sat for such a long time that we got anxious and started to walk the 15 km back to town. Note to future travelers of Helenpke: Sunday afternoons are not advantageous to catching a tro-tro back to Ho.

We were unsuccessful in waving down the three cars that passed us along the dirt road. Lack of transit did however allow me to show off my football skills to a few aspiring soccer players shown to the right. We ended up walking seven long kilometers till we reached a junction where we were slightly more likely to catch a car. We discussed whether or not we would be able to get to Accra before work if we were forced to sleep in the village. Just then, a pickup truck drove by and we asked to get in the bed of the truck. For 5,000 cedis (60 cents), our wish was granted.

More people piled into the truck so that there were 6 of us hanging onto the back. Now I can guarantee that Briggs was not sitting on the bed of a pickup truck when he wrote, “Helekpe lies about 15km from Ho along a fair dirt road.” The road was, in actuality, a bunch of little potholes which covered us in dirt and really really hurt our bums. I think this picture of Aaron says it all. The Ghanaians saw us struggling and thought the general idea of Obrunis [white people] in the back of a truck was hilarious. When we got to the main road cars honked at us with enthusiasm. Actually, it was really funny but it also was surprisingly painful. I didn’t know if I was hysterically laughing or hysterically crying but tears were definitely coming out of my eyes.

We survived the mountain and we survived the pickup truck and we got dropped off at the Accra bound bus in the station. There were seven checkpoints (read: bribe opportunists) on the way back to Accra and because a woman was transporting something without the proper paperwork we had to pay off every single stop adding an hour + to our trip. The bus was terribly crowded. At checkpoint five I began squirming and the man next to me commented that the busses aren’t as comfortable here as they are in America. You said it buddy… now get off my lap.

And on the seventh day...

2006-11-23T10:30:00.000-05:00

Ghana is a hodge-podge, a cocktail of different religions. However, knowingly over generalizing, Ghana is largely a Christian country. Like an old saying that described Haiti as ‘90% Catholic and 100% Voodoo many Ghanaians practice Christianity while retaining faith in their traditional religions. When I came to work wearing a bracelet that someone had given me on the street my colleagues sneered at the beads and warned me that the bracelet could be cursed.

One of the ways faith is flagrantly expressed is through the naming of the little shops that line the roads. One strip of shops in Accra reads: ‘the almighty lord – snack shop’, ‘God Bless all who provide work for me – Rubber Stamps’ ‘God’s sons electrical enterprise’ and ‘I Love Jesus Ent. Dog Food Depot’. There are also countless stalls that are identifies simply by passages from the Bible which are lost upon me being that the most formal education I had on these verses are the posters that wrestling fanatics curiously wave on giant posters when going to a match. The versatility of the bible amazes me knowing it is pertinent enough to enthusiastically quote at the precise moment when Macho Man Randy Savage is beating Hulk Hogan over the head with one of his shoes. The radio in Ghana is often tuned to one of the many stations that feed the country a healthy dose of Gospel music, preaching, and Christian talk radio. The title of the song escapes me, but there is a song with the chorus “shake your booty that Jesus gave you” that always uplifts my spirits and gets the tro-tro singing along. The vendor’s sales chants and the mates of the tro-tros hawking mantras are often besieged by men with megaphones passionately filling the stations and markets with the sound of Jesus. I cringe when a preacher boards my bus and doesn’t stop reciting verses until our destination but I am the minority, and the passengers are usually responsive to even the most uninspiring. The back of taxis and tro-tros proudly display the vague and not so vague references to their faith in bold yellow letters such as ‘jesus wins’ ‘be good’ ‘don’t be surprised’ ‘faith in Jah’ ‘Gods time is good time’ ‘except (which I think might supposed to be accept but I’m not sure), etc, etc. And, Sundays remain the only time when the restless and welcoming city of Accra seeks its solitude.

In fact, my first Sunday in Ghana I went with Auntie Theo to church. We went to the ‘late’ service at 9am and by the time we arrived the full piece band and 40 person choir were already feverishly doing their part to lift the crowd on their feet, sing, and shout. There were thousands of worshippers in the Church and hundreds more outside watching on big screen televisions. Occasionally someone would dance down the aisle or spontaneously and singularly shout out praise but mostly those in attendance managed to form a single cohesive entity that clapped in rhythm, danced in synch, sang in tune, and prayed in unison and I tried to carry on but struggled to keep my anonymity amidst it all. Towards the end of the service the pastor asked all those who were new to the church to stand up and my perspiration and short breaths announced my fear to the congregation. I thought about remaining in my seat but I figured that the crowd would probably be able to tell that the small white Jewish American wasn’t a lifetime member, so for the first time in the service I addressed God – to pray that I wasn’t the only newcomer. My prayers were answered and out of the thousands, two other men cautiously stood. Those around me all personally welcomed me and I have to admit that it really did feel special… but not special enough to accept the pastor’s invitation to hold a special prayer after the service for all those new to the flock.

I am usually cynical when it comes to religion, but I have discovered the importance of faith. This became evident when working with social workers around the Aguglushi market and visiting the ruins of people’s makeshift homes that had been razed by fire months ago. These people lost all their possessions and a few of them were still sleeping on the ground beside their salvaged property; a small blue tarp that twisted in the wind providing the only shelter from the elements. It had rained the night before and the ground was now mud. For them, Religion is the one thing they still have.

Again, I am not the most religious person but Christianity abound, I sought out the only known Jewish community in Ghana. Gratefully, we stopped in Kumasi, the capital of the Ashanti Region, after a five hour bus ride where I seemed to occupy the only seat without a working air conditioner and I had to peel myself off the seat when we arrived. I was traveling with Johanna, a study abroad student who was writing a research paper on the connections between Israel and Ghana. Our destination: Sefwi Wiawso.

One phrase that tends to come up over and over again is ‘wow, it’s really a small world.’ The farther I travel the more pertinent this saying becomes. Well the world shrinks ever smaller when you are speaking of the Jewish people where you can run into any other Jew in the world and play six degrees of Joushua Goldstein. Johanna and I were checking into our hotel when a friend from the States had called my mobile and I explained to her that I was going to Sefwi Wiawso and a man sitting in the lobby said ‘I’m going to Sefwi’ and so started a pattern until we were traveling to the village as a group of seven. Typical to Ghanaian travel none of us had any concrete directions to the settlement, but we were armed with a name of one of the religious leaders which is usually suitable since Ghanaians all seem to know each other somehow and are pretty adept at six degrees of Kofi Nkrumah. Of course, if that failed, wandering in the desert-like heat is in our ancestral blood and we were prepared for that too.

Indeed, someone at the tro-tro station knew the spot and when a man greeted us with ‘Shalom’ we knew we had made it. We were warmly welcomed with beverages and a snack and as we noshed we discussed the history of the community. Sometimes it can be difficult for me to understand Ghanaians. Even if we are speaking in English both our accents can be an impediment to any fruitful dialogue and some things get lost in translation. Joshua, a middle-aged man of the community, kept referring to his grandparents and brothers and it became increasingly difficult to discern whether grandparents meant ancestors or his parent’s parents and whether brother meant his sibling or all the Jewish people as both meanings were used interchangeably. So basically, I sat there not knowing if we were talking about biblical times or the 1960’s and enjoyed my snack. When I couldn’t make sense of what was going on I stole glances of the rest of the village, tucked away in a lush valley, forming a striking scenery. For more information about the history of the 15 family strong Jewish community you can visit Kulanu.org, an organization that is dedicated to finding and assisting lost and dispersed remnants of the Jewish people, and they can fill in the details.

The sun soon set and Shabbat was upon us. All seven of us stayed with one of the leaders of the community’s house and they couldn’t have been more hospitable (something I am really starting to take for granted here). A small service with the family was held around the dinner table. The prayers were in English, Hebrew, and Twi. There was no electricity and the two Shabbat candles remained the sole source of light casting shadows that accentuated our modest ceremony. It felt quite special to be in a stranger’s home in such a foreign place and yet be reciting the same songs and prayers I have known all my life. I would have stayed up and played with the kids a little bit but I was preoccupied with thoughts of the egg sandwich swimming in a vat of oil that I ate from a street vendor earlier in the day in Kumasi. It was one of those times that even as you were eating it you are telling yourself ‘this is going to make me so sick’ and sure enough it did.

All was well in the morning, and as a group we walked for fifteen minutes until we came upon the one room basic structure that was the synagogue. Some other members of the community were there already and men had occupied one side, women the other. About 15 children reserved the first two rows and they were already participating in an impromptu lesson from one of the elders. The congregation did not have a rabbi but did have Alex, a young charismatic devoted man, who led the service. He recently tried to go to Israel to study and become ordained, but was refused a visa. There seemed to be about 30 people total in attendance and while some of the songs had a distinct African beat and the Old Testament was read in Twi, the service was also distinctively Jewish.

Admittedly, the whole thing was just bizarre. Where did these people come from? How does this community really start? Hundreds of visitors have seemed to come over the years and it is hard to tell how culturally sensitive one should be and how much these visitors have shaped the practices of these people. This is a community with its own beliefs and its own customs. Do they really want to assimilate into the global Jewish population? Do they want our suggestions (as some of my travel-mates made) on things that they can add to their service? One woman I was with had generously given them menorahs, dreidels and books about Judaism and I wondered whether this was something they ever asked for. Will adopting all these outside influences weaken their own faith and lose their sense of origin and identity. Or, will these gifts make them feel more welcomed and closer to the rest of the Jewish world? I myself gave them a menorah I had received for my Bar-Mitzvah and they seemed to genuinely appreciate not only all the gifts but the suggestions of additional prayers that could be added to the service. How much of this was just hospitality and how much was genuine we may never know.

After services I walked with Samuel, a young boy from the congregation ‘into town’ to pick up some yams and water for lunch. Into town was apparently a 45 minute hike uphill in the midday sun and I was shvitsing so much people kept offering me their handkerchiefs. By the time I got back, Luba, an NYU student, was already packing to head out back to Accra and I decided to accompany her.

We got to the station in Sefwi just in time to see a Kumasi bound tro-tro leave. It was 3:00 and we were worried that we would be stuck in Kumasi for the evening. I asked the driver when the next tro-tro would leave and he said two hours – a crushing blow to hopes of sleeping in our own bed. I then asked him what time he thought it would leave and he said 3:45 – a strange sense of hope. Luba suggested we go have a beer and not being one to turn down a drink followed her to a local spot. Yada Yada Yada we got drunk on beer and plastic satchels of gin that were about 10 cents and curiously labeled as a sports drink with happy little soccer players on it as we performed a frenzied little dance of running to and from the station and bar only to narrowly miss transport to the city and soaking up our frustrations with more libation. We missed two more tro-tros. When we finally boarded a bus we only survived for 30 minutes before Luba pleaded “Driver, I have to Urinate”. God bless that girl. She squirmed past laughing Ghanaians, went behind the tro-tro, pulled up her skirt, and pissed alongside the road.

Kwaku, an incredibly kind man who had saved us a spot on the tro-tro from Sefwi insisted that he escort us to our Accra bound bus and soon we were on our way home. This time the bus was painfully cold – the mate was wearing a damn winter jacket and I occupied my time contorting my body to hide as much skin under my shorts and t-shirt. A preacher boarded the bus and started a sermon as if to deliver confirmation that we weren’t in Sefwi anymore.

The Flatmates

2006-11-10T09:39:00.000-05:00

So it appears I am not the only one utilizing this crazy thing called a blog. I just added a link to my roomates blog which they are pretty efficient at updating. Now you can get a sense of what I have to deal with on a daily basis - in a good way of course :)

Random Ruminations

2006-11-07T16:50:00.000-05:00

To be honest, nothing really fazes me here anymore – at least in the sense that the things once considered foreign are now becoming normal. Don’t get me wrong, everyday something bizarre and random will happen, but the sight of a naked man bathing in the median of the highway or turning a corner to be greeted by a little girl pooping in the grass does not even warrant a passing comment to whoever I may be with. Consequently, I’ve been finding it difficult to discern what exactly would be interesting to write home about. Nevertheless, for better or worse, here are a few things I’ve been ruminating about:

- When I was seven, I received the game Ants in your pants as a present. Ants in your pants was a hilarious and clever game that involved flicking plastic ants into a bucket shaped like a pair of overalls – genius! I don’t know if it was the colorful playing pieces or because my sister never would play other board games with me, but I just loved that game. Recently, I was at the beach when a platoon of ants found its way into my pants and I learned a valuable lesson. Ants in your pants is humorous, but ants in my pants is painful and awkward.

- Ghana has tainted my love of breasts. I consider myself a connoisseur of the chicken breast sandwich and eat them so often that my friends sometimes refer to me as chicken and chicken as Brian. I really don’t like when they do that. Chickens run wild here and I’ve witnessed enough chickens grazing in the same open sewers that people defecate in to consider becoming a vegetarian. How fowl is that? Furthermore, I’ve been in two different taxis that unsympathetically ran over a chicken – a cloud of feathers trailing behind us. I don’t know if it’s more disturbing that the driver never slows down as we pass a herd of animals on the road or that the road kill will be someone’s impromptu meal tonight. These experiences are really testing my loyalty for my beloved meat.

Ghana has also forced me to change my conception of the female breast – reduced from a delicate sexual force to a vending machine. Mothers just love to pull their boobies out of their shirt anytime and anywhere. I’ll be having a conversation with a woman and without hesitation or pause in the conversation she will scoop up a breast for her child and I have to focus so intensely on retaining eye contact than I can no longer maintain a coherent conversation and have to promptly run away. Working in a refuge for teenage pregnant street mothers I have bore witness to more breast feeding than any young man should have to endure. Remember that old show, Scared Straight, where they took juvenile delinquents into a prison and had Machete Mike and Pedophile Pete show them what prison is really like, deterring them from a life of crime and entertaining America all at the same time. Well, that’s kind of what it feels like when I find myself sitting in a room with a dozen young mothers and their crying infants and I promise myself over and over to practice safe sex. Furthermore, cramped in a tro-tro with a lactating woman dripping her homemade brew on my leg marks the absolute most uncomfortable I have ever felt.

- People will piss anywhere here. I’ll be talking with a friend and they’ll just stop and say, “I am going to relieve myself” and I’m like “dude, we’re sitting in traffic.”

- You never know what you’ll get with a Rasta Man. Some would love nothing more than to smoke you up and philosophize and some would love nothing more than to smoke you up and then steal your wallet. Rasta men always come across as outlandishly friendly and will invite you into conversation with a welcoming greeting that offers no conventional reply, such as “it’s nice to be nice”. You can have an entire conversation with a rasta man only to realize that the only thing they actually said was “Ya, Rasta mon” over and over and over again. The other day I was sitting in a tro-tro praying I would get to my destination before I was beaten. A Rasta man was preaching about Rasta to the man sitting next to him but really addressing the whole car. He spoke of the philosophies of the Rasta way of life [which are interesting] but then suddenly launched into a tirade against the evils of the white man. Being white, and a man, I squirmed in my seat and hoped he wasn’t a good public speaker. I was comforted a little by the fact that nobody really seems to take the Rasta men seriously here but he continued his rant about the white man still treating Africa like its their colony and I cringed because most of what he was saying had truth to it. Sitting unnoticed in the back of the tro-tro, when I got off for my stop he said. “oh my God, there was a white-man sitting here the whole time” and extended a friendly hand. He asked what I thought and I diplomatically told him everyone is entitled to their opinions and he agreed. Then he announced to the rest of the tro-tro that I was probably with the CIA and I nodded to confirm that indeed I was and told him that I’d be sure to keep watching him.

- When someone asks “are you afraid of me” I become afraid of them even if I wasn’t originally.

- I think sleeping when standing up is only possible in space and in Ghana. I don’t like to generalize, but all Ghanaians seem to posses the uncanny ability to fall asleep instantaneously, anytime and anywhere. People will lean on you and eventually rest their head on your shoulder to sleep on the tro-tro. In the workplace, it seems perfectly acceptable to take a nap at your desk. The heat has to be a factor but I think it is also learned at an early age. I can’t tell you how many children I’ve had to peel off the pavement at the nursery who unsuccessfully tried to make it to their mat before surrendering to the cement.

- The top four links displayed on the homepage of the internet café I frequent: Google, Yahoo, Ghanaweb, and US Visa. How crazy is that? The disparity between the incredible demand and the lack of supply for a visa entry is astounding and really makes me appreciate the opportunities that were afforded to me just by being born in a prosperous country.

- I hate it when you make eye contact with someone you know walking towards you but they are still hundreds of feet ahead of you and too far away to say anything. That doesn’t have anything to do specifically with Ghana, I just find those situations to be particularly awkward.

- I had to visit an office in Ada, a coastal town two hours east of Accra, for work. It was slightly unnerving when I realized I was the only one who wasn’t wearing a surgical mask. I clutched my kidney and hoped I didn’t inadvertently walk into a black market for organ donors. Boy was I was relieved to hear that a helpless endangered whale had washed up on the nearby beach and the masks were for the accompanying stench. Traveling back to Ada the next weekend, I was lucky enough to have been granted the opportunity to document the decomposition of a 15 foot whale. I learned two things from this experience: 1)Whatever job I eventually take will not justify complaint because it will be infinitely better than the responsibility of tearing apart a putrid beast whale with a chainsaw and ice picks and burying it in the nearby sand. 2) Rotting is not a graceful process. Feel free to cremate me.

- Some children, showing their excitement at seeing a foreigner will feverishly wave at you. If you try to outlast them in waving you will lose… and risk looking crazy.

- The equivalent to window shopping here is sitting on a tro-tro or along the side of a road and seeing what is on top of people’s heads. Anything that is less than 125 pounds will at some point be gracefully carried on someone’s head. Carrying items on your head is an amazingly efficient way to travel but sometimes it seems a little excessive. Today, I saw two women animatedly talking to each other flailing their arms about. Both had their hand purse balanced on top of their head. Anytime I attempt to carry things on my head people just smirk and say “my friend, let me carry that for you”. I just tell them nay nay because I have aspirations of fame for being the waiter at that restaurant that carries all the dishes on his head. Think of the tips!

- Walking is an acquired skill here. The stations are reduced to mud pits when it rains and the walkways are full of potholes and uneven terrain. Tripping is inevitable and falling into a sewer is a constant concern of mine. Ghanaian’s are just great walkers. I can only assume that walking through a bed of rocks, jumping over a pipeline, and crossing makeshift wooden bridges in heels with your groceries on your head is an incredible feat.

- It’s weird to see where all my used clothes that I have been donating since I was eight have ended up. I swear I saw someone wearing my ‘Walk with Israel in 94’ t-shirt. Just yesterday, I saw a vendor in the Makola market wearing a ‘not only am I perfect, I’m also Irish’ t-shirt. I found this hilarious and then overwhelmingly depressing.

- For a country that has a flag that resembles a stoplight (red, yellow, green striped), there is actually very little adherence to traffic laws.

- Last month, Jay-Z came to Accra as part of a 6-city tour of Africa under a UN and MTV sponsored campaign to preach access to safe water drinking in Africa. Jay-Z talked of bringing his music to his people who are not otherwise able to access it. You’d think he was talking about the general population but by charging the exorbitant fee of 600,000-1,000,000 cedis ($65-$110) per ticket whites, Lebanese, and the Ghanaian elite made up the demographics of the audience. Jay-Z is a dick. I think Reggie Rockstone, the God Father of Hip Life summed it up best when asked about the concert:
“African Americans romanticize Africa, you know. These are the big wigs, these ‘cats’ got money and they’re trying to act like there is nobody here. When they go to Europe they don’t charge that much plus they try to do ‘collabos’ with these European artistes. Is he saying that we don’t count and then he comes here and charges like five times the price? They will pin the over-pricing on the promoters but if people are getting pimped like that, Jay Z is the king of his castle and he could have made a statement about it so at least we know he is not about extorting people. Matter of fact he was supposed to be getting water for these same people who love his music. How the fuck do you turn around and over charge them. Motherfuker didn’t even take a picture with any of the artistes who opened for him…. Jay Z didn’t think we were important so he came in, made his money and that’s all that mattered to him.”

- I got a crappy haircut here and was a little self conscious until I realized that there is no such thing as a bad hair day in Ghana. This just has to be true because nobody seems to have any hair and my jew-fro, no matter its condition, is admired, if not just for the sake of novelty. Virtually every guy has the same haircut – a neatly buzzed skull. Most women also opt for a buzz or extensions. Still, I think I’ll go somewhere else for my next haircut.

- Being the #1 killer of people in Africa, Aids is obviously a serious and important issue. My roommates work for the Ghana Aids Commission and they will tell you that Ghana has been able to maintain a pretty low occurrence of Aids at 2.7% relative to the rest of Africa. I really enjoy the creativity and bluntness of some of the safe sex billboards around Ghana. The above is one of my favorite. I particularly admire the creativity behind the C and the N.

- I don’t have a television here but I am aware that Survivor Africa has recently begun. This program has the same premise but is unaffiliated with CBS’s Survivor series and consists of Africans battling it out in Panama. What could they possibly throw at these people? They have a word here for surviving in the bush under extreme environmental, physical, and social stresses: life.

Oh the People You'll Meet

2006-10-19T14:37:00.001-04:00

I often follow my perceived proper social prescription at home. Walking down the street I lower my head to a 60 degree angle and focus my attention to the grooves on the sidewalk. On the train I feel embarrassed for the woman who is talking loudly on her cell phone and frustration consumes me as I read the same line over and over again in my book, the tantalizing voyeurism of a mundane conversation invariably distracts me. I’ll enthusiastically greet friends at bars and ignore the guy I sat next to in biology everyday because I have nothing meaningful to say to him. I am happy to provide directions when I can and have often secretly wished I was a person who would abandon what I was doing for a stranger and walk them to their destination yet I always remain content at pointing in the general direction and drawing out a vague map in air.

In Ghana these are strange behaviors and can be downright offensive. On my way to work I usually greet every passer-by, the tro-tros are filled with lively conversation, and I’ve never carried a map because someone will be pleased to lead me the way – 50% of the time we will also exchange numbers should I need anything else while I am living here. In the more rural areas the greetings seem almost familial and genuine while in the city center it is hard not to cast an unusually friendly man as an opportunist or be approached by a vendor who is trying to sell you well, anything. Living in the most lively and “touristy” part of Ghana the walk around my neighborhood is a strange and calculated dance of crossing streets to avoid certain annoyances and a constant internal debate of who to trust, who to greet, who to stop and chat with, and who to ignore. Generally speaking though, my normal behavior would make me perceived as a rude introverted recluse with a stilted attitude. Thus, I have found myself sitting in the front seat of taxis to talk with the driver, having passionate conversations with strangers, and greeting everyone individually in every group I encounter. Consequently, for better or worse, I have met a lot of interesting Ghanaian characters.

I came to Ghana by myself without knowing anyone. I quickly learned that I don’t really enjoy my own company enough to spend a lot of time alone and I was desperate for human contact. Walking aimlessly around Osu (my neighborhood) trying to construct my bearings I was accosted by a smallish figure, the meagerness of his body emphasized by a dirty Charlotte Hornets jersey that was two sizes too large. He introduced himself as Frances and put his arm around me and I instinctively shoved it off but he kept following me asking me innocent questions about where I was from and why I was here. He followed me for another ten minutes until I deliberately began going down streets that I thought was out of his way. I underestimated his passion for wandering and tolerance for uncomfortable silence. Frances followed me around in circles for nearly an hour until I eventually told him I had to go home and he could not follow me there. He promptly pulled out a notepad and gave me the number to his and his mother’s cellphone as well as his postal and email address. He then gave me a map so I wouldn’t be so lost in the future. Frances represents a motivation prevalent in Accra and unique to any other city I’ve been: although I believe he lives on the street he has never asked me for money he seems to only want to be associated with me because of my white skin. I see Frances everyday now and he excitedly will cross the street to follow wherever I may go and I have no reason not to let him. The only time he has asked anything of me was to borrow my book which he grabbed out of my hand and erratically began skimming through – the book resting loosely in his hands, upside-down. I’ve embraced my friendship with Frances instead of treating him as an annoyance but have consciously limited these types of insincere relationships which are all too accessible.

That same evening I walked down the zebra striped road of darkness and headlight outside my house and wondered whether if it was safe to be out alone at night. A hollow voice called out to me and I timidly responded. The voice identified itself as my neighbor and emerged from the nearby bushes where he had been urinating and I grudgingly extended my hand to greet him. He held on to my hand the entire conversation – an uncomfortable common practice here. He introduced himself as Mr. Brown and I studied his face for any sign of a joke. We talked for a while and he finished by telling me that he would be happy to do my laundry for a trivial fee. I asked him if I should ring the doorbell when I need my clothes washed and he explained to me that there was no doorbell and I should just jump over the gate. Mr. Brown seemed a welcoming and friendly man of about 45 but when I told my landlady, Aunite Theo, that I had met him she dismissed him as a drunk. It wasn’t until a month later when a Canadian friend, Aaron, moved next-door that I learned Mr. Brown was actually an employee of my neighbor. His sole purpose is to open the gate when a car comes (hence the lack of doorbell). Mr. Brown is a human garage opener… and is treated like one. He sleeps outside by the gate rain or shine, armed with a slingshot that has twice been aimed at my face and a hand-held radio. He is generally on duty 24 hours a day. There remains a distinct hierarchy in Ghana that makes work like this not only acceptable but quite common. Who could blame him for reeking of booze?

There will always be an underlying feeling of distrust, suspicion of orchestration, and deceitfulness with the people I have met who have approached me on the street, but if it was I who was to initiate contact and strike up a conversation, a rewarding, albeit brief, relationship can ensue. Two weeks ago, I traveled to the coastal town of Winneba to relax on the beach with a group of friends who were working in a nearby Liberian refugee camp. A queue had formed for transportation to Winneba at an apparently random spot in the station and I stood for two hours fighting for prime position in the narrow slit of shade offered by an ominous bus, its exhaust collectively weakening our resolve. When the correct bus finally came, the line promptly disbanded, and everyone clawed towards the entrance to fight over the plentiful seats. I was lucky enough to secure a window seat and a man sat down next to me and announced he was ‘very very hungry’. I welcomed him to my bag of fried plantains and he kindly explained to me that fried plantains are not real food. He leaned over me and stuck his head out the bus window and began screaming food orders into a mass of preoccupied focused people that seems to describe all people in transit. But, soon enough, he was feasting on rice, chicken, a piece of fish, washed down with juice and cocoa. The 2 hour bus ride was filled with naps intermittently interrupted by wild excitement as cars recklessly attempted to pass our long bus; the crowd’s escalated cheering always climaxed with a disturbing collective sigh when the passing car jut narrowly missed oncoming traffic. As we approached Winneba I asked the man what stop would be most strategic for my destination and without hesitation, he told me he would lead me there. Within a few minutes of conversation, Hasam (the man’s name) had invited me to the northern city of Tamale where he will let me stay at his home and will prepare a traditional dance ceremony in my honor. Hasam walked with me for 30 minutes to my hotel and on Sunday he unexpectedly came back to lead me back to the bus station. He invited me back to Winneba the next weekend as his guest at a ceremony at the college he attends there. This is not an unusual scenario and I suspect everyone who visits has at least one experience with this sort of hospitality. I’ve met numerous Hasam’s throughout Ghana.

The spirit of giving continued into the next day when I received one of the sweetest gifts ever given to me: a bottle of Raid. This perfume of death was a special gift partly because my apartment has been infested with ants, spiders, flies, and endearing geckoes (who were not harmed in the spraying of Raid) but mostly because of the way in which I received it. I trudged through Makola market, a maze of kiosks hawking anything from pigs feet to tailor-work, to arrive at Auntie Alice’s store. As we sat and discussed how the month of Ramadan and the beginning of school made for slow business her errand boy returned with a bottle of Raid. I asked her where I could find a bottle for myself and she sent her errand boy back out for another one. I instinctively gave her money and she gave me a stern look and explained, “I would not accept money from my son [Baafuor] so why should I accept money from you who is also like a son to me.” Isn’t that nice.

While not quite that nice there are plenty more people whom would love to make your acquaintance. There are the array of Rastafarian men who encourage me to smoke with them and tell me about Jah and ‘one love’ countered by Clifford who always seems to be on my street dressed nicely, always creepily asking if he can have one of the women he sees me walking around with. I always run into Hakim who carries a stack of a dozen full length mirrors atop his head and walks for miles in the stubborn heat looking for a sale. I often see him at the end of his route and he frequently has not sold anything. Johnny, who occupies a stall that contains no more than six shirts, always offers to help me carry my bags of water that I unsuccessfully try to balance on my head. Of course, there are always the slew of men that are selling necklaces, t-shirts, and petty knick knacks that line the main drag in Osu and all know me by name, asking me for the 50th consecutive day why I won’t buy one of their ‘I love Ghana’ bumper stickers.

I can go on but I think you get the point. I seem to meet a new character everyday. Most of the people I mentioned I only see for brief moments of the day and I don’t have what I would consider a real friendship with any of them, but these are the people that I will remember when I reflect on my trip. They are what makes Ghana both intolerable and exceptionally pleasing, exhausting and perpetually rewarding.

The Creche

2006-10-05T16:32:00.000-04:00

Before I walk down the street where the daycare center for Street Girls Aid sits, I pause and take an exaggerated deep breath. I pat down my uniform, a dirty pair of pants and a t-shirt that will never see America again, and transfer everything from my pockets (which the children’s curious hands can’t help but reach into) to my backpack. However, the desire not to get violently ill compels me to keep the all-important, life-saving hand-sanitizer close to me at all times. I have to maneuver around the scattered Muslims who are sprawled out on mats facing Mecca outside the neighboring Mosque to reach the gate of the center, the narrow alley amplifying the screams of children playing and crying amidst the rusty slides, the metal swings without a seat, and the bare foundation of a teeter-totter that neither teets nor tots.

The crèche usually cares for 140 children each day and unfailingly half of those kids will attack me on all fronts as they greet me and fight for one of my hands to hold on too. The trick here is to keep moving. A high five here, a ‘hello’ there, and a couple consoling pats on the head to the ones who are crying and make it to higher ground…fast. My first day I made the nearly fatal mistake of kneeling down to the children’s level and start to play with them a little. The kids tackled me and I found myself drowning in a cesspool of snot and tears. No matter what, I end up walking across the playground with a child grasped to each finger and two timidly clasping the back of my shirt following my every move.

Admittedly, I have not learned most of the children’s names, but I have given them my own endearing names. Clutchy is like a trained predator who will find me wherever I am in the crèche and when he finds me he will never-ever let go. This usually does not fair well with Ms. Territorial who will fight Cluthy or anyone else who reaches for my hand. I always keep an eye out for Crabby. Crabby is not a grumpy kid rather he runs after me in a crablike motion, clasping his thumb and fingers together in a pinching fashion, and repeatedly chomps his teeth together as he fearlessly jumps into me for the quick thrill of being placed back on the ground or to annoyingly use his pinchers to entangle himself in my shirt. Crabby is like a wind up toy and I’ve found if you lay him on his back the impulse to be a menace will diminish and he will just tire himself out until the next sight of me winds him back up again. Cutie will always greet me with a big smile and a hug while Sherry will customarily offer all the other children her snacks. Precarious likes to worry me by balancing on the jungle gym on one foot and copycat… well she never gets tired of pretending she’s a kitten. And then there is the sad pack. This group has a few regulars but generally varies by the day. You are considered a proud member of the sad pack if you cry when you are outside a 3 foot radius of me and consequently I am the Grand Marshall of a never ending parade of whimpering and wailing.

Assembly time marks the formal beginning to the day and it also allows me ample time to reflect on my inability to dance. Everyone will congregate in front of a drum and we will sing songs to bring in the new day. It usually culminates with the drummer bringing her beat over to me and another attendant grabbing Clutchy off my shirt for me to showcase my moves. Everyone seems to enjoy that a whole lot and I am left contemplating how the little kids who can’t cross the playground without falling on their face can dance so much better than me.

Formal class then ensues and I transform into “Teacher Brian”. I work in a small classroom with lots of 4 & 5 year olds, with few resources, and the inability to speak the student’s language. I work alongside Teacher Mary who has the remarkable ability to be really sweet and terrify you all at the same time. Corporal punishment is definitely in vogue these days in Ghana and its prominence has imparted me with a notion of utter helplessness marked by the inability to stop the pattern of abuse and my own ability to discipline the children. I watch parents beat their children as they drop them off at the crèche and then I watch parents slap other children as they leave. In class, Mary threatens “shut up or I’ll beat/cane you” so frequently that by the end of the day it is no longer comes across as threats rather a tired inevitability. The children have realized that I am not going to hit them and accordingly treat me with the same amount of respect I showed my teachers growing up. D’OH!

After class the staff (including me) help prepare the children’s meals. During this time the favorite topic of conversation is my marriage. This uncomfortable subject manner is exacerbated by the fact that one of my colleagues is, well… stalking me. At first, I accepted the repeated calling and prodding questions as harmless social differences but the invitations to her daughters birthday party and her insistence on taking me out ever night has become a little excessive. So when the nurse walks in and says “you’re so handsome one of these girls should marry you” I grit my teeth and curse the vile woman under my breath. The other favorite pastime of lunchtime is encouraging me to eat inhumane portions of food. Not finishing my plate is a sign of weakness and to a certain extent disrespect, so I always end up eating portions that would make Andre the Giant think, ‘I better not’. Today was rice with pallava sauce (cooked yam leaves) and a piece of an unidentifiable fish. After thirty minutes of continuous eating I was visibly sweating and holding back tears of pain but I was encouraged by the noticeable dent I had made in the trough that I was feeding out of. Then, that damn nurse snuck up behind me to mercilessly add another bowl of rice to my portion telling me “you better keep eating so you can be big and strong for your new wife” D’OH D’OH!

Soon all the children slip into happy little food comas and they sleep, ten to a mat, on the classroom floor. After they wake up parent’s begin to pick up the children or astonishingly, the pre-schoolers are allowed to leave by themselves if they know their way home. I don’t mean to sound cynical about my work because the crèches that S.Aid has set up (totaling six servicing over 750 kids) are, quite frankly, saving lives. Most of the children at the center where I work live in one-room wooden structures in shanty towns and their parents work long hours for a minute allowance. During field work I have seen the dismal alternative to the crèche. Mothers will pay 4,000 cedis (about 40 cents) a day to have their children looked over by ‘minders’. A one-room wooden structure with no windows, no lights, and no stimulation houses dozens of these unfortunate kids who will peak their heads out of a narrow doorway to stare at you with their glossy eyes and reveal their perceptibly malnourished bodies. Each crèche of S.Aid contains a resident nurse who monitors the growth of the children and provides them with proper medical care should they fall ill. The children are also fed two nutritious meals and a snack each day.

I’ve still been trying to discover my niche at the crèche. Two days of the week I work at a house of refuge for pregnant street girls (worthy of its own blog entry) and am accomplishing more sustainable work like the development of a website for the organization and a curriculum for their literacy and health classes. Whether it be circumstantial (only 7 adults attending to 140 children) or societal, the adults at the crèche are mainly there to discipline the children and their interaction with the kids manifests in shouts and occasionally hitting creating an atmosphere of ‘every-child-for-themselves’. The children themselves are abnormally aggressive. I’ve discovered that what I can offer them is reassurance of their well being when they fall down and consoling when they start to cry. I can tie their shoes when they fall off and congratulate them with a high-five or offer them some security from a tormentor. What these kids seem to need most is love and dependability and hopefully I can fill in a small part of this void. If not, I’ve still become pretty successful at teaching them funny faces and farting noises!

Take A Ride On the Reading Tro-Tro

2006-09-22T18:45:00.000-04:00

I hesitantly place one foot into the oversized coffin and nervously look for an opening among the densely packed seating. I am prodded by the mate, a 15 year old boy whose responsibility is to herd passengers in and collect their money, as he pleads, "Hurry white man. You get in now". People stubbornly shuffle over and I head towards the rear where a woman with a satchel of yams on her lap picks up her small child to make room for me. She asks if he could sit on me and I just stare back as the boy reluctantly shifts his weight onto one of my knees. My knees are shoved against the metal frame of the seat in front of me and I wonder how anyone bigger than me could fit. The beads of sweat are clouding my vision and through a salty haze I look around and curse myself being the only one without a cloth and fan to free my face from the heat. Through his nose the mate chants “Achimota, Achimota, Achimota” – our intended destination. All I hear is “moamoamoa” but the call transfixes others and people begin to slowly fill the car. As more and more enter, crude foldable seats extend and greedily block any semblance of an aisle. I squirm in the stagnant air and battle the subtle pains of panic as the cracked window remains at a claustrophobically inducing distance. I concentrate on work, on food, on relaxing pools, that devious mass of snow that always found its way down my back during snowball fights, but the invasive aura of sweat forces my attention on the more tangible. I count. There are 5 rows of people with 4 people squeezed into each row. Two others sit alongside the driver making 23 seats…24 if you count the child on my knee. I think of prairies and Ansel Adams landscapes, open spaces that I can retreat to in my mind, but I can't help to ponder that an escape route would be nearly impossible to find should there be an accident. The slow baseline of the reggae song exacerbates my uneasiness as it blasts from the radio and occupies all the remaining space. The thought of screaming and clawing my way out to escape the belly of this great beast crosses my mind, but the door slides closed and the vehicle tenaciously starts, the artificial breeze recalling my self-control.

Thus was my first experience (3 weeks a go) in a tro-tro – the generic name for anything larger than a taxi that carries passenger along a strictly adhered to route. I ride in a tro-tro about three times a day and have been in everything from small mini-vans to old school busses (no description could envelop the lot). Except when I board with a friend, I have always been the only white person on the tro-tro and I reminisce about old kindergarten picture-books with the accompanying record that repeated, "One of these things is not like the other". White businessmen and the Lebanese (whom own 40% of the businesses in Ghana I'm told) seem to prefer alternative modes of transportation.

Maneuvering around Accra takes a certain amount of courage, a bit of trial-and-error, and a whole lot of p-a-t-i-e-n-c-e. If you don't learn to enjoy the excitement of traveling than you're not going to appreciate the destination.

I have learned to take pleasure in my commute to work. To get to work I take a leisurely stroll along the open sewer canal that runs past my house (and all throughout Ghana as far as I can tell), past the tired shop-people selling their inconsequential items and usually I make time for a beloved egg sandwich. Within a makeshift vendors stall, a woman will cook a couple eggs, onions, and tomato over exhausted coals and slap it on a generous roll for less than fifty cents! I eat it as I walk which I think is unusual here but the grab and go mentality is tough to break.

There are no sidewalks anywhere in Ghana and as I walk along the street I have even begun to appreciate the wholly unnecessary bursts of noise from the horn of every passing motorist, the daring maneuvers of drivers anxious to steal any piece of open road in a traffic ridden city, and the steadfast pedestrians who won't flinch when a truck heads straight for them only to make a quick adjustment at the absolute last possible moment. I arrive at the bus stop and wait for the appropriate shared taxi to the main station. These taxis follow a pre-determined route as passengers enter and exit and I ponder the consequences of jumping in a stranger's taxi at home. Generally, the driver only allows four passengers, but in more rural areas I have been in situations where the driver will pull over and you can't help but laugh at the idea of squeezing someone else in. The Ghanaian anthem should be "there's always room for one more" and I've been in a taxi with 8 bodies tucked neatly inside – cooperation and determination are vital for such feats of group contortion.

I have even begun to enjoy the infamous tro-tro and the environment of the stations. You could conceivably get anything you needed without ever leaving the tro-tro. I’ve sat at a red-light when a man poked his head through the window and shoved toilet paper rolls and plantanes in my face telling me “their real fresh man” – what?? Waiting for the tro-tro to reach capacity in the station you can listen to a preacher, stock up your medicine cabinet, and even buy a puppy while being served elaborate displays of food including hard-boiled eggs, fried fish, sandwiches, various cuts of meat, chilled cocoa, fresh fruits, meat pies, and plenty of other indiscernible items without ever leaving the tro-tro! Like a live infomercial a man will hop in and proudly unveil an odd showcase of items for one low-low price. Today, someone offered a flashlight, shoe polish, a toothbrush, and a pencil for a little over a dollar. What a deal! I take pleasure in the debates that erupt when a controversial talk radio show is played and admire the care that is displayed when an entire car will protest to the mate if they think they have overcharged a customer.

Again, though, there is a dark side. I think it's summed up best by the fact that a tro-tro may not be equipped with a licensed driver, rearview mirrors, proper brakes, door handles, or even a complete floor, but without exception, every single vehicle has a fire-extinguisher…gulp. It can easily be argued that tro-tros are a human rights violation. Citizens are forced to utilize them because they are the only affordable way to move about the city and they are not particularly happy about it. The driving style is a stark contrast to the interpersonal relationships here as there is an every-man-for-themselves mentality that consistently engenders accidents. I have already witnessed a six year old girl brutally killed in a hit and run, a car flip over in front of my house, and two taxis crash into each other in a station. Tro-tro accidents do happen and when they do they are fatal. Sitting in the back of a tro-tro where the floor was raised making it unusually cramped, the man next to me angrily reminded the mate that they are transporting human beings. Receiving additional money for each person who rides and earning less in a day than a two hour's wage at McDonalds, I don't blame the mate for waiting until every conceivable seat was occupied, letting the artificial breeze muster the old man's contempt.

Escape

2006-09-13T17:03:00.000-04:00

September 11, 2006

While it was only my second weekend in Accra, I have to admit it felt good to leave the hustle of the city centre. I traveled with two girls, Liz and Laura from the east coast, to the Volta region. We left after I finished work and took a four hour tro-tro (minibus) to HoHoe (Northeast of Accra along the border of Togo). The tro-tro experience really requires its own blog entry so I will just mention that the highlight of the trip was the brief moment when the guy next to me leaned over just enough to allow my right leg to fully extend for an instant. The sun had already set when we reached our destination and we quickly learned that the city did not have any electricity for the night. The only light in Hohoe was the glow of the moon’s reflection off our pale skin and we looked like ghosts as we hesitantly found our way to the lodge.

When the electricity’s out in a rural area there is not really much to do except drink or sleep and luckily we managed to do both. Waking up, the town seemed to transform itself overnight. Growing up in Chicago I have become easily amazed at any landscape that is not brutally flat and I could only sit down and admire the mountains with lush trees crawling up their backs surrounding the region. Ambitiously, we attempted to see two ‘attractions’ around Hohoe, something that is quite unheard of in a country with a relaxed disposition and where getting somewhere is as much of an adventure as the destination. Our first stop was a hike to Wli falls, the largest waterfall in the country. The trail was littered with dozens of different species of butterflies and apart from a colony of ants that attacked us, the trail was accomplished with ease. The trail rewarded us with a striking waterfall all to ourselves and we played in the mist. We sat and let the flowing waterfall hypnotize us and then returned back into town to go to a monkey sanctuary!

We hit a uniquely Ghanaian detour on the way into the sanctuary in Tafi Tome as our entrance was blocked by a procession of the entire village chanting and dancing. Fifty girls sprinted past us into the woods and group of men jumping in a circle and playing instruments followed. The week before, a 14-year old boy unexpectedly died when he was tragically bitten by a snake. The ritual that we were witnessing was being performed because the villagers believed that the spirit was aimlessly wandering and they needed to relocate it to the forest. In the eye of the mass of people a lone woman walked balancing a pot atop her head where the spirit was thought to be trapped. After the spirits were satisfied we were able to follow a guide into the forest inhabited by the Mona monkeys. Laura had the foresight to buy a couple dozen bananas and it didn’t take long before we had cautious little monkeys eating out of our hands… damn I love monkeys.

Liz and I bought instruments from the village and Frances, our cab driver, entertained us by masterfully playing for us the entire way home. He started making clicking sounds with his mouth and then acting somewhat the monkey himself, began pounding his chest and elbows to create incredible music. The music consumed Frances and Liz nervously was forced to grab the wheel until Frances was finished. Frances followed us to dinner and we felt obligated to buy him a beer and he gratefully accepted our scraps of food. After dinner we had to kindly tell him to stop following us.

Sunday we traveled to Akosambo and took a six hour river cruise down the Volta complete with a full reggae/ highlife band that oddly played some covers of Elton John and Bryan Adams. After the relaxing trip we hitched a ride with the captain to the tro-tro station. When we felt the rhythm of traffic and smelled the spices from the market that always seems to be around the corner we knew we were home.
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September 12, 2006

I got off of work early Monday and met up with Laura and Liz at a nearby pool. 5 P.M. marks the seemingly innocuous swimming lessons at the Shangri-la hotel and an empty pool is quickly filled with over thirty Ghanaian men. The free swim ended when one of the more daring tread as much as he could muster and had to be dragged to the safety of the shallow end. I have never seen such a large group of uncomfortable adults in the water and the next hour could only be described as a cross between America’s Funniest Home Videos and Survivor. Lessons began by the men pairing up and assuming the wheel-barrel position. Cruel and unusual punishment soon followed as one of man in each pair assumed the unfortunate position of being held face first in the water, having to flail wildly to fight for breath. After they were all done experiencing what it was like to have someone drown you they were ready for some formal instruction. They got up out of the pool and in a painfully synchronized fashion took turns diving into the pool and then swimming back. If I have learned one thing in the last two weeks it is that Ghanaians are not fazed by belly-flops. Gracefully, they slowly lifted their hands above their head, stood on their tippy toes and proudly fell into the pool. Lessons continued like this for the next hour and I couldn’t help but watch.

I mention this swimming lesson for a few reasons. The slapstick quality of the lesson made me laugh but also I think it is daring and honorable to try learning a new skill such as swimming at such an old age. In their actions and emotions, Ghanaians seem to not be afraid to put themselves in a vulnerable position. Despite their ability, everyone seemed to have a great time and each time someone successfully completed a task the entire group enthusiastically cheered for one another – a testament to the communal spirit I feel everyday whether it be from my co-workers who insist on sharing their food with me, the stranger who is always willing to walk me to my destination when I am lost, or the reception, ‘you’re welcome’ (as in you are welcome here), that I hear every time I enter a new place. In fact, I’ve heard ‘you’re welcome’ so many times I feel it necessary to formerly say, ‘thank you Ghana’.

This entry is dedicated to Ted Mullin. While I had lost most contact with him since high school, I know his warm character and caring soul would not have hesitated to put his swimming ability to good use and jump in that pool and not get out until everyone had learned to swim. You will be missed.

Ted Mullin Cancer Research FundC/O University of Chicago Medical Center Development1170 East 58th St., Second Floor,Chicago, IL 60637, ATTN: Kevin Largent.

2006-09-07T14:19:00.000-04:00

My new number in Ghana is 011-233-27-692-8247. Call anytime you'd like....free incoming for me!

Also, if you'd like to be emailed when I post a new entry just send me an email at brianschwa@gmail.com and I'll make it happen.

Why I'm Here

2006-09-07T13:59:00.000-04:00

Written Wednesday, September 6, 2006

When I was in the fourth grade ‘field day’ meant for me a glorious day of sports and no classes (editor’s note: I was also voted captain – the official peak of my popularity). Now, in Ghana, ‘field day’ means a trip to one of the local markets littered with children who call a small space in front of an abandoned stall ‘home’. The only thing congruent with my fourth grade definition is the absence of school.

For my second day of work at Street Girls Aid (S.Aid) I followed Rose, a social worker, to Mallaca, a town just outside Accra. Several football-field sized roofed structures make up the central market in Mallaca. Decrepit wooden stands offering all sorts of curios, food, and services create claustrophobic aisles and the pungent smell of a nearby butcher lingers with you long after you’ve left. There is noticeably more people selling than buying and a white face is somewhat of an oddity here. Immediately after stepping into the market Rose stopped in front of a group of fifteen girls who were sprawled out in a spot long ago abandoned by a vendor. She pointed to a heap of clutter, the only thing distinguishing it from garbage was several white ceramic bowls, and explained that the mass of bags, collectively, was the girls only belongings and its presence was significant because it marked where the girls slept. Anywhere where there was a similar pile marked the sleeping quarter of another group of girls. Rose clearly knew the girls well and introduced me as a friend of hers, theirs, and S.Aid. I smiled and waved at them and their returned smile accentuated the traditional decorative markings that surrounded their eyes and forehead. They managed to reply with a shy hello. Unschooled, none of them spoke English. They ranged in age from infants to twenty – the majority younger than 16. Rose joked with them a bit and then reminded the girls the importance of getting free vaccinations for their children and discussed aids prevention and further child care. As she spoke more and more girls came over to listen. I have to admit I was surprised at how well mannered and friendly all of the girl’s were. They genuinely seemed to appreciate Rose and seemed receptive to her comments.

The girls from Mallaca almost exclusively come from the northern rural regions of Ghana. They all have their unique story but most of them have either been forced by their family to go to Accra to make money, submitted to peer pressure and allowed themselves to believe stories of greener pastures in the capital, or have decided to run away from their planned marriage; a 14 year old can be married off to a forty, fifty, or even eighty year-old. So they run and what waits for them is Mallaca.

The girls form small groups which they almost exclusively eat and sleep among. The groups are formed according to the particular area that they came from in the north. We visited a few more of these groups within the market and then headed out to the surrounding streets where most of the girls sleep. They live outside rain or shine congregating in front of abandoned shops occupying a small slab of concrete between the building and the sewer that runs along the dirt road. To earn money, the girls work as Kayayoo meaning they carry loads in their ceramic bowls atop their head for people for a mere pittance. It is painful to see five-year olds carrying these heavy loads that defy the frailty of their neck. The girl’s almost all complained that there is not enough work for them. The lure of prostitution is always prevalent and indeed, in many other markets that is the main source of income for most street girls. It goes without saying that it is dangerous to live in such a way. The girls are frequent victims of rape and theft. Their children risk exposure and malnutrition. Rose caught one girl eating a stick of clay as a snack and promptly grabbed the stick out of her mouth and warning her not to eat such filth. Even with the seemingly crippling hardships the most common sight is a girl with a pleasant disposition finding a way to enjoy the day with her friends. The resiliency of the human spirit is something to marvel at.

Rose and the other social workers at Street Girls Aid visit Mallaca and half a dozen towns just like it everyday. The towns are unique in that some host mainly boys (for which a sister organization Catholic Action for Street children works with them) or are dominated by street children from a particular region. The social workers educate the girls on healthy living, assist them in any problems that they encounter, and also encourage the girls to come to one of the S.Aid refuges around Accra to live and learn a trade that can enable and empower them to leave the streets. We visited over a dozen groups of girls in three hours, being able to see only a small percentage of the street girls of Mallaca. A sickening feeling boiled inside me as we walked out of town passing all the piles of bags with empty white ceramic bowls callously lying next to them.

400 children come to Accra only to become street children every day.

Awkwaaba! Welcome!

2006-09-03T17:38:00.000-04:00

Written September 2nd 9:45 pm

I’ve arrived safe and sound in Accra, the capital of Ghana. As I made my way to the departure gate to Accra in Amsterdam, reality finally set in. Two security guards from the airport nearly toppled me over as they ran past me – an elderly man laid passed out in front of the gate blocking my passage to the plane. I looked at the old man and then at the sea of unfamiliar faces and I knew that this was not going to be an ordinary trip.

As the plane’s wheels touched the runway in Accra the entire plane burst into jubilant cheers and the man next to me leaned in and said “welcome to Ghana.” In the mass of people that waited outside the airport for friends and relatives I heard someone shout out my name. Aseye, AJWS’s in-country representative luckily had come to pick me up. As Aseye was negotiating the fare down for a taxi home two men came running up to me a poster with my name neatly displayed on it. Auntie Alice’s son Baafour and his friend also came to pick me up from the airport… my first taste of Ghanaian hospitality! As we struggled with the 200+ pounds of luggage three other men came to help maneuver the bags over the dirt parking lot (my first taste of Ghana’s opportunist) and I could not help to smile at the unique entourage that had greeted me upon my arrival.

Auntie Theo (my landlady) had food waiting for me when I finally made it to my new home. I can only describe the outer house that I am sleeping in as somewhat like a rustic camp lodge leaving much to be desired. Let’s just put it this way: I am typing this in pitch black with no electricity and no running water with the blaring noise of the neighbor’s generator mocking me. Ghana’s energy is supplied by a dam that was built in the Volta region of the country and due to lack of rain the water level is low forcing the government to initiate “power saving” similar to the rolling blackouts in California. When there is running water I can take a normal shower and the unheated water feels refreshing in the African heat, otherwise I have to use buckets to wash myself “top to bottom like you are a car” as Aseye explained to me. However, I have already begun to settle in and I think my new place will suit me quite well. Auntie Theo is an incredibly nice older lady and is the headmaster of a local school. I plead with her all the time not to serve me so much food but she tells me that her goal is to have me leave Ghana a fat fat man. There is a dog at the house whose name is Mojo but I secretly call him “The Beast” like in the movie the Sandlot. He lives outside and I still have not gotten a good look at him but his wails at night sound terrifying. I keep my distance from the beast. I asked Auntie Theo what kind of dog it was and she said “a normal one.”

Accra is a busy city that baffles me. To add to the confusion the address system is completely useless. People tell directions relative to well-known landmarks. For instance Baafour business card reads: “Design Impressions / opposite Hotel President”. Navigating through the city has to be met with a certain amount of humor and I am comforted by the fact that soon I will be as comfortable on these streets as the ones at home. Besides, the people here are terribly nice and would be more than happy to show you the way.

It can be a bit lonely when I’m sitting in my place, but everyday I am meeting more and more people. Friday night, Baafour picked me up and took me to his family’s house. As we were eating dinner, Auntie Alice (Baafour’s mother) turned to me and said, with the utmost sincerity, “this is your African home and you should come any time you’d like”. I am still amazed at their warmth and kindness even though they barely know me and I am confident that this sort of hospitality is not unique to this family. Me and Baafour picked up Kenneth, a family friend, and went out for the night. I thought we were heading to a bar but instead we went to someone’s birthday party. Luckily it was a ‘drink all’ meaning all the drinks were free. Ching Ching! I sipped on some scotch as I talked to Kenneth who very kindly explained to me that this is my homeland and he grabbed my hand to say ‘welcome home brother’. It’s feeling more like home everyday.

P.S. One thing I must explain is that Bafour’s family is very well off. Poverty abound, the streets of Accra are cluttered with small shacks, homeless people, and an excess of garbage…it can really get to you. It was one of the more surreal moments of my life to be navigating through these roads in a brand new 2006 BMW sipping on courvoisier (im not joking). I’m still not exactly sure how to feel about this. There is a large gap between the haves and have-not’s in this county and it was impossible not to feel guilty seeing the city in such a way.

I have not touched on so much that I wanted to explain but I will keep the updates coming! Please know that I miss you all and am doing great here. I can’t wait to start my work at Street Girls Aid on Monday.

Two days and counting....

2006-08-29T16:27:00.000-04:00

Last night, I just doubled the size of my family. A family friend introduced me to a Ghanaian woman who is currently working in Chicago and I jumped at the chance to ask some questions regarding the enigmatic country that is soon to become my home. As soon as I walked in the door Cece (See-See) proclaimed that I resembled her nephew, Baffo, “except for your skin tone” she added. After that, I might as well have been her nephew. She embraced me without the slightest bit of hesitation and went on to tell me all about her extended family in Ghana assuring me that they would take care of me. Any concern I had about living in Accra was met with, “Auntie Alice will take care of that.” Auntie Alice has already secured a cell phone for me and is ready to pick me up in the airport should my ride not show up. I am still trying to comprehend the openness and accommodation that Cece and her family displayed to me and I can only hope that the rest of Ghana is half as welcoming.

So now it’s two days and counting… After so much preparation it is hard to believe that my departure date is almost here. After getting shots for diseases that I thought have been eradicated for decades and feverishly packing, I am almost ready to embark on my journey to Ghana. I’ve never lived, let alone visit, a developing country and I’m incredibly grateful for the opportunity. After reading every resource I could find about Ghana the culture and lifestyle still seems overwhelming foreign. But, we’re all really the same, right?

My fellowship is structured in such a way that I will be traveling alone and the prospect of spending so much time by myself frightens me. I’ve brought an incredible amount of books with me and I sometimes worry that I am setting myself up to be some sort of a social recluse. Nevertheless, my goal is to assimilate and experience as much as I can. I am ready to embrace Ghana with arms wide open… I hope Auntie Alice is ready for me.

There are so many people that I did not to get the chance to personally say goodbye to so let this serve as my formal “so long”. I am going to miss all of you so much. Please use this blog not only as a way to stay informed with what I’m doing but also to serve as a way for me to keep me up to date with what’s going on with you. Feel free to post any comments you’d like and email me at Brianschwa@gmail.com.

Nanti ye (goodbye … I think).

Test Page

2006-07-10T19:26:00.000-04:00

Testing to see if I know how to use this technology. If you can read this than I figuired it out!