I am about to celebrate my first Christmas away from my family.
Since I was born, Christmas has always been spent with at least one blood relation ... be it the winter skiing trips with Dad, the annual midnight mass services with Mom, the 17 course British Xmas meals (with 4 types of potatoes and 8 vegetable dishes) at my Auntie Mary and Cousin Phillipa's or the soothing, Wine Gum, KitKat and Smartie filled Xmas visits to England with my Bompa and Yvonne.
For me, family has always been a staple, perhaps even a necessity, at Christmas time.
This year, I find myself in a place surrounded by people, traditions and situations completely unfamiliar to me. With no snow and soaring temperatures the Xmas tunes I hear blaring in Koala supermarket and Sharpnet Internet cafe seem so totally out of place. The tacky sparkling streams of red and green tinsel, artificial Xmas trees and strings of coloured lights sold on dusty street corners are plain odd. And, those few cards I just picked up at Makola Market yesterday took all my energy just to find, let alone write, stamp and send.
The only reason I am truly willing to accept that it's Christmas, is because of the recent phone conversation I had with my mom as I listened to all her plans over the next week. Nostalgia has officially set in as I imagine her home decorated - the tiny tree in the bay window and Christmas cards from friends and family hung along the wall; the feeling of cold air filling my nostrils and snow crunching beneath my feet; the light in their eyes as my nephew, Jonathan, niece, Emily, and little sister, Molly, rip open their presents on Christmas Day at my older sister' s home in Dundas, Ontario; and the taste of sweet stuffing, juicy turkey and a good glass of red wine, instead of the cheap two dollar stuff I buy now at the Goil gas station.
Ahhh ... where's Christmas I beg you?
I am looking for it as I make plans to head up to the north with my Ghanaian friend, Roxy, who has offered to show my JHR pals and I what life is like on the other side of the country. Hoping to let go of this nostalgia, I plan to experience a Christmas celebration completely different from any I am used to. Why look for the familiar when you can embrace the strange?
So, perhaps I'll devour bitter Banku, Fufu or Kenke instead of that juicy turkey and sweet stuffing.
Maybe I'll sip upon tangy Palm wine instead of that bold, red Shiraz or Cabernet Sauvignon.
And, likely I'll skip along hot sand or drip sweat strolling down a dirt road rather than trek through the snow and tip toe to avoid slipping on the ice.
Afenhyia-pa (Merry Christmas) all!
Thursday, December 20, 2007
Learning to flow
Water flows right?
You turn on your tap each morning and it’s magically there ... so you brush your teeth.
Next the shower; you hop in, dodging the sprays of steaming hot water, turning the cold tap up, the hot tap down, marked red and blue accordingly, until the shower head shoots out a consistently streaming, soothing temperature.
And, those dishes left on the counter from the night before; just a flip of the tap fills that sink. Better yet, load them in the dishwasher and with a press of a button they’re clean within half an hour.
Don’t forget that load of laundry; pour in the soap, throw in the soiled clothes and turn a knob, just before you rush out the door to work.
Water even flows out of sight, doesn’t it?
Yes, I remember those days well ... perhaps miss them ... and then again, not, as I realize how much I took the turn of a tap for granted.
I have been living in my comfortable abode in Labadi, Accra, without flowing water for almost five weeks now.
So has the hospital down the street. On and off for six months, relying upon the fire service to fill its tanks for an additional cost of about $50/day, when water is usually provided for free by Ghana Water Service Company Inc. (GWSC, Inc.) Surgeries are postponed, nurses lug buckets up the stairs, as there is no elevator, and patients are forced to pay to use toilets without even the means to wash their hands.
Along the dirt roads that surround my home, young girls, their mothers, even children barely out of their days as diapered toddlers, balance gallon yellow plastic water jugs filled to the brim on their heads, trekking God knows how far so dinner can be cooked, babies bathed and laundry done. Others carry ten empty jugs at a time across their backs, some even riding bicycles to destinations where taps aren’t running dry.
When I reflect upon this, the bucket baths, pouring water over my head from one small container to the next and letting the yellow mellow, only flushing the brown stuff, seem a delight. While, the search for those gallon water jugs - borrowed from Ghanaian friends – and the trek around the city to find a flowing pipe are a breeze. My roommates and I may have the means to pay up to $10 to fill our three big garbage bins with more water every few days but the manicurist, Angela, across the dirt road from us certainly does not.
So, the lights are on, but the pipes are dry. Accra has left a power crisis and entered a water shortage.
I know, I know ... it’s Africa, right? And, I, after all, expected it to be this way, didn’t I?
The confusing side of it all is that just 20 metres from my home, the ditches are full, which means water flows out of the taps down there. Our ditches, which are interconnected, remain dry, with nothing but scattered litter and moist sewage, which gets shovelled up and dumped along the side of the road every few days when it's dry. I still have yet to understand the piping system in this city.
So, why the water shortage you ask?
Well according to GWSC Inc., the Weija and Kpong Head Works, the city’s two main water suppliers, are running over capacity with the Greater Accra area demanding 50 million gallons of water each day. A $30-million project, funded by the government and private sector, will expand the capacity to 150 million gallons of water daily. Catch is ... it won’t be completed for a year and a half (Lets hope they’re not running on Ghanaian time). Until then, communities will continue to experience the on and off water supply, especially since Ghana has just entered the dry season. This should prove interesting when thousands of visitors enter Accra for CAN2008 in January.
So, as I type this latest entry sitting upon a dirty sheet crumpled up on my bed, wearing a sweaty tank top and stained pants (I have yet to another round of laundry since I don’t want to waste our water supply), I think about the day living out of a bucket of water will become normal to me.
I yearn for the day that rushing out to find gallon jugs and a flowing pipe will no longer feel like an incredible effort but rather a part of day to day life.
And, I wonder why exactly, being as spoiled as I am, I thought before I left for Ghana that these adjustments would come so easily to me?
Like water, I’m learning to flow.
You turn on your tap each morning and it’s magically there ... so you brush your teeth.
Next the shower; you hop in, dodging the sprays of steaming hot water, turning the cold tap up, the hot tap down, marked red and blue accordingly, until the shower head shoots out a consistently streaming, soothing temperature.
And, those dishes left on the counter from the night before; just a flip of the tap fills that sink. Better yet, load them in the dishwasher and with a press of a button they’re clean within half an hour.
Don’t forget that load of laundry; pour in the soap, throw in the soiled clothes and turn a knob, just before you rush out the door to work.
Water even flows out of sight, doesn’t it?
Yes, I remember those days well ... perhaps miss them ... and then again, not, as I realize how much I took the turn of a tap for granted.
I have been living in my comfortable abode in Labadi, Accra, without flowing water for almost five weeks now.
So has the hospital down the street. On and off for six months, relying upon the fire service to fill its tanks for an additional cost of about $50/day, when water is usually provided for free by Ghana Water Service Company Inc. (GWSC, Inc.) Surgeries are postponed, nurses lug buckets up the stairs, as there is no elevator, and patients are forced to pay to use toilets without even the means to wash their hands.
Along the dirt roads that surround my home, young girls, their mothers, even children barely out of their days as diapered toddlers, balance gallon yellow plastic water jugs filled to the brim on their heads, trekking God knows how far so dinner can be cooked, babies bathed and laundry done. Others carry ten empty jugs at a time across their backs, some even riding bicycles to destinations where taps aren’t running dry.
When I reflect upon this, the bucket baths, pouring water over my head from one small container to the next and letting the yellow mellow, only flushing the brown stuff, seem a delight. While, the search for those gallon water jugs - borrowed from Ghanaian friends – and the trek around the city to find a flowing pipe are a breeze. My roommates and I may have the means to pay up to $10 to fill our three big garbage bins with more water every few days but the manicurist, Angela, across the dirt road from us certainly does not.
So, the lights are on, but the pipes are dry. Accra has left a power crisis and entered a water shortage.
I know, I know ... it’s Africa, right? And, I, after all, expected it to be this way, didn’t I?
The confusing side of it all is that just 20 metres from my home, the ditches are full, which means water flows out of the taps down there. Our ditches, which are interconnected, remain dry, with nothing but scattered litter and moist sewage, which gets shovelled up and dumped along the side of the road every few days when it's dry. I still have yet to understand the piping system in this city.
So, why the water shortage you ask?
Well according to GWSC Inc., the Weija and Kpong Head Works, the city’s two main water suppliers, are running over capacity with the Greater Accra area demanding 50 million gallons of water each day. A $30-million project, funded by the government and private sector, will expand the capacity to 150 million gallons of water daily. Catch is ... it won’t be completed for a year and a half (Lets hope they’re not running on Ghanaian time). Until then, communities will continue to experience the on and off water supply, especially since Ghana has just entered the dry season. This should prove interesting when thousands of visitors enter Accra for CAN2008 in January.
So, as I type this latest entry sitting upon a dirty sheet crumpled up on my bed, wearing a sweaty tank top and stained pants (I have yet to another round of laundry since I don’t want to waste our water supply), I think about the day living out of a bucket of water will become normal to me.
I yearn for the day that rushing out to find gallon jugs and a flowing pipe will no longer feel like an incredible effort but rather a part of day to day life.
And, I wonder why exactly, being as spoiled as I am, I thought before I left for Ghana that these adjustments would come so easily to me?
Like water, I’m learning to flow.
Thursday, December 6, 2007
Quirky things I've heard in Ghana
- Question from restaurant server
"What is food?"
- Question from Ghanaian friend
"What's diaper?"
- Comment from Ghanaian friend while unloading a bag full of African masks
"I brought you some groceries"
- Common phrase used to say "what" or "pardon"
"You say?"
- Called out to me on the street
"Hey, yellow hair"
- Question asked to a volunteer by a Ghanaian coworker, as he pointed to porn on a computer screen
"Do you do that?"
- Dialogue between volunteer (V) and host family member (HFM)
V - "I lost the key to the house, but I lost my cell phone too."
HFM - "Oh sorry (long pause). That's okay. I ate your sandwich."
V - "Okay, I guess I'll go get some chicken down the street."
HFM - "Oh, is it good?"
V - "Yes, it's good."
HFM - "Can you get me some?"
- Text Message
"R u pissed to meet me, think u r so i have to quiet call u. Bye."
- Comment made to volunteer by a Ghanaian coworker
"Oh, you've gained weight. Sorry."
- Comment made to me by a Ghanaian coworker
"You're body is changing. And, you look really pale. Are you okay?"
- Pick-up line by Ghanaian guy while I was lying on the beach
Wednesday, December 5, 2007
TOP 15 NAMES COME ACROSS IN GHANA
COUNTDOWN BEGINS ... (DRUMROLL)
15) Candi
14) Gold
13) Sparrow
12) Wonder
11) Patience
10) Confidence
9) Achievement
8) Pleasure
7) Marvin Gay
6) Barfo
5) Fortune
4) King
3) Squirrel
2) Tilapia
1) Roxy Robinson
Monday, November 19, 2007
All about Perspective
With the good comes the bad, with the bad comes the good.
In follow-up to my last blog - which gave you readers back home a dose of the negative encounters experienced in Ghana so far, leading to a concerned phone call from mom asking if I had any friends left and a pep talk from dad and my eldest sis reminding me why I decided to venture here in the first place - let me share with you what I consider beloved about this West African nation.
First off, the heat! I adore the sun and the soaring temperature. I don't mind one bit that within two minutes of stepping out from my home and walking down that dirt road, sweat forms across my brow, my clothes stick to me and the recent shower I just took is all but a distant memory. I wouldn't trade the sun for the winter you Torontonians are about to endure - not even for a pack of NIBBs red licorice, which I miss so dearly. Knowing that when I wake up, go to bed, step outside my workplace for lunch, travel down to the beach in the evening for a STAR beer that it is going to be hot, suits me just fine. Despite a few sudden downpours and thunderstorms, the weather here is consistent and I don't need a weather network to kick off my day or help me decide what to wear.
To beat or soak in that hot weather, I indulge in the fact that within 20 minutes walking distance from my home there is Labadi beach, where I can suntan, or even swim, if I choose to ignore that about 30 yards away is a dumping ground, where waves soiled with a thick layer green foam crash up onto the shore ridden with the La township's trash. Not to worry, if I choose not to swim there (which after the first experience I have), I can hop on a trotro or into a taxi and travel just 40 minutes outside of Accra to Bojo beach, where pristine golden sand stretches for about two miles and the salty ocean, relatively clean but for a few black plastic bags, which wrap around my ankles as I battle the ceaseless crashing waves.
I am ecstatic that I have learned to dance again. That the spirit of all Ghanaians around me has helped me let go of some of those nagging insecurities and to temporarily forget that I am white, with about as much rhythm as a flip-flopping fish out of water in comparison to those agile dancers I ward off as they attempt to grind up against me. In extension of that, I am pleasantly shocked at my new found love for hip hop, reggae, rnb and that local music with the same beat over and over again. Never would I have imagined myself hitting and failing to leave the dance floor until 4am at bars that never cease to close. (Sorry Mr. Ted Rath ... I have yet to shut one down yet!).
I feel grateful that with a little effort I can learn a new language, take African drum and dance lessons in their truest context from teachers who were born with the beat and raised with the rhythm, sharing the traditions from their local villages.
When my mouth is parched, I get a kick out of those plastic water sachets that resemble silicone breast implants. Tearing off a little corner with my teeth and sucking the liquid out, only to have them tip over and spill water all over the place if set down and not finished in a few gulps.
I am amused to have my nasal passage challenged, inhaling potent raw sewage flowing down open roadside ditches, then the sweet smell of plantain frying at a local stand and the diesel fuel from traffic whizzing by all within a few paces as I rush to catch a trotro to my next destination.
I am amazed at the stamina of trotro drivers and their mates, who wave their hands in a particular way signalling the destinations, which they also call out over and over and over again. "Labadi, Labadi, Labadi", "Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh", and "Accra, Accra, Accra", ringing in my ears as I squeeze past locals crammed against each other. I thank the perspiring mate, who swiftly hops back in the tro, pulling the van door shut in one swoop, ready to catch the change from his new passengers. These mates even remember miles down the road, and minutes after receiving several fares, what change they owe each rider.
My curiousity is peaked when I recall a bus ride out of Accra to Tills Beach Resort, during which a Ghanaian guy sitting beside me was reprimanded by every local on the bus after the ticket man discovered that he hadn't paid his fare. Minutes before my fellow JHR volunteer, Hannah, had been warned by another passenger, that this guy was a thief. Now it was apparently proven true and no one was going to let him get away with it without a great deal of humiliating harassment. The guy paid his fare and hopped off the bus at the next stop, while the locals continued to converse loudly with each other about his disgraceful act.
I am in awe that despite sleeping on mats laid out upon the dirt, wearing mismatched soiled clothing and running around barefoot, that children still manage to share a bright, white smile, yelling and squealing as an Obruni passes by.
My heart fills with warmth as I think about those kind locals in my Labadi community, who awoke from sound sleep to check on me one recent night, making sure I had a place to stay, as I sat on a stoop, head in my hands crying, missing home and scared to enter my compound due to the barking and biting guard dog behind the gate.
A smile spreads across my face when I think of my neighbours five-year-old Benjamin, 15-year-old Frank and 13-year-old Gabriel, who chase me down and walk me to my gate on my way home from work. A consoling gesture after a frustrating day on the job.
I chuckle when I think about the girl at the MTN cell phone calling card stand, who called out to me as I walked by chugging back a bottle of chocolate milk, "you really enjoying that", recognizing my love for what's been the ultimate comfort food.
These experiences, and the many more I am leaving out, are what help me get through those days in Accra, Ghana when everything is foreign, when I just don't fit in, when I feel useless at my work, when the stares, chuckles and constant attention gets too much and when giving up and coming home seems a better option.
Because in the end it's all about perspective, right?
In follow-up to my last blog - which gave you readers back home a dose of the negative encounters experienced in Ghana so far, leading to a concerned phone call from mom asking if I had any friends left and a pep talk from dad and my eldest sis reminding me why I decided to venture here in the first place - let me share with you what I consider beloved about this West African nation.
First off, the heat! I adore the sun and the soaring temperature. I don't mind one bit that within two minutes of stepping out from my home and walking down that dirt road, sweat forms across my brow, my clothes stick to me and the recent shower I just took is all but a distant memory. I wouldn't trade the sun for the winter you Torontonians are about to endure - not even for a pack of NIBBs red licorice, which I miss so dearly. Knowing that when I wake up, go to bed, step outside my workplace for lunch, travel down to the beach in the evening for a STAR beer that it is going to be hot, suits me just fine. Despite a few sudden downpours and thunderstorms, the weather here is consistent and I don't need a weather network to kick off my day or help me decide what to wear.
To beat or soak in that hot weather, I indulge in the fact that within 20 minutes walking distance from my home there is Labadi beach, where I can suntan, or even swim, if I choose to ignore that about 30 yards away is a dumping ground, where waves soiled with a thick layer green foam crash up onto the shore ridden with the La township's trash. Not to worry, if I choose not to swim there (which after the first experience I have), I can hop on a trotro or into a taxi and travel just 40 minutes outside of Accra to Bojo beach, where pristine golden sand stretches for about two miles and the salty ocean, relatively clean but for a few black plastic bags, which wrap around my ankles as I battle the ceaseless crashing waves.
I am ecstatic that I have learned to dance again. That the spirit of all Ghanaians around me has helped me let go of some of those nagging insecurities and to temporarily forget that I am white, with about as much rhythm as a flip-flopping fish out of water in comparison to those agile dancers I ward off as they attempt to grind up against me. In extension of that, I am pleasantly shocked at my new found love for hip hop, reggae, rnb and that local music with the same beat over and over again. Never would I have imagined myself hitting and failing to leave the dance floor until 4am at bars that never cease to close. (Sorry Mr. Ted Rath ... I have yet to shut one down yet!).
I feel grateful that with a little effort I can learn a new language, take African drum and dance lessons in their truest context from teachers who were born with the beat and raised with the rhythm, sharing the traditions from their local villages.
When my mouth is parched, I get a kick out of those plastic water sachets that resemble silicone breast implants. Tearing off a little corner with my teeth and sucking the liquid out, only to have them tip over and spill water all over the place if set down and not finished in a few gulps.
I am amused to have my nasal passage challenged, inhaling potent raw sewage flowing down open roadside ditches, then the sweet smell of plantain frying at a local stand and the diesel fuel from traffic whizzing by all within a few paces as I rush to catch a trotro to my next destination.
I am amazed at the stamina of trotro drivers and their mates, who wave their hands in a particular way signalling the destinations, which they also call out over and over and over again. "Labadi, Labadi, Labadi", "Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh, Circ-kanesh", and "Accra, Accra, Accra", ringing in my ears as I squeeze past locals crammed against each other. I thank the perspiring mate, who swiftly hops back in the tro, pulling the van door shut in one swoop, ready to catch the change from his new passengers. These mates even remember miles down the road, and minutes after receiving several fares, what change they owe each rider.
My curiousity is peaked when I recall a bus ride out of Accra to Tills Beach Resort, during which a Ghanaian guy sitting beside me was reprimanded by every local on the bus after the ticket man discovered that he hadn't paid his fare. Minutes before my fellow JHR volunteer, Hannah, had been warned by another passenger, that this guy was a thief. Now it was apparently proven true and no one was going to let him get away with it without a great deal of humiliating harassment. The guy paid his fare and hopped off the bus at the next stop, while the locals continued to converse loudly with each other about his disgraceful act.
I am in awe that despite sleeping on mats laid out upon the dirt, wearing mismatched soiled clothing and running around barefoot, that children still manage to share a bright, white smile, yelling and squealing as an Obruni passes by.
My heart fills with warmth as I think about those kind locals in my Labadi community, who awoke from sound sleep to check on me one recent night, making sure I had a place to stay, as I sat on a stoop, head in my hands crying, missing home and scared to enter my compound due to the barking and biting guard dog behind the gate.
A smile spreads across my face when I think of my neighbours five-year-old Benjamin, 15-year-old Frank and 13-year-old Gabriel, who chase me down and walk me to my gate on my way home from work. A consoling gesture after a frustrating day on the job.
I chuckle when I think about the girl at the MTN cell phone calling card stand, who called out to me as I walked by chugging back a bottle of chocolate milk, "you really enjoying that", recognizing my love for what's been the ultimate comfort food.
These experiences, and the many more I am leaving out, are what help me get through those days in Accra, Ghana when everything is foreign, when I just don't fit in, when I feel useless at my work, when the stares, chuckles and constant attention gets too much and when giving up and coming home seems a better option.
Because in the end it's all about perspective, right?
Monday, November 5, 2007
Ghana Mishaps - Learning to suck it up and shut my trap!
I have officially lived out my worst day in Ghana, so far.
I have conclusively and undoubtedly, as I was warned, stuck my foot in my mouth, made a fool of myself, insulting those local Ghanaians around me.
Not once, but three times in the same day.
It all started, I suppose, a week prior when resentment and frustration towards certain social differences and cultural struggles that inevitably exist between obrunis (foreigner) and Ghanaians began to grate on my nerves, boil my blood, nip at me and suck me dry like those damn mosquito's that fester on my front porch.
Some of these include:
1) The incessant verbal, sometimes even physical attention, from Ghanaian men (i.e. forced to get a lifeguard to physically remove a man's arms locked so tightly around me I couldn't move while swimming at Labadi beach)
2) The consistent harassment when I light a cigarette in public (i.e. "Don't Smoke!", "Smoking Bad", or just a point of the finger and a shake of the head from those who walk, even drive by hollering out a tro-tro window)
3) The inability to comprehend a local language used in circumstances where it would really help to know what the hell is going on around me (i.e. while working each day in a newsroom full of reporters laughing and chatting in Twi ... those who you are meant to build relationships with to do your job)
4) The ongoing assumption that because you are obruni you have unlimited money, so you can share all your purchases and possessions, even with strangers. (i.e. packs of smokes literally evaporate and empty beer bottles mount table tops fast)
5) The miscommunication and inability to understand that just cause we're friends and we hang out does not mean I need to see you during every minute of my spare time. (i.e. repetitive cell phone calls and text messages one after another and guilt trips to follow if you fail to pick up or respond)
So, with all this and more on my mind, I felt worn down and it was only a matter of time before someone, something, in some way was gonna make me snap. Patience, just to let you know, ain't always my forte, let alone my virtue.
Moving along to the peak of my embarrassment...
It was Saturday afternoon and after a rough and unproductive week at work and a few days battling a damn bladder infection, I wanted to relax, be on my own, enjoy my space, and get some writing and work done, that had long since been procrastinated.
Settling onto the couch in my living room, booting up my laptop, opening up my latest half-written JHR foreign correspondence piece, with coffee to my right, cheese and crackers to my left, I was finally ready to get down to business at 2pm.
Three minutes into typing away and I decided it would be a great idea to watch a movie while working. Something I had not yet taken advantage of since I moved into my home despite having a TV and DVD player at my fingertips for several weeks.
Grabbing the converter, I press the 'Power' button and snap! spark!. The TV screen flashes bright white and then goes black again. Try again, same thing. And again, same thing. Great, the TV is now broken and I broke it.
Doesn't seem like a big deal, I know, but when your nerves are shot and more than two dozen other things have gone wrong (broken oven, biting guard dog, busted washing machine, keys cut the wrong size etc.) in your home within a month - so much so that you're reminded of the Tom Hank's and Shelley Long 80's movie, the Money Pit, each time - eventually all those little things add up to one big bad mood.
Instead of trying to fix the TV, I continued working until one of my roommates appeared to help deal with our next house issue.
Twenty minutes passed and just as I became absorbed in the writing process, Jane, aka. roommate, entered the living room, so I told her about the TV. She attempted to fix the fuse in the plug (God knows how she knows how to do that kind of stuff, and God bless her for it), while I stood by paralyzed due to my lack of electrical appliance knowledge.
Then came the a knock at the door.
In the doorway stood one of my Ghanaian friends, Roxy, who I had already explained to earlier that day that I needed some time to do my work before I had any visitors or left the house to hang out.
Following through on his earlier generous offer, Roxy had contacted his friend, Solo (how ironic?), who apparently fixes ovens, and decided to bring him around now, despite the fact that I had told Roxy to hold off on this until I ran it by my roommates.
Feeling awkward and too embarrassed to say "no", since Solo had made the trip out, Jane and I let him in to take a look at the oven, only to find out but a few minutes later that it worked all along. There was simply a safety lock on the knob that we had to release.
Relieved that we finally had an oven that worked, we thanked Solo for his help, but were left debating whether we had to pay him for simply turning a knob. On Jane's advice I told Roxy to explain to Solo that we appreciated his help and if we have any future problems with the oven we'd be sure to contact him for repairs.
This, however, wasn't good enough.
With a discontent, solemn expression on his face, Solo asked us to give something from our hearts for his efforts.
Now, deep down I really didn't have a problem with dashing (tipping in Ghanaian terms) the guy a couple of Cedis for making the trek out to our place. But, there was something else burning inside me. Some sort of embarrassment, awkwardness that led to an overreaction, an irrational action that was about to play out.
Settling on a dash of 2 Ghana Cedis, I reached for the cash on the coffee table left over from buying a phone card earlier that day, walked towards the front door where Roxy waited. But instead of placing the money in his hands, I threw it at him!
You heard me - THREW IT AT HIM!
The two bills fell to the floor, Jane gasped, rushing to bend down and pick them up, while I turned on my heel and flopped myself down on the couch, heart racing, face burning up, guilt quickly resonating in my heart.
"Sophie!" Roxy gasped in confusion. "You just threw money at me. You just threw money at me!" he repeated in utter shock.
"I'm so frustrated" I pathetically responded.
And, with that he turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
Ahhh! Nooo! My friend, Roxy. My dear Ghanaian friend, Roxy! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to!
But it was too late for pitiful explanations or shameful excuses.
The deed was done, and I was left to bear the consequences.
Now, after a lengthy discussion with Jane about my disgraceful reaction to what was really, though badly timed, just a generous act of kindness and consideration, I decided to give Roxy a call to apologize. Not explain, cause what was I to say, but apologize.
This I did within the hour, and oddly enough Roxy apologized to me. Having none of that, I cut him off, told him how deeply sorry I was. From there he laid into me saying that in Ghana they wouldn't even throw money at dead people. My embarrassment rising up and up and up, causing my brain to throb, I told him I did not want to talk about it further at this time and that
I was truly sorry again. Then I hung up the phone.
Now believe it or not, though just 24 hours has passed (as I type this) since this horrifying incident, Roxy has forgiven me and allowed the past to be the past.
But my glorious, random, hysterical acts of perhaps culture-shock-gone-bad did not end there and that big bad mood moved through me into the very early hours of the next morn.
It was 2:30 a.m. and fellow JHR trainer, Hannah, and I were taken by Roxy and his friend to a local club, Jokers, just around the corner from my house. Now Jokers is seedy, a total dive a place if you ask me, swarming with old white men arm in arm with young Ghanaian women.
I wasn't digging it, but we had just paid 5 Ghana Cedis to get in and before I left I was certainly getting my money's worth if not in value then in time.
Questioning Roxy on the issue of white men escorting Ghanaian women, he told me that all Ghanaian women want is money and that's why they go after white men. Myself, always ready for a little controversy, challenged him on what Ghanaian men wanted.
"And Ghanaian men, Roxy? What do they want? Please fill in the blanks for me?"
Ooohh ... faux pas number two.
In short, this accusational comment led to Roxy storming away from me and Hannah and I left to our own devices, touring that sketchy bar on our own, as other Ghanaian men eyed us up and down. We eventually ended up out onto the patio away from the internal chaos, plopping ourselves down at a table, next to Gold, a Nigerian girl who had just arrived in Accra to live indefinitely one month ago. We chatted with her for some time and shared cigarettes until Roxy and his friend tracked us down.
The kicker is coming...
Just as I was talking of leaving the joint to hit the hay, a Ghanaian guy I did not know, a complete stranger, approached our table, grabbed my cigarettes, opened the pack up and pulled one out.
"Do I know you?" I asked, staring him directly in the eye.
He said nothing, placing the cigarette between his lips and the pack back on the table.
"Do I know you?" I repeated a little bit louder, a little bit more hostile, not removing my glare from his pupils.
"I am taking a cigarette." he told me.
I stood up, leaning in towards his face.
"I don't know you!" I yelled, reaching for the cigarette and pulling it out of his mouth. "So, don't take a cigarette from me without asking!" I added a little louder, placing the smoke back in my pack.
"You stingy, white, bitch!" he yelled back at me.
"I'm outta here!" I told my company, storming off the patio and towards my home.
Wow! What was that?
Granted that guy perhaps should have asked before taking, and maybe shouldn't have made the assumption he could just help himself to a stranger's smokes, but come on, Sophie, there are better ways of handling a situation than that. Body, breath and mind detached ... Sophie was not in the yoge!
I made it home safely that night, stranding Roxy, who fell in a ditch filled with sewage as he tried to chase me down and holler after me .. leaving Hannah as well to get home from the bar by herself (though I did call to make sure she was okay).
It was time to take a breather. It was time to chill out, regroup and revisit why exactly I am here in Ghana, why I yearned to come in the first place, and what I was actually here to do.
Sunday I spent at home closed in my house, away from the Labadi community beyond the compound where I live, shielded from the hectic rat race of downtown Accra.
And, now, despite a resonating feeling of embarrassment caused by abominable behaviour, I feel relatively back on track.
Moral of my story:
If you want time alone in Ghana, hide! If you can't get, suck it up and shut your trap!
I have conclusively and undoubtedly, as I was warned, stuck my foot in my mouth, made a fool of myself, insulting those local Ghanaians around me.
Not once, but three times in the same day.
It all started, I suppose, a week prior when resentment and frustration towards certain social differences and cultural struggles that inevitably exist between obrunis (foreigner) and Ghanaians began to grate on my nerves, boil my blood, nip at me and suck me dry like those damn mosquito's that fester on my front porch.
Some of these include:
1) The incessant verbal, sometimes even physical attention, from Ghanaian men (i.e. forced to get a lifeguard to physically remove a man's arms locked so tightly around me I couldn't move while swimming at Labadi beach)
2) The consistent harassment when I light a cigarette in public (i.e. "Don't Smoke!", "Smoking Bad", or just a point of the finger and a shake of the head from those who walk, even drive by hollering out a tro-tro window)
3) The inability to comprehend a local language used in circumstances where it would really help to know what the hell is going on around me (i.e. while working each day in a newsroom full of reporters laughing and chatting in Twi ... those who you are meant to build relationships with to do your job)
4) The ongoing assumption that because you are obruni you have unlimited money, so you can share all your purchases and possessions, even with strangers. (i.e. packs of smokes literally evaporate and empty beer bottles mount table tops fast)
5) The miscommunication and inability to understand that just cause we're friends and we hang out does not mean I need to see you during every minute of my spare time. (i.e. repetitive cell phone calls and text messages one after another and guilt trips to follow if you fail to pick up or respond)
So, with all this and more on my mind, I felt worn down and it was only a matter of time before someone, something, in some way was gonna make me snap. Patience, just to let you know, ain't always my forte, let alone my virtue.
Moving along to the peak of my embarrassment...
It was Saturday afternoon and after a rough and unproductive week at work and a few days battling a damn bladder infection, I wanted to relax, be on my own, enjoy my space, and get some writing and work done, that had long since been procrastinated.
Settling onto the couch in my living room, booting up my laptop, opening up my latest half-written JHR foreign correspondence piece, with coffee to my right, cheese and crackers to my left, I was finally ready to get down to business at 2pm.
Three minutes into typing away and I decided it would be a great idea to watch a movie while working. Something I had not yet taken advantage of since I moved into my home despite having a TV and DVD player at my fingertips for several weeks.
Grabbing the converter, I press the 'Power' button and snap! spark!. The TV screen flashes bright white and then goes black again. Try again, same thing. And again, same thing. Great, the TV is now broken and I broke it.
Doesn't seem like a big deal, I know, but when your nerves are shot and more than two dozen other things have gone wrong (broken oven, biting guard dog, busted washing machine, keys cut the wrong size etc.) in your home within a month - so much so that you're reminded of the Tom Hank's and Shelley Long 80's movie, the Money Pit, each time - eventually all those little things add up to one big bad mood.
Instead of trying to fix the TV, I continued working until one of my roommates appeared to help deal with our next house issue.
Twenty minutes passed and just as I became absorbed in the writing process, Jane, aka. roommate, entered the living room, so I told her about the TV. She attempted to fix the fuse in the plug (God knows how she knows how to do that kind of stuff, and God bless her for it), while I stood by paralyzed due to my lack of electrical appliance knowledge.
Then came the a knock at the door.
In the doorway stood one of my Ghanaian friends, Roxy, who I had already explained to earlier that day that I needed some time to do my work before I had any visitors or left the house to hang out.
Following through on his earlier generous offer, Roxy had contacted his friend, Solo (how ironic?), who apparently fixes ovens, and decided to bring him around now, despite the fact that I had told Roxy to hold off on this until I ran it by my roommates.
Feeling awkward and too embarrassed to say "no", since Solo had made the trip out, Jane and I let him in to take a look at the oven, only to find out but a few minutes later that it worked all along. There was simply a safety lock on the knob that we had to release.
Relieved that we finally had an oven that worked, we thanked Solo for his help, but were left debating whether we had to pay him for simply turning a knob. On Jane's advice I told Roxy to explain to Solo that we appreciated his help and if we have any future problems with the oven we'd be sure to contact him for repairs.
This, however, wasn't good enough.
With a discontent, solemn expression on his face, Solo asked us to give something from our hearts for his efforts.
Now, deep down I really didn't have a problem with dashing (tipping in Ghanaian terms) the guy a couple of Cedis for making the trek out to our place. But, there was something else burning inside me. Some sort of embarrassment, awkwardness that led to an overreaction, an irrational action that was about to play out.
Settling on a dash of 2 Ghana Cedis, I reached for the cash on the coffee table left over from buying a phone card earlier that day, walked towards the front door where Roxy waited. But instead of placing the money in his hands, I threw it at him!
You heard me - THREW IT AT HIM!
The two bills fell to the floor, Jane gasped, rushing to bend down and pick them up, while I turned on my heel and flopped myself down on the couch, heart racing, face burning up, guilt quickly resonating in my heart.
"Sophie!" Roxy gasped in confusion. "You just threw money at me. You just threw money at me!" he repeated in utter shock.
"I'm so frustrated" I pathetically responded.
And, with that he turned on his heel, slamming the door behind him.
Ahhh! Nooo! My friend, Roxy. My dear Ghanaian friend, Roxy! I didn't mean to! I swear I didn't mean to!
But it was too late for pitiful explanations or shameful excuses.
The deed was done, and I was left to bear the consequences.
Now, after a lengthy discussion with Jane about my disgraceful reaction to what was really, though badly timed, just a generous act of kindness and consideration, I decided to give Roxy a call to apologize. Not explain, cause what was I to say, but apologize.
This I did within the hour, and oddly enough Roxy apologized to me. Having none of that, I cut him off, told him how deeply sorry I was. From there he laid into me saying that in Ghana they wouldn't even throw money at dead people. My embarrassment rising up and up and up, causing my brain to throb, I told him I did not want to talk about it further at this time and that
I was truly sorry again. Then I hung up the phone.
Now believe it or not, though just 24 hours has passed (as I type this) since this horrifying incident, Roxy has forgiven me and allowed the past to be the past.
But my glorious, random, hysterical acts of perhaps culture-shock-gone-bad did not end there and that big bad mood moved through me into the very early hours of the next morn.
It was 2:30 a.m. and fellow JHR trainer, Hannah, and I were taken by Roxy and his friend to a local club, Jokers, just around the corner from my house. Now Jokers is seedy, a total dive a place if you ask me, swarming with old white men arm in arm with young Ghanaian women.
I wasn't digging it, but we had just paid 5 Ghana Cedis to get in and before I left I was certainly getting my money's worth if not in value then in time.
Questioning Roxy on the issue of white men escorting Ghanaian women, he told me that all Ghanaian women want is money and that's why they go after white men. Myself, always ready for a little controversy, challenged him on what Ghanaian men wanted.
"And Ghanaian men, Roxy? What do they want? Please fill in the blanks for me?"
Ooohh ... faux pas number two.
In short, this accusational comment led to Roxy storming away from me and Hannah and I left to our own devices, touring that sketchy bar on our own, as other Ghanaian men eyed us up and down. We eventually ended up out onto the patio away from the internal chaos, plopping ourselves down at a table, next to Gold, a Nigerian girl who had just arrived in Accra to live indefinitely one month ago. We chatted with her for some time and shared cigarettes until Roxy and his friend tracked us down.
The kicker is coming...
Just as I was talking of leaving the joint to hit the hay, a Ghanaian guy I did not know, a complete stranger, approached our table, grabbed my cigarettes, opened the pack up and pulled one out.
"Do I know you?" I asked, staring him directly in the eye.
He said nothing, placing the cigarette between his lips and the pack back on the table.
"Do I know you?" I repeated a little bit louder, a little bit more hostile, not removing my glare from his pupils.
"I am taking a cigarette." he told me.
I stood up, leaning in towards his face.
"I don't know you!" I yelled, reaching for the cigarette and pulling it out of his mouth. "So, don't take a cigarette from me without asking!" I added a little louder, placing the smoke back in my pack.
"You stingy, white, bitch!" he yelled back at me.
"I'm outta here!" I told my company, storming off the patio and towards my home.
Wow! What was that?
Granted that guy perhaps should have asked before taking, and maybe shouldn't have made the assumption he could just help himself to a stranger's smokes, but come on, Sophie, there are better ways of handling a situation than that. Body, breath and mind detached ... Sophie was not in the yoge!
I made it home safely that night, stranding Roxy, who fell in a ditch filled with sewage as he tried to chase me down and holler after me .. leaving Hannah as well to get home from the bar by herself (though I did call to make sure she was okay).
It was time to take a breather. It was time to chill out, regroup and revisit why exactly I am here in Ghana, why I yearned to come in the first place, and what I was actually here to do.
Sunday I spent at home closed in my house, away from the Labadi community beyond the compound where I live, shielded from the hectic rat race of downtown Accra.
And, now, despite a resonating feeling of embarrassment caused by abominable behaviour, I feel relatively back on track.
Moral of my story:
If you want time alone in Ghana, hide! If you can't get, suck it up and shut your trap!
The Lawyer's Office
It was day three (October 4, 2007) in Accra, Ghana when I first came into contact with a Ghanaian lawyer.
Splitting away from a few of our other JHR team members, and dragging one of them (Hannah) along, Alison and I set off with Joseph - our JHR tour guide and first Ghanaian friend - to meet Jane, our soon to be new roommate from the U.S., our real estate agent, and a lawyer at his office.
The purpose of the meeting was to settle the contract for our first home in the Ghana. Our home believe it or not, would be a four bedroom house in Labadi (one neighbourhood in Accra), right in the heart of the local life. It would be to date the largest house I have ever lived in that was not owned by my parents.
Running on Ghanaian time, we were, of course, late for the lawyer’s meeting having first met with our JHR country director, Ato, for breakfast during which he provided us with a rundown of our expected duties over the next eight months once placed at our respective media outlets.
Jane had insisted the day before that we be no later than 11am but by the time we had exchanged our US money for Cedis, the local currency, and withdrew enough Cedis in cash from two different bank machines (bank machines here only allow you to withdraw $200 or $400 Cedis at a time) for rent ... it was 11:45am. In Accra, landlords expect you to pay up to a year’s rent upfront in cash – we were lucky to score a six month deal. For me this meant having more than $1000 Cedis in my wallet, or just under US $1000.
Jane was unimpressed when we arrived, but blamed Joseph instead of us, since he was responsible for getting us there on time. The real estate agent led us (Joseph, Jane, Alison, Hannah and myself) along the edge of a busy main road – Ring Road, which is more like a highway actually – down a dirt path to a dilapidated white concrete building that looked like it was either being built or torn down, the frame clearly visible.
Up the stairs we filed through a doorway into the lawyer’s office. The interior was a complete contradiction to the view from outside. The reception/waiting area was decked out in mahogany wood with leather couches and back copies of the Daily Graphic- one of Ghana’s major daily newspapers, scattered across a glass-top coffee table. Joseph and Hannah took a seat while Jane, Alison, the real estate agent and I were led into the lawyer’s office.
There the lawyer sat behind a large L-shaped mahogany desk, files piled high on top of each other. What looked like more than a decade old computer sat to the man’s left and behind him on a bookcase was his portrait in traditional dress, the robe and long, curly white wig. Today, he looked far more casual dressed in a dress shirt and tie, spectacles and a mushroom shaped black hair. Though intimidating in stature seated behind that grand desk, he was very pleasant and accommodating and I felt at ease after shaking his hand. My secure feeling however was not to last long.
Since Jane found this house a few weeks prior to our arrival there had been several issues to straighten out and negotiations to be made including the monthly rent amount, how many rooms were available and what amenities would be included. Things were even more complicated since the real estate agent was taking care of business for the actual landlord who lives in London, UK. Though I trusted Jane, since she had lived in Accra for two years, I had a very strong feeling this was not going to be a sign on the dotted line and shut the door behind you type of meeting.
So, the discussions began.
Firstly, it was when Alison’s room would be ready. Junk needed to be cleared out, the walls needed to be painted, a bed to be bought, a bar in the closet and air conditioner installed and curtains hung. Jane argued with agent as he tried to postpone, alter or dodge these jobs. Jane persisted, the lawyer supported her and the he eventually confirmed the jobs would get done.
Next came the issue of how the landlord wanted the rent to be paid. We had $1000US in cash – from our other U.S. roommate, Grace, who could not attend the meeting - and the rest in Cedis. The landlord apparently wanted the entire amount in US dollars. Of course, Alison and I had just converted our US dollars to the local currency and it's not possible to get US currency out of the bank machines. If Jane had known this she would have simply transferred money from her UK bank account to the landlords.
The lawyer was having none of this and ordered the agent to get the landlord on the phone. The debate was on. The lawyer’s clerk – a skinny, hunched back man - was called into the office and asked how much US cash was on hand in the office. Alison and I exchanged looks of horror as Jane calculated and argued the US$400 loss if we were to convert all our Cedis back to dollars.
While several phone calls and stern conversations were exchanged between the agent, our landlord and the lawyer, Jane, Alison and I counted, recounted and bundled into $100 piles a total of $4800 Cedis in a mix of 50, 20, 10, 5 and 1 Cedis bills.
An hour and a half later (we were now late for a lunch meeting with Ato), everything appeared to be settled.The contract would be drawn up by the lawyer and brought to the house in a few days for us to sign. Alison’s room would be ready the next day – cleared out, painted with a double bed set-up, while the closet, air conditioner and curtains would come early the next week. The landlord's sister - who lives with her family next door and shares the gated entrance, driveway and front patio - would come by to do an inventory of all the items in the house, which is fully furnished, early the next day.
So, we handed over the 4” thick wad of cash. The lawyer handled and flipped through it in disbelief adding “That is a lot of money”, struggling to count out the adequate amount for the bed, air conditioner, paint and other materials needed to fix up Alison’s room.
Next was counting out one month’s rent required for the real estate agent’s fee. Jane knew exactly what to do. Count the money out, but hold onto it until all the jobs were done, leaving the agent dissatisfied, but speechless.
And so with keys in hand Alison, Jane and I left the office and I breathed a sigh of relief having just confirmed accommodation for at least the next six months ... and it was only day three.
Another solid handshake and gentle smile from the lawyer sealed the deal for me.
Splitting away from a few of our other JHR team members, and dragging one of them (Hannah) along, Alison and I set off with Joseph - our JHR tour guide and first Ghanaian friend - to meet Jane, our soon to be new roommate from the U.S., our real estate agent, and a lawyer at his office.
The purpose of the meeting was to settle the contract for our first home in the Ghana. Our home believe it or not, would be a four bedroom house in Labadi (one neighbourhood in Accra), right in the heart of the local life. It would be to date the largest house I have ever lived in that was not owned by my parents.
Running on Ghanaian time, we were, of course, late for the lawyer’s meeting having first met with our JHR country director, Ato, for breakfast during which he provided us with a rundown of our expected duties over the next eight months once placed at our respective media outlets.
Jane had insisted the day before that we be no later than 11am but by the time we had exchanged our US money for Cedis, the local currency, and withdrew enough Cedis in cash from two different bank machines (bank machines here only allow you to withdraw $200 or $400 Cedis at a time) for rent ... it was 11:45am. In Accra, landlords expect you to pay up to a year’s rent upfront in cash – we were lucky to score a six month deal. For me this meant having more than $1000 Cedis in my wallet, or just under US $1000.
Jane was unimpressed when we arrived, but blamed Joseph instead of us, since he was responsible for getting us there on time. The real estate agent led us (Joseph, Jane, Alison, Hannah and myself) along the edge of a busy main road – Ring Road, which is more like a highway actually – down a dirt path to a dilapidated white concrete building that looked like it was either being built or torn down, the frame clearly visible.
Up the stairs we filed through a doorway into the lawyer’s office. The interior was a complete contradiction to the view from outside. The reception/waiting area was decked out in mahogany wood with leather couches and back copies of the Daily Graphic- one of Ghana’s major daily newspapers, scattered across a glass-top coffee table. Joseph and Hannah took a seat while Jane, Alison, the real estate agent and I were led into the lawyer’s office.
There the lawyer sat behind a large L-shaped mahogany desk, files piled high on top of each other. What looked like more than a decade old computer sat to the man’s left and behind him on a bookcase was his portrait in traditional dress, the robe and long, curly white wig. Today, he looked far more casual dressed in a dress shirt and tie, spectacles and a mushroom shaped black hair. Though intimidating in stature seated behind that grand desk, he was very pleasant and accommodating and I felt at ease after shaking his hand. My secure feeling however was not to last long.
Since Jane found this house a few weeks prior to our arrival there had been several issues to straighten out and negotiations to be made including the monthly rent amount, how many rooms were available and what amenities would be included. Things were even more complicated since the real estate agent was taking care of business for the actual landlord who lives in London, UK. Though I trusted Jane, since she had lived in Accra for two years, I had a very strong feeling this was not going to be a sign on the dotted line and shut the door behind you type of meeting.
So, the discussions began.
Firstly, it was when Alison’s room would be ready. Junk needed to be cleared out, the walls needed to be painted, a bed to be bought, a bar in the closet and air conditioner installed and curtains hung. Jane argued with agent as he tried to postpone, alter or dodge these jobs. Jane persisted, the lawyer supported her and the he eventually confirmed the jobs would get done.
Next came the issue of how the landlord wanted the rent to be paid. We had $1000US in cash – from our other U.S. roommate, Grace, who could not attend the meeting - and the rest in Cedis. The landlord apparently wanted the entire amount in US dollars. Of course, Alison and I had just converted our US dollars to the local currency and it's not possible to get US currency out of the bank machines. If Jane had known this she would have simply transferred money from her UK bank account to the landlords.
The lawyer was having none of this and ordered the agent to get the landlord on the phone. The debate was on. The lawyer’s clerk – a skinny, hunched back man - was called into the office and asked how much US cash was on hand in the office. Alison and I exchanged looks of horror as Jane calculated and argued the US$400 loss if we were to convert all our Cedis back to dollars.
While several phone calls and stern conversations were exchanged between the agent, our landlord and the lawyer, Jane, Alison and I counted, recounted and bundled into $100 piles a total of $4800 Cedis in a mix of 50, 20, 10, 5 and 1 Cedis bills.
An hour and a half later (we were now late for a lunch meeting with Ato), everything appeared to be settled.The contract would be drawn up by the lawyer and brought to the house in a few days for us to sign. Alison’s room would be ready the next day – cleared out, painted with a double bed set-up, while the closet, air conditioner and curtains would come early the next week. The landlord's sister - who lives with her family next door and shares the gated entrance, driveway and front patio - would come by to do an inventory of all the items in the house, which is fully furnished, early the next day.
So, we handed over the 4” thick wad of cash. The lawyer handled and flipped through it in disbelief adding “That is a lot of money”, struggling to count out the adequate amount for the bed, air conditioner, paint and other materials needed to fix up Alison’s room.
Next was counting out one month’s rent required for the real estate agent’s fee. Jane knew exactly what to do. Count the money out, but hold onto it until all the jobs were done, leaving the agent dissatisfied, but speechless.
And so with keys in hand Alison, Jane and I left the office and I breathed a sigh of relief having just confirmed accommodation for at least the next six months ... and it was only day three.
Another solid handshake and gentle smile from the lawyer sealed the deal for me.
Yoga the Ghanaian Way
Prior to leaving home for Ghana, I was told by another traveler, who spent some time in Malawi, that I may as well kiss my yoga practice goodbye once I arrived in Africa. Time, space and the overall environment would not allow for it.
With that in mind, I departed from Toronto on October 1st with the resolve that for the next eight months practising and teaching would fall by the wayside and that I would simply have to get back to uniting the body, breath and mind when I returned home.
But, like many warnings I received about Ghana that haven't proved true, yoga and I have not parted. In fact, with a little self discipline, it's been quite easy to continue. Not only can I practice in my home - which to my dismay is bigger than any place I have ever lived - but upon my first day at the Daily Guide newspaper, where I am volunteering as a JHR print journalism trainer until June, a yoga teaching opportunity fell into my lap during an introduction meeting with the executive editorial team.
The Daily Guide's managing editor, who is also wife of one of the government ministers, was taking a gander at my CV when she came across that I was a certified yoga teacher. My journalism skills and role as journalist trainer suddenly lost their lustre.
"You teach yoga?" she exclaimed. "Then you can teach me! I need yoga!"
Having arrived just one week ago in this West African nation, I was unsure (and remain so) when and how to take Ghanaians seriously, but agreed nonetheless to embark on this next yoga teaching expedition. What better way to get "in" with the editor than to spend time with her outside the newsroom?
A week passed, and with the trials of finding my place in a totally foreign newsroom, the "We'll talk yoga later" departure from her office that first day dissipated from my mind. It was not until she passed me in the Daily Guide's front foyer Wednesday of week two and requested to see me with a stern "We need to meet" that acquiring my first Ghanaian yoga student was realized.
Assuming that she wanted to speak with me about my accomplishments building human rights awareness in her newsroom, rather than how to do the downward dog, I hesitantly hopped up the stairs, tripping on the last uneven one, to her office.
Once seated, it was not what human rights stories I had worked on, how the editing process was going, or which reporters I had managed to connect with that she wanted to talk about. Rather, she got straight into what day and time was best for us to get started on helping her relax after a 12-hour-six-day-a-week work schedule.
That coming Saturday, 9am it was. A driver would pick me up from my home in Labadi. Price per class was to be determined. We would touch base that Friday to confirm we were on.
The week went and a text message Friday confirmed a delayed pick-up time of 9:30am, outside Jokers bar - a landmark I use for taxis and tro-tros, which is a two-minute walk from my home - for a payment of 10 Ghana Cedis per hour of my time.
Saturday morning came fast after a night of STAR beer, whiskey and dancing at Vienna City nightclub with my fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah.I awoke with a panicked jolt at about 8:30 a.m., not to the sound of an alarm but rather the call of a rooster, showered quick, pulled on my yoga clothes, brushed the fuzz off my teeth, sprinkled a few drops of Visine to whiten my bloodshot eyes and set off along the dirt road, expecting a further delayed pick-up due to the tardy reality of Ghanaian time.
By 9:37 a.m. the black Mercedes with grey leather-interior pulled up and I hopped in, to be greeted by my first Ghanaian yoga student in her comfy's - a stark difference from her classic or traditional African attire and heels worn daily at the office. She was chatting business seriously on her cell in Twi (the local language).
We drove off along La Road, across Ring Road and veered right at Danquah Circle. Intermittent silence was quelled with conversation about our weekend plans, her scheduled trip to Allure spa to get her hair and nails done following yoga and how I was liking Ghana so far. No mention of Human Rights issues or my work at the Daily Guide whatsoever and I hesitated to bring it up not wanting to dwell upon work-related topics on her only day off, while also fearing to admit that I was struggling to fit in and do the job I was sent to do. Getting "in" in that way with the editor would have to wait until at least our second yoga session.
The minister and his wife's home, or estate as I am sure it is considered by Ghanaian standards, is shielded from the paved road in the Cantomnes area of Accra, by a similar metal gate that blocks my home from the outside Labadi community. With the honk of that Mercedes horn a guard opened up the gate and we pulled up onto a stone driveway bearing three additional luxury cars, including some type of SUV. Since the minister himself was traveling for the weekend, I am certain a fifth luxury car also exists. There were two double open-air garages, a gate to the backyard, which I never got to see, and a decent-sized front yard blanketed in green grass. My imagination worked overtime as I visualized what her home would be like on the inside.
Entering in through a side door, I immediately slipped off my 'pleather' sandals - made by and bought for 4 Ghana Cedis from Alex, a local who nabs vulnerable tourists as customers on the streets of Osu - only to be told to keep them on. Placing them back on my already dusty feet, I stepped and sank into thick red carpet. To my right there was a dining room that led to an out-of-my-view kitchen. To my left a main entrance and in front a living room, with cream leather couches, lacy curtains, a wooden coffee table ... all a contrast to that plush carpet, but exuding a sense of comfort I did not anticipate in the house of a government minister. The air was heavy and damp, despite individual air conditioners placed in each room.
I was directed to have a seat on one of the couches, while my yoga student settled what appeared to be another business transaction - perhaps a conclusion of her phone conversation in the car. A Ghanaian man, I was briefly introduced to, sat on the other couch conversing with her in Twi, while I gazed awkwardly around the room trying desperately to mind my own business despite not being able to understand a word they were saying.
Once papers were signed and the apparent deal was sealed, I was led up a narrow staircase to her bedroom, the out of sight destination in the house where she preferred to do yoga. The upstairs was more modest than below. A chest of drawers with imported food items from England scattered across its top was to my right, an ironing board and bathroom to the left, an old computer desk and the doorway to the bedroom in front. The carpet here a mousy brown, worn down, with scattered stains. The bedroom itself was quite small, crammed with a double bed wrapped in mis-matched floral sheets, bedside table cluttered with papers, books and an alarm clock, a dresser scattered with perfumes, deodorant and cosmetics and an open closet door revealing clothes stacked in uneven piles.
She unrolled a plastic straw mat, identical to those sold in the local markets, and lay it down in the small space between her bed and dresser. Then without hesitation she pulled off her track pants, grabbed something from her closet and left the room to, I assumed, fully change. Though an air conditioner blasted from above the air remained thick and sticky and I felt sweat form along my brow as I removed a notebook and pen from my bag.
A couple of minutes passed and through the door she came decked out in a hot pink and white velour short and tank top set. Though surprised, I was comforted by this 51-year-old's lack of modesty, her automatic sense of comfort, unsure whether I was relating to Ghanaians really well or if this was just a cultural thing.
And so the practice began ... we started in a seated cross-legged position ... myself squeezed in a tiny space left between the bed and her mat.
"Close your eyes, begin to focus on the breath, inhale and exhale through nose, feel the spine lengthening with each breath, let go of the week behind you and the week to come ..."
I used my standard yoga dialogue as she intermittently released an "hm hm" and an "okay".
We moved into cat and dog tilts, neck stretches and shoulder rolls, standing forward bends, rises up onto the toes all in a flowing sequence ... until her cell phone rang.
"Sorry, but it's money" she said as she reached for the phone on her bed and began to speak seriously in Twi again.
Following her money talk, she turned her cellphone off adding "if i can't go an hour without my cell phone, there's a problem." Before continuing, we joked about cell phone culture in Ghana and Canada, making fun of ourselves for not being able to leave home without them.
Coming back to the breath, we flowed through a triangle sequence, warrior I and II and a balancing pose. I was impressed by how limber she was and at her ability to control and lengthen her breath. Within half an hour, sweat was streaming down her face. We exchanged looks ... the time was 10:30 a.m., only half and hour had gone by. I asked her if she wished to continue for the full hour and she cracked up laughing. "I think that's enough for today" she chuckled.
And, so Svasana - corpse pose I translated to her - it was. She lay down upon that musty carpet, having kicked aside the slippery mat long ago, and closed her eyes again, letting her breath return to normal and allowing her body to absorb the postures she had just flowed through. I scribbled away in the notebook writing down the practice so I would remember it. I promised to detail it all out with diagrams over the weekend and present it to her on Monday so she could continue yoga in her own time at home.
Feeling what she described as "great!", my first Ghanaian yoga student thanked me, quickly changed in preparation for her spa appointment, and then led me down through her estate, outside and back into to her black Mercedes with leather interior.
On our drive through Cantomnes, around Danquah Circle, across Ring Road, to La Road and Jokers, we spoke of how she missed her three children - a daughter, who was at boarding school in Tema, one son who was studying in Sydney, Australia and another who was studying in London, England - how the house has been too quiet since they left. We spoke about the struggles of maintaining a marriage when both husband and wife are so career-driven and how if she could turn back time now, she would not marry, but rather have children some other way, raising them on her own. We delved into why many young Ghanaian men and women are single and how these days education is often considered of greater importance before raising a family.
Ten minutes later I was back where I started, dropped off outside that seedy bar, strolling back down that dirt road in the hot sun to my home in Labadi.
I chuckled to myself wondering how I managed to snag my first yoga student before producing a real human rights story in Ghana, Africa; thinking how crazy it was that my student was a government minister's wife; that her home seemed one of comfort rather than status, that she could change her clothing right in front of me, almost a stranger, without flinching, that she shared her nontraditional thoughts on marriage and family and that in all of that not once did my role at the Daily Guide come up.
Getting "in" with the editor was far more intimate than I had anticipated.
With that in mind, I departed from Toronto on October 1st with the resolve that for the next eight months practising and teaching would fall by the wayside and that I would simply have to get back to uniting the body, breath and mind when I returned home.
But, like many warnings I received about Ghana that haven't proved true, yoga and I have not parted. In fact, with a little self discipline, it's been quite easy to continue. Not only can I practice in my home - which to my dismay is bigger than any place I have ever lived - but upon my first day at the Daily Guide newspaper, where I am volunteering as a JHR print journalism trainer until June, a yoga teaching opportunity fell into my lap during an introduction meeting with the executive editorial team.
The Daily Guide's managing editor, who is also wife of one of the government ministers, was taking a gander at my CV when she came across that I was a certified yoga teacher. My journalism skills and role as journalist trainer suddenly lost their lustre.
"You teach yoga?" she exclaimed. "Then you can teach me! I need yoga!"
Having arrived just one week ago in this West African nation, I was unsure (and remain so) when and how to take Ghanaians seriously, but agreed nonetheless to embark on this next yoga teaching expedition. What better way to get "in" with the editor than to spend time with her outside the newsroom?
A week passed, and with the trials of finding my place in a totally foreign newsroom, the "We'll talk yoga later" departure from her office that first day dissipated from my mind. It was not until she passed me in the Daily Guide's front foyer Wednesday of week two and requested to see me with a stern "We need to meet" that acquiring my first Ghanaian yoga student was realized.
Assuming that she wanted to speak with me about my accomplishments building human rights awareness in her newsroom, rather than how to do the downward dog, I hesitantly hopped up the stairs, tripping on the last uneven one, to her office.
Once seated, it was not what human rights stories I had worked on, how the editing process was going, or which reporters I had managed to connect with that she wanted to talk about. Rather, she got straight into what day and time was best for us to get started on helping her relax after a 12-hour-six-day-a-week work schedule.
That coming Saturday, 9am it was. A driver would pick me up from my home in Labadi. Price per class was to be determined. We would touch base that Friday to confirm we were on.
The week went and a text message Friday confirmed a delayed pick-up time of 9:30am, outside Jokers bar - a landmark I use for taxis and tro-tros, which is a two-minute walk from my home - for a payment of 10 Ghana Cedis per hour of my time.
Saturday morning came fast after a night of STAR beer, whiskey and dancing at Vienna City nightclub with my fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah.I awoke with a panicked jolt at about 8:30 a.m., not to the sound of an alarm but rather the call of a rooster, showered quick, pulled on my yoga clothes, brushed the fuzz off my teeth, sprinkled a few drops of Visine to whiten my bloodshot eyes and set off along the dirt road, expecting a further delayed pick-up due to the tardy reality of Ghanaian time.
By 9:37 a.m. the black Mercedes with grey leather-interior pulled up and I hopped in, to be greeted by my first Ghanaian yoga student in her comfy's - a stark difference from her classic or traditional African attire and heels worn daily at the office. She was chatting business seriously on her cell in Twi (the local language).
We drove off along La Road, across Ring Road and veered right at Danquah Circle. Intermittent silence was quelled with conversation about our weekend plans, her scheduled trip to Allure spa to get her hair and nails done following yoga and how I was liking Ghana so far. No mention of Human Rights issues or my work at the Daily Guide whatsoever and I hesitated to bring it up not wanting to dwell upon work-related topics on her only day off, while also fearing to admit that I was struggling to fit in and do the job I was sent to do. Getting "in" in that way with the editor would have to wait until at least our second yoga session.
The minister and his wife's home, or estate as I am sure it is considered by Ghanaian standards, is shielded from the paved road in the Cantomnes area of Accra, by a similar metal gate that blocks my home from the outside Labadi community. With the honk of that Mercedes horn a guard opened up the gate and we pulled up onto a stone driveway bearing three additional luxury cars, including some type of SUV. Since the minister himself was traveling for the weekend, I am certain a fifth luxury car also exists. There were two double open-air garages, a gate to the backyard, which I never got to see, and a decent-sized front yard blanketed in green grass. My imagination worked overtime as I visualized what her home would be like on the inside.
Entering in through a side door, I immediately slipped off my 'pleather' sandals - made by and bought for 4 Ghana Cedis from Alex, a local who nabs vulnerable tourists as customers on the streets of Osu - only to be told to keep them on. Placing them back on my already dusty feet, I stepped and sank into thick red carpet. To my right there was a dining room that led to an out-of-my-view kitchen. To my left a main entrance and in front a living room, with cream leather couches, lacy curtains, a wooden coffee table ... all a contrast to that plush carpet, but exuding a sense of comfort I did not anticipate in the house of a government minister. The air was heavy and damp, despite individual air conditioners placed in each room.
I was directed to have a seat on one of the couches, while my yoga student settled what appeared to be another business transaction - perhaps a conclusion of her phone conversation in the car. A Ghanaian man, I was briefly introduced to, sat on the other couch conversing with her in Twi, while I gazed awkwardly around the room trying desperately to mind my own business despite not being able to understand a word they were saying.
Once papers were signed and the apparent deal was sealed, I was led up a narrow staircase to her bedroom, the out of sight destination in the house where she preferred to do yoga. The upstairs was more modest than below. A chest of drawers with imported food items from England scattered across its top was to my right, an ironing board and bathroom to the left, an old computer desk and the doorway to the bedroom in front. The carpet here a mousy brown, worn down, with scattered stains. The bedroom itself was quite small, crammed with a double bed wrapped in mis-matched floral sheets, bedside table cluttered with papers, books and an alarm clock, a dresser scattered with perfumes, deodorant and cosmetics and an open closet door revealing clothes stacked in uneven piles.
She unrolled a plastic straw mat, identical to those sold in the local markets, and lay it down in the small space between her bed and dresser. Then without hesitation she pulled off her track pants, grabbed something from her closet and left the room to, I assumed, fully change. Though an air conditioner blasted from above the air remained thick and sticky and I felt sweat form along my brow as I removed a notebook and pen from my bag.
A couple of minutes passed and through the door she came decked out in a hot pink and white velour short and tank top set. Though surprised, I was comforted by this 51-year-old's lack of modesty, her automatic sense of comfort, unsure whether I was relating to Ghanaians really well or if this was just a cultural thing.
And so the practice began ... we started in a seated cross-legged position ... myself squeezed in a tiny space left between the bed and her mat.
"Close your eyes, begin to focus on the breath, inhale and exhale through nose, feel the spine lengthening with each breath, let go of the week behind you and the week to come ..."
I used my standard yoga dialogue as she intermittently released an "hm hm" and an "okay".
We moved into cat and dog tilts, neck stretches and shoulder rolls, standing forward bends, rises up onto the toes all in a flowing sequence ... until her cell phone rang.
"Sorry, but it's money" she said as she reached for the phone on her bed and began to speak seriously in Twi again.
Following her money talk, she turned her cellphone off adding "if i can't go an hour without my cell phone, there's a problem." Before continuing, we joked about cell phone culture in Ghana and Canada, making fun of ourselves for not being able to leave home without them.
Coming back to the breath, we flowed through a triangle sequence, warrior I and II and a balancing pose. I was impressed by how limber she was and at her ability to control and lengthen her breath. Within half an hour, sweat was streaming down her face. We exchanged looks ... the time was 10:30 a.m., only half and hour had gone by. I asked her if she wished to continue for the full hour and she cracked up laughing. "I think that's enough for today" she chuckled.
And, so Svasana - corpse pose I translated to her - it was. She lay down upon that musty carpet, having kicked aside the slippery mat long ago, and closed her eyes again, letting her breath return to normal and allowing her body to absorb the postures she had just flowed through. I scribbled away in the notebook writing down the practice so I would remember it. I promised to detail it all out with diagrams over the weekend and present it to her on Monday so she could continue yoga in her own time at home.
Feeling what she described as "great!", my first Ghanaian yoga student thanked me, quickly changed in preparation for her spa appointment, and then led me down through her estate, outside and back into to her black Mercedes with leather interior.
On our drive through Cantomnes, around Danquah Circle, across Ring Road, to La Road and Jokers, we spoke of how she missed her three children - a daughter, who was at boarding school in Tema, one son who was studying in Sydney, Australia and another who was studying in London, England - how the house has been too quiet since they left. We spoke about the struggles of maintaining a marriage when both husband and wife are so career-driven and how if she could turn back time now, she would not marry, but rather have children some other way, raising them on her own. We delved into why many young Ghanaian men and women are single and how these days education is often considered of greater importance before raising a family.
Ten minutes later I was back where I started, dropped off outside that seedy bar, strolling back down that dirt road in the hot sun to my home in Labadi.
I chuckled to myself wondering how I managed to snag my first yoga student before producing a real human rights story in Ghana, Africa; thinking how crazy it was that my student was a government minister's wife; that her home seemed one of comfort rather than status, that she could change her clothing right in front of me, almost a stranger, without flinching, that she shared her nontraditional thoughts on marriage and family and that in all of that not once did my role at the Daily Guide come up.
Getting "in" with the editor was far more intimate than I had anticipated.
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
Living, struggling and wondering in Labadi
I live in a community of Accra called Labadi ... behind a bar/club called Jokers, which I use as a landmark to get me home in a taxi or tro-tro, since I am unsure of my exact address.
The four-bedroom house I share with three other obruni (white) girls, is within a compound. A seven-foot brown metal gate shields us from the dusty dirt road, scampering chickens, strolling goats, squealing children, gabbing locals, tiny shacks and makeshift shopping stands.
Adjacent to our home is another house, which belongs to our landlord's sister, Auntie Alice. (Her brother, our landlord, Thomas works and resides in London, England) Auntie Alice lives with many other family members including her sisters, at least one daughter and grandchildren. There are so many of them, I can't keep track of their comings and goings. Three young boys, all brothers, Auntie Alice's grandsons - Niiabbey, Jacquois and Junior - play ball together and tantalize each other in the front yard whenever they can - before and after school, all weekend. They often peak through the walls surrounding our front porch to check out what the obrunis are up to.
If I am not abruptly woken up most mornings by the repetitive "cockadoodledoo" competition between the neighbourhood roosters, then I am jolted awake by the sound of cries from either Jacquois or Junior. I am never quite sure what they are crying about.
The room where I sleep is a master suite with a king size bed, walk-in closet, en suite four-piece bathroom and air conditioner. These living conditions are certainly not what I expected prior to arriving in Accra. Where are the cockroaches? Why is there consistent running water? What about the rotating blackouts? And, why do I have a cleaning lady twice a week? A huge living room, eat-in kitchen, dining room and washing machine are also at our service. The house is beyond any apartment I have ever rented in Toronto over the last decade and it can compare to homes owned by my parents.
Inside our compound, three cars - including two almost brand new pick up trucks and a station wagon - grace the driveway and are washed every morning by Kojo - the house/errand boy. Kojo also weeds, sweeps and does various other household duties starting at 5am straight into the late evening. His last duty is to release a guard dog meant to protect the compound with incessant barking if anyone even attempts to come near or open that dividing gate. My fellow JHR trainer, Alison Lang, and our Ghanaian friend, Roxy, have both been charged at, the legs of their jeans grabbed and ripped, and the skin on their ankles broken by this unapproachable mutt. We now call Kojo to open the gate upon our return in the evenings to avoid further attacks.
But beyond the compound and those palace-like homes, lies a different world. Shacks stand inches away from each other, children sleep side-by-side on mats outdoors and garbage burns along the side of the dirt road. The small community of people living here treat each other like family and appear to know the ins and outs of each other's lives. Many of them stare as I come and go. I swear they know my schedule and those I have briefly spoken to I'm sure have shared all the details of our brief conversations with the others.
In the mornings as I head to the Daily Guide, children, with dusty clothes and sticky hands, run up to me to say good morning, grabbing my legs and walking me to the end of the street where I catch a tro-tro from La to Ring Road to Nima. Mom's are busy opening up the shopping stands, crouching over plastic tubs hand washing laundry or hunching over outdoor stoves cooking up traditional Ghanaian dishes, including porridge, in large metal pots.
At night when I head out to eat dinner or grab a drink dozens of residents huddle together in front of a T.V. set up on that dirt road, the belting sound of various Nigerian films echoing in the distance perhaps heard across the neighbouring community, Labone. A few nights ago, children were entranced with the screen as the actors (a man and woman) spoke about committing adultery. I assume the novelty of watching a T.V. is more important than program content. There are no "R" or "PG" ratings to be concerned about here.
Though satisfied to live in a community outside of the tourist centre, Osu, in Accra, where western bars, restaurants, supermarkets and Internet cafes and coffee shops are at your fingertips, I struggle to live with the contradiction that lies within and beyond my compound. I struggle to deal with the divide between rich and poor and I wonder if it is as noticeable to the locals as it is to me.
The four-bedroom house I share with three other obruni (white) girls, is within a compound. A seven-foot brown metal gate shields us from the dusty dirt road, scampering chickens, strolling goats, squealing children, gabbing locals, tiny shacks and makeshift shopping stands.
Adjacent to our home is another house, which belongs to our landlord's sister, Auntie Alice. (Her brother, our landlord, Thomas works and resides in London, England) Auntie Alice lives with many other family members including her sisters, at least one daughter and grandchildren. There are so many of them, I can't keep track of their comings and goings. Three young boys, all brothers, Auntie Alice's grandsons - Niiabbey, Jacquois and Junior - play ball together and tantalize each other in the front yard whenever they can - before and after school, all weekend. They often peak through the walls surrounding our front porch to check out what the obrunis are up to.
If I am not abruptly woken up most mornings by the repetitive "cockadoodledoo" competition between the neighbourhood roosters, then I am jolted awake by the sound of cries from either Jacquois or Junior. I am never quite sure what they are crying about.
The room where I sleep is a master suite with a king size bed, walk-in closet, en suite four-piece bathroom and air conditioner. These living conditions are certainly not what I expected prior to arriving in Accra. Where are the cockroaches? Why is there consistent running water? What about the rotating blackouts? And, why do I have a cleaning lady twice a week? A huge living room, eat-in kitchen, dining room and washing machine are also at our service. The house is beyond any apartment I have ever rented in Toronto over the last decade and it can compare to homes owned by my parents.
Inside our compound, three cars - including two almost brand new pick up trucks and a station wagon - grace the driveway and are washed every morning by Kojo - the house/errand boy. Kojo also weeds, sweeps and does various other household duties starting at 5am straight into the late evening. His last duty is to release a guard dog meant to protect the compound with incessant barking if anyone even attempts to come near or open that dividing gate. My fellow JHR trainer, Alison Lang, and our Ghanaian friend, Roxy, have both been charged at, the legs of their jeans grabbed and ripped, and the skin on their ankles broken by this unapproachable mutt. We now call Kojo to open the gate upon our return in the evenings to avoid further attacks.
But beyond the compound and those palace-like homes, lies a different world. Shacks stand inches away from each other, children sleep side-by-side on mats outdoors and garbage burns along the side of the dirt road. The small community of people living here treat each other like family and appear to know the ins and outs of each other's lives. Many of them stare as I come and go. I swear they know my schedule and those I have briefly spoken to I'm sure have shared all the details of our brief conversations with the others.
In the mornings as I head to the Daily Guide, children, with dusty clothes and sticky hands, run up to me to say good morning, grabbing my legs and walking me to the end of the street where I catch a tro-tro from La to Ring Road to Nima. Mom's are busy opening up the shopping stands, crouching over plastic tubs hand washing laundry or hunching over outdoor stoves cooking up traditional Ghanaian dishes, including porridge, in large metal pots.
At night when I head out to eat dinner or grab a drink dozens of residents huddle together in front of a T.V. set up on that dirt road, the belting sound of various Nigerian films echoing in the distance perhaps heard across the neighbouring community, Labone. A few nights ago, children were entranced with the screen as the actors (a man and woman) spoke about committing adultery. I assume the novelty of watching a T.V. is more important than program content. There are no "R" or "PG" ratings to be concerned about here.
Though satisfied to live in a community outside of the tourist centre, Osu, in Accra, where western bars, restaurants, supermarkets and Internet cafes and coffee shops are at your fingertips, I struggle to live with the contradiction that lies within and beyond my compound. I struggle to deal with the divide between rich and poor and I wonder if it is as noticeable to the locals as it is to me.
Thursday, October 25, 2007
Over and Over and Over Again!
Ladies, if you are sick of men who say they're going to call but never do then come to Ghana.
Ghanaian men will call you, I promise.
In fact, if you take the chance, the risk, if you dare to give those ten digits out over here in this West African nation, naively believing you're only trying to make friends with the locals, you can guarantee that you will receive not just one call but plenty of them.
You won't even have to wait until the next day, or the next hour for the reconnection because within moments of leaving the company of a Ghanaian man who just scored your cell number, a call or a flash (this is when someone calls your phone, lets it ring once and then hangs up, expecting you to call back to waste your phone card minutes/units instead of theirs) will follow toute suite.
Even text messages such as "Please call me!", "It's important! Please call me!" will suffice for the Ghanaian man trying to hang out, befriend, hook up, even marry an obruni (white) girl.
But, it doesn't stop there.
Once they've punched your name and digits into their phones, they feel free to pass the details along to their mates. YES! Those you've never met and who've never met, spoken or laid eyes on you before either!
Strange numbers abound will appear on your cell phone display, at all times of day, be it 5:30am (Ghanaians are early risers) or well after midnight (They're late to bed too!).
Though there's an option of pressing "ignore" on most cell phones over here, don't bother! Rather just turn your phone off, as there is a function on cell phones that allows them to press “retry” once "ignore" has been pressed. And, believe me, they will press it over and over and over again.
Gotta give 'em props for persistence!
Bottom line...
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM A GHANAIAN, DON'T GIVE YOUR NUMBER OUT!!
Make any excuse possible including ... "It's my friend's phone", "I only use this phone for work", "I don't have a phone here yet", "My husband back home doesn't like me giving my phone number out to other men."
Despite the warnings before leaving home, my dear JHR companions, Alison, Hannah and I have had to learn and relearn the cell phone number lesson several times over since we arrived in Accra almost one month ago.
As the polite and friendly Canadians that we are, our cell numbers were given out to several local Ghanaians, many of which were men, who seemed polite and friendly enough at first. Though definitely nice and absolutely friendly, how naive we were to think something else wasn't brewing, perhaps even boiling over, on the back burner for these fellas.
So how exactly did Ankrah, Reginald, Isaac, Thomas, King, Roxy, Raymond, Amandu, Jonas and the five random teenage girls I met on the street convince us giving out our number was okay?
And, how exactly, as Hannah amusingly pointed out, did we end up with almost as many numbers in our phones as back home, two weeks into our eight month stay in this foreign country?
Was it the numerous invites to that beautiful beach, the offer to show us the "in" spots around town that no other obruni knows about or the ability to bargain for a much cheaper price for taxi rides??? Who knows!!!
Whatever it was, the constant ringing of our phones now is certainly a constant reminder never to do it again! A lesson any obruni girl should learn prior to landing on Ghana ground!
Ghanaian men will call you, I promise.
In fact, if you take the chance, the risk, if you dare to give those ten digits out over here in this West African nation, naively believing you're only trying to make friends with the locals, you can guarantee that you will receive not just one call but plenty of them.
You won't even have to wait until the next day, or the next hour for the reconnection because within moments of leaving the company of a Ghanaian man who just scored your cell number, a call or a flash (this is when someone calls your phone, lets it ring once and then hangs up, expecting you to call back to waste your phone card minutes/units instead of theirs) will follow toute suite.
Even text messages such as "Please call me!", "It's important! Please call me!" will suffice for the Ghanaian man trying to hang out, befriend, hook up, even marry an obruni (white) girl.
But, it doesn't stop there.
Once they've punched your name and digits into their phones, they feel free to pass the details along to their mates. YES! Those you've never met and who've never met, spoken or laid eyes on you before either!
Strange numbers abound will appear on your cell phone display, at all times of day, be it 5:30am (Ghanaians are early risers) or well after midnight (They're late to bed too!).
Though there's an option of pressing "ignore" on most cell phones over here, don't bother! Rather just turn your phone off, as there is a function on cell phones that allows them to press “retry” once "ignore" has been pressed. And, believe me, they will press it over and over and over again.
Gotta give 'em props for persistence!
Bottom line...
IF YOU DON'T WANT TO HEAR FROM A GHANAIAN, DON'T GIVE YOUR NUMBER OUT!!
Make any excuse possible including ... "It's my friend's phone", "I only use this phone for work", "I don't have a phone here yet", "My husband back home doesn't like me giving my phone number out to other men."
Despite the warnings before leaving home, my dear JHR companions, Alison, Hannah and I have had to learn and relearn the cell phone number lesson several times over since we arrived in Accra almost one month ago.
As the polite and friendly Canadians that we are, our cell numbers were given out to several local Ghanaians, many of which were men, who seemed polite and friendly enough at first. Though definitely nice and absolutely friendly, how naive we were to think something else wasn't brewing, perhaps even boiling over, on the back burner for these fellas.
So how exactly did Ankrah, Reginald, Isaac, Thomas, King, Roxy, Raymond, Amandu, Jonas and the five random teenage girls I met on the street convince us giving out our number was okay?
And, how exactly, as Hannah amusingly pointed out, did we end up with almost as many numbers in our phones as back home, two weeks into our eight month stay in this foreign country?
Was it the numerous invites to that beautiful beach, the offer to show us the "in" spots around town that no other obruni knows about or the ability to bargain for a much cheaper price for taxi rides??? Who knows!!!
Whatever it was, the constant ringing of our phones now is certainly a constant reminder never to do it again! A lesson any obruni girl should learn prior to landing on Ghana ground!
Damn Cedis!
In June, Ghana changed its currency from thousands to single denominations. This means that what used to be 10,000 Cedis is now 1 Cedis, worth a little more than US$1. Confusingly, not every business, or every Ghanaian has adjusted to the new system.
Therefore, depending upon where you make a purchase, or pay for a service including taxis and tro-tros (minibuses carrying a bunch of people to different locations), the old or new currency system may be used. Taxi drivers and street vendors, for example, tend to speak in the old currency, while grocery stores tag their items using the new currency.
My fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah, and I have had some difficulty adjusting to the currency ourselves. Here’s just one humorous example to share upon our third day in Accra.
Craving a beer after a long day of touring the city and receiving the rundown of our upcoming placements from our country director, Ato, we decided to venture out from our guesthouse, Dot’s Inn, in Labone, and find the closest bar. Whether we should turn right or left was the first decision to make. Left it was. Walking along the dark street, taxis and other speeding vehicles whizzing by our sides, locals peering from the roadside, we saw a sign to Captain Hook’s bar and restaurant pointing right. So, right it was.
We ventured, hopping over open sewers onto the grass and back onto the roadside again avoiding obstacles in the way, for about another kilometre. Since Captain Hook’s was nowhere in sight we decided to ask a guard at a very expensive hotel to our left with Mercedes and BMWs gracing the driveway for directions. The guard said it was much farther up the road and advised we take a taxi. Not wishing to wander so far, we decided to head back to another guesthouse we had passed just a few paces that advertised a restaurant and bar on its glowing blue and white sign.
Unsure of whether it was open for business, we wandered round the back where there was a dimly lit back patio and brightly lit full-on dining room with tables, graced with white tablecloths and napkin stuffed wine glasses. After some hesitation we decided to give it a shot and were directed to the back of the restaurant through a sliding glass door to the bar.
Three STAR beers were ordered, which were brought to us promptly once we seated ourselves at the most brightly lit table on the patio. A spotlight upon the obrunis I joked, unaware that to our left and right were tourists too – they just weren't white like us.
Ahhh how nice a cold beer went down that evening, as we munched on a complimentary bowl of peanuts and shared our first impressions of Ghana and our feelings of leaving home.
When it came time to pay the bill we pulled out our Cedis hesitantly. “45” the server said. $45 Cedis, almost US$45 for three beers, I questioned?! Perhaps those peanuts weren’t complimentary after all. As the server stood waiting patiently for his payment, we each begrudgingly gave him 20 Cedis each. Now came time (Ghanaian time) to await for change.
Fifteen minutes went by and not only did we all question the cost of the beer, since others had told us beer was so cheap (US$1 to be exact), but whether this server thought we were also giving him a 15 Cedis tip. Making eye contact with him, he advised he was coming, which apparently means he will bring the change, just in his own good time.
Another 10 minutes went by and finally he approached the table asking us to please come inside so he could show us something. We followed him the bar. The server took out the money we had given him, laying the bills out in front of us. With a gleeful, compassionate smile on his face he explained we had given him far too much money. That 45, meant 45,000 Cedis, which meant just over US$4.50 for three beers. Now that’s more like it!
As a thank you, Alison gave the man a 5 Cedis tip for his honesty and of course, he proceeded to ask for her number. Luckily, none of us had cell phones yet!
Now the kicker is yet to come.
Thinking the server had placed all six 10 Cedis bills on the bar and that we had already taken our change, I left another 10 Cedis bill with him by accident!
This means, we still ended up paying 20 Cedis, almost US$20 for three beers, and our server received more than a $15 tip!
Those damn Cedis! Three weeks later and I am still struggling!
Therefore, depending upon where you make a purchase, or pay for a service including taxis and tro-tros (minibuses carrying a bunch of people to different locations), the old or new currency system may be used. Taxi drivers and street vendors, for example, tend to speak in the old currency, while grocery stores tag their items using the new currency.
My fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah, and I have had some difficulty adjusting to the currency ourselves. Here’s just one humorous example to share upon our third day in Accra.
Craving a beer after a long day of touring the city and receiving the rundown of our upcoming placements from our country director, Ato, we decided to venture out from our guesthouse, Dot’s Inn, in Labone, and find the closest bar. Whether we should turn right or left was the first decision to make. Left it was. Walking along the dark street, taxis and other speeding vehicles whizzing by our sides, locals peering from the roadside, we saw a sign to Captain Hook’s bar and restaurant pointing right. So, right it was.
We ventured, hopping over open sewers onto the grass and back onto the roadside again avoiding obstacles in the way, for about another kilometre. Since Captain Hook’s was nowhere in sight we decided to ask a guard at a very expensive hotel to our left with Mercedes and BMWs gracing the driveway for directions. The guard said it was much farther up the road and advised we take a taxi. Not wishing to wander so far, we decided to head back to another guesthouse we had passed just a few paces that advertised a restaurant and bar on its glowing blue and white sign.
Unsure of whether it was open for business, we wandered round the back where there was a dimly lit back patio and brightly lit full-on dining room with tables, graced with white tablecloths and napkin stuffed wine glasses. After some hesitation we decided to give it a shot and were directed to the back of the restaurant through a sliding glass door to the bar.
Three STAR beers were ordered, which were brought to us promptly once we seated ourselves at the most brightly lit table on the patio. A spotlight upon the obrunis I joked, unaware that to our left and right were tourists too – they just weren't white like us.
Ahhh how nice a cold beer went down that evening, as we munched on a complimentary bowl of peanuts and shared our first impressions of Ghana and our feelings of leaving home.
When it came time to pay the bill we pulled out our Cedis hesitantly. “45” the server said. $45 Cedis, almost US$45 for three beers, I questioned?! Perhaps those peanuts weren’t complimentary after all. As the server stood waiting patiently for his payment, we each begrudgingly gave him 20 Cedis each. Now came time (Ghanaian time) to await for change.
Fifteen minutes went by and not only did we all question the cost of the beer, since others had told us beer was so cheap (US$1 to be exact), but whether this server thought we were also giving him a 15 Cedis tip. Making eye contact with him, he advised he was coming, which apparently means he will bring the change, just in his own good time.
Another 10 minutes went by and finally he approached the table asking us to please come inside so he could show us something. We followed him the bar. The server took out the money we had given him, laying the bills out in front of us. With a gleeful, compassionate smile on his face he explained we had given him far too much money. That 45, meant 45,000 Cedis, which meant just over US$4.50 for three beers. Now that’s more like it!
As a thank you, Alison gave the man a 5 Cedis tip for his honesty and of course, he proceeded to ask for her number. Luckily, none of us had cell phones yet!
Now the kicker is yet to come.
Thinking the server had placed all six 10 Cedis bills on the bar and that we had already taken our change, I left another 10 Cedis bill with him by accident!
This means, we still ended up paying 20 Cedis, almost US$20 for three beers, and our server received more than a $15 tip!
Those damn Cedis! Three weeks later and I am still struggling!
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
Shut Up You Stupid Dog & Let Us In!
It was Saturday night on October 6 and Alison and I hopped into a taxi on the way back from Hannah’s apartment in Osu (where I had dropped off groceries earlier that day) after having dinner with the JHR crew and a few other various volunteers and expats.
Exhausted from the last several days of events adjusting to life in Accra, finding a place to live, planning for our upcoming placements and meeting so many new friends and faces, bed was our only priority. Alison was also battling a bout of the flu and needed to rest herself back to health.
After getting lost on the way in the cab since all dirt roads look the same day or night, we finally found our home, which is located in Labadi. Our cab driver, who we came to know as Richard, insisted on driving us right to our gate, refusing to allow us to walk alone even part way in the dark.
Since no houses, restaurants, businesses or any location really has an address, you must look out for landmarks to communicate to taxi drivers where they need to take you and negotiate a price from there. Ours happen to be either Jokers, a local restaurant/bar/nightclub or MacBells, a former manufacturing company that used to have its headquarters around where we live.
We ended up paying Richard 5 Cedis (about US$5) –four times the amount he should be given – since he was so patient and kind. Suckers! From there, Richard gave us his cell number to call if we ever needed a cab again. Little did we know we would be calling him back again so soon.
Relieved we had finally found home, Alison and I jumped out of the car, but when we tried to open the gate we found it to be locked. We looked at each other in disbelief.
Alison tried again.
Gate locked.
Now just to give you an idea of what type of gate we are dealing with. It is about seven feet high, solid metal with a huge sliding metal lock on each side ... so you can either lock it from the outside or lock it from the inside. It had been locked from the inside. Disrupted by the noise of someone trying to open the gate, a guard dog, we just found out about, began barking incessantly.
Following a fit of delirious laughter a few “you’ve got to be $*%#’ing kidding me’s!”, we decided to try calling Jane, one of our roommates, even though she was fast asleep, having returned home hours before us. There was no answer. To boot, Alison’s cell phone was also flat out of battery and mine was on its last bar.
Another bout of delirious laughter and few more “you’ve got to be f#$%'ing kidding me’s!” and we decided to phone back Richard. He actually answered our call and promised he would be back “in a few minutes” to pick us up after he dropped off his latest passenger.
Skeptical about what a few minutes actually meant in Ghanaian time, Alison used a wooden fence about a foot off the ground to try and boost herself up and over the concrete wall (which the gate is connected to), only to be met by the barking dog, who was now sitting in the middle of the driveway glaring up at her. This idea quickly dissipated.
Plopping ourselves down onto the curb, we phoned Hannah to let her know the situation and that we were likely on our way back to crash at her place. Fits of laughter continued and our amusement extended over to a young man across the street, who had been standing staring at us for several minutes as we tried to resolve the predicament. He too was now smiling and chuckling- thank God, because his presence was actually making me very nervous.
Twenty minutes passed and my phone rang again. It was Richard explaining he was driving down our dirt road. We saw headlights in the distance.
Though we got lost again on our way back to Osu, turning down a few different roads before finally coming across Hannah’s place, we did make it there safely.
So, 8 Cedis later (we paid Richard another 3 Cedis – double the amount again. Suckers!) and following another round of hysterical school girl laughter between the three of us (which likely awoke Hanna’s 37-year-old roommate from England, Dominic) we were resting soundly on two couches - Alison using an ironing board cover and me using a tiny table cloth as a blanket.
The catch...
The next morning we found out from Jane that there was a latch on our gate that we could lift, reach our hand through, unlocking it from the inside.
WE WERE NEVER ACTUALLY LOCKED OUT!
On the other hand, had we slept soundly in our own beds, we would never have run into that Ghanaian Pentecostal church service wandering home from Hannah’s the next morning … now would we have?
Exhausted from the last several days of events adjusting to life in Accra, finding a place to live, planning for our upcoming placements and meeting so many new friends and faces, bed was our only priority. Alison was also battling a bout of the flu and needed to rest herself back to health.
After getting lost on the way in the cab since all dirt roads look the same day or night, we finally found our home, which is located in Labadi. Our cab driver, who we came to know as Richard, insisted on driving us right to our gate, refusing to allow us to walk alone even part way in the dark.
Since no houses, restaurants, businesses or any location really has an address, you must look out for landmarks to communicate to taxi drivers where they need to take you and negotiate a price from there. Ours happen to be either Jokers, a local restaurant/bar/nightclub or MacBells, a former manufacturing company that used to have its headquarters around where we live.
We ended up paying Richard 5 Cedis (about US$5) –four times the amount he should be given – since he was so patient and kind. Suckers! From there, Richard gave us his cell number to call if we ever needed a cab again. Little did we know we would be calling him back again so soon.
Relieved we had finally found home, Alison and I jumped out of the car, but when we tried to open the gate we found it to be locked. We looked at each other in disbelief.
Alison tried again.
Gate locked.
Now just to give you an idea of what type of gate we are dealing with. It is about seven feet high, solid metal with a huge sliding metal lock on each side ... so you can either lock it from the outside or lock it from the inside. It had been locked from the inside. Disrupted by the noise of someone trying to open the gate, a guard dog, we just found out about, began barking incessantly.
Following a fit of delirious laughter a few “you’ve got to be $*%#’ing kidding me’s!”, we decided to try calling Jane, one of our roommates, even though she was fast asleep, having returned home hours before us. There was no answer. To boot, Alison’s cell phone was also flat out of battery and mine was on its last bar.
Another bout of delirious laughter and few more “you’ve got to be f#$%'ing kidding me’s!” and we decided to phone back Richard. He actually answered our call and promised he would be back “in a few minutes” to pick us up after he dropped off his latest passenger.
Skeptical about what a few minutes actually meant in Ghanaian time, Alison used a wooden fence about a foot off the ground to try and boost herself up and over the concrete wall (which the gate is connected to), only to be met by the barking dog, who was now sitting in the middle of the driveway glaring up at her. This idea quickly dissipated.
Plopping ourselves down onto the curb, we phoned Hannah to let her know the situation and that we were likely on our way back to crash at her place. Fits of laughter continued and our amusement extended over to a young man across the street, who had been standing staring at us for several minutes as we tried to resolve the predicament. He too was now smiling and chuckling- thank God, because his presence was actually making me very nervous.
Twenty minutes passed and my phone rang again. It was Richard explaining he was driving down our dirt road. We saw headlights in the distance.
Though we got lost again on our way back to Osu, turning down a few different roads before finally coming across Hannah’s place, we did make it there safely.
So, 8 Cedis later (we paid Richard another 3 Cedis – double the amount again. Suckers!) and following another round of hysterical school girl laughter between the three of us (which likely awoke Hanna’s 37-year-old roommate from England, Dominic) we were resting soundly on two couches - Alison using an ironing board cover and me using a tiny table cloth as a blanket.
The catch...
The next morning we found out from Jane that there was a latch on our gate that we could lift, reach our hand through, unlocking it from the inside.
WE WERE NEVER ACTUALLY LOCKED OUT!
On the other hand, had we slept soundly in our own beds, we would never have run into that Ghanaian Pentecostal church service wandering home from Hannah’s the next morning … now would we have?
Tuesday, October 23, 2007
A place to call home
Friday, October 5, 2007
The day was one to wander and wonder.
Alison and I, with Joseph (our best Ghanaian friend) at our side set out on foot, having just moved into our home in Labadi - a community in Accra - ready to explore and become familiar with our new surroundings.
The walk began along the dirt road that meets the gate to the compound where our house and our neighbour's home reside. Goats and chickens scampered by, the sun blazed down and the thick and hazy air caused sweat to almost instantly form across my brow, under my arms and along the backs of my legs. Locals lay back on benches in the shelter of makeshift shopping stands to beat the intense heat, selling anything from laundry detergent to electronics. Their heads perked up as they saw two obrunis (white folk) walking by, a hello, a smile or long blank stare to greet us.
Joseph, knowing a shortcut, led us down a zigzag path behind the scattered wooden shacks. We strolled Ghanaian pace (one step Ghanaian for every 10 steps Torontonian, with dragging feet) through what I suppose are considered people's communal backyards. There are no fences for privacy or greenery for children to kick balls upon. No, kids, white eyes and bright smiles, typically run barefoot, grabbing anything they can to play with (I have seen long pieces of metal used as toy guns and broken fans held close like a teddy bear) or perhaps just play fighting, jumping upon each other and doing handstands and front flips over wooden fences just a foot above the ground. I visualize my five-year-old sister, Molly, climbing into her luxurious wooden tree house with a swing to one side and sandbox beneath or her vigorously jumping off a diving board into a crystal blue, chlorine-filled heated pool at her home in Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario. What a paradox!
First stop for the three of us was the VA (Volunteer Abroad) House - the meeting point for Canadian volunteers ... about a 20-minute walk from our place, where some volunteers reside temporarily whether their placements are in Accra or beyond the city's borders, perhaps north to Kumasi or Tamale, or west to Takoradi. Kirsten - the head of the VA house, who looks no older than 25 years old- greeted us, offering coffee and a seat at the dining room table where three of the newest volunteers - having just arrived in Accra the day before - and Tristan - a British freelance journalist - finished a late breakfast. The volunteers themselves - all in their early 20s - were off to Osu and then Labadi beach later that day. We made tentative plans to join them. Tristan, who has been in Accra several months and stays at VA house despite lacking Canadian citizenship - sat sipping his coffee made in a bodum, typing listlessly on his laptop. We spoke with him briefly about what we were all doing in Ghana.
Our next stop was a chop bar (roadside eatery) just up the street from the VA house, across from a used bicycle shop. Alison and I made verbal plans to purchase a bike to share. They are apparently about 40 Cedis (just over $40 each). At this point however, we were hungry and cheap, local food seemed fitting. The two of us exchanged looks of concern as we devoured the rice covered in what Ghanaians calls gravy (a spicy tomato-based sauce made with mashed up shrimp), fried fish and plantain (my favourite), wondering if our mass consumption of local food since we arrived was soon to catch up with us. With each bite the tastiness of Ghanaian home-cooking eased our concerns. (On a side note: Ghanaians also smother their salad - coleslaw made with lots of mayo - with ketchup. Yummy!)
My edible confidence waned when not long after the digestive process began severe stomach cramps set in and I rushed back to VA house to use the bathroom. While waiting for Joseph and Alison after that drama, I was approached by a few 15-year-old girls - one named Dorris - who wanted to meet, talk and get my phone number so they could call me later. Random people, strangers, and especially men, have asked for my cell number without a flinch. It is a common place request to obruni’s and cell phones are everywhere. But cell phone culture in Accra is another blog entry in and of itself. Stay tuned…
While speaking with the girls, I could hear drumming in the distance, getting louder and louder and asked what it was about. The community was apparently mourning the death of a doctor - a white man - who had worked in the area for 20 years. A group of about six Ghanaian musicians circulated along the dusty roads banging drums, singing ... celebrating his life. I never did find out the doctor’s name or the cause of his death and wonder if his funeral has yet been held. Ghanaians will often wait months to officially bury their dead ... but perhaps since this man is white the funeral has already been and gone.
Once we three had met up again, Joseph then led us to Tawala - a beach front restaurant/bar and one of my favourite places to eat and drink STAR beer - where the waves crash just a few feet away - kicking up old shoes, grocery bags, and other random bits of trash upon the sand. This is not the side of the beach where you swim or even consider strolling barefoot. Over to the right, in the distance sits Osu castle - a tourist attraction, that dates back to the 1600s, where the government resides. We sat upon a wooden bench overlooking the ocean for about an hour - feeling the wind in our faces, the smell of salt stinging our nostrils, a sticky feeling resonating on our skin. Tears sprung into both Alison and my eyes - down my cheeks - and Joseph giggled mocking our random and open display of emotion, not quite comprehending that some tears aren't about sadness.
The day was creeping on and Joseph was anxious to show us where he lived, so we set out again on foot, walking along a busy highway, I have come to know as La Road, which takes travelers out of Accra. We headed in the direction of Tema. On our way we ran into many children, dressed in rich brown and bright yellow uniforms with their school names sewn into the sleeves - the girls in pinafore dresses, the boys in shorts and button-up short-sleeved shirts - on their way home from a day at school. Cheerful "Hello, how are you’s” rung in unison as we strolled by.
Though late in the day, the sun and heat did not let up. At this point, though, I was so sweaty, my feet and ankles dusty, thick dirt trapped beneath my nails, that what was another few miles to complete the trek. La Road curves around the shoreline, a divider between Joseph's community and the ocean. We cut across a huge dirt lot where soccer games are regularly played. A courthouse and bar/restaurant, reggae music blaring, also lie a few feet away to the left. Dividing the soccer field and Joseph's compound is a concrete fence just a few feet above the ground. We hopped over a gap where the concrete had caved and were ferociously greeted by a group of children, ranging in age from about 2 to 7 years old. The white eyes and bright smiles returned. A few sprinted towards me grabbing at my legs, laughing, squealing and jumping with delight. I wondered when the last time an obruni had crossed this boundary and cursed that I had not brought my camera.
Walking through the compound was quite surreal. Though the site of trash piled along the outside of the concrete wall and the smell from ditches filled with sewage along the highway resonated, it was overshadowed by an intense sense of community and companionship. Moms, Dads, sisters, brothers, grandparents, neighbours sat on each other porches relaxing, called out to each other, completed chores together. We even saw the head of a man peaking above a concrete shower stall as he bathed and washed his hair, while boys played ball right beside him.
Joseph led us into his home. The front room, what he said was his kitchen, was small, quaint and dark, but only because the lights were off. A beaded curtain divided it and the second room, which was about double the size. He plopped down on his single bed and immediately popped on some music (can't recall whether it was reggae or hip hop, but it was one of the two) using one of his two computers. His friend, Raymond, who lives just a few houses down, joined us and we attempted to watch an African film/DVD on Joseph's TV. No luck so we used the laptop. The juxtaposition of the rural life beyond the beaded curtain to this high-technology inside Joseph’s place astounded me. We stayed there awhile, resting after a day of trekking and getting our first taste of Cardinal strawberry liquor, which Raymond receives free from his work – the local Coca-Cola factory that manufactures this booze as well.
Before long the sun was setting (it disappears quickly because Ghana is situated so close to the equator) and it was time to catch a cab home. There was more nightly fun to be had before we buckled down and began our placements – Alison at JOY FM and myself at the Daily Guide newspaper - that Monday.
Joseph led us back the way we came, zigzagging through the wooden and mud shacks of his compound, hopping over that concrete wall to be greeted by more excited children as we crossed the dirt soccer field and ventured back onto that busy highway. He hailed a cab, negotiated a price in Twi (one of the local languages) and off we went agreeing to meet up again later.
Riding along towards our new place called home, a final look exchanged with Alison and I knew she was as deeply affected by the day as I was. It remains one of the most memorable so far...
The day was one to wander and wonder.
Alison and I, with Joseph (our best Ghanaian friend) at our side set out on foot, having just moved into our home in Labadi - a community in Accra - ready to explore and become familiar with our new surroundings.
The walk began along the dirt road that meets the gate to the compound where our house and our neighbour's home reside. Goats and chickens scampered by, the sun blazed down and the thick and hazy air caused sweat to almost instantly form across my brow, under my arms and along the backs of my legs. Locals lay back on benches in the shelter of makeshift shopping stands to beat the intense heat, selling anything from laundry detergent to electronics. Their heads perked up as they saw two obrunis (white folk) walking by, a hello, a smile or long blank stare to greet us.
Joseph, knowing a shortcut, led us down a zigzag path behind the scattered wooden shacks. We strolled Ghanaian pace (one step Ghanaian for every 10 steps Torontonian, with dragging feet) through what I suppose are considered people's communal backyards. There are no fences for privacy or greenery for children to kick balls upon. No, kids, white eyes and bright smiles, typically run barefoot, grabbing anything they can to play with (I have seen long pieces of metal used as toy guns and broken fans held close like a teddy bear) or perhaps just play fighting, jumping upon each other and doing handstands and front flips over wooden fences just a foot above the ground. I visualize my five-year-old sister, Molly, climbing into her luxurious wooden tree house with a swing to one side and sandbox beneath or her vigorously jumping off a diving board into a crystal blue, chlorine-filled heated pool at her home in Niagara-On-The-Lake, Ontario. What a paradox!
First stop for the three of us was the VA (Volunteer Abroad) House - the meeting point for Canadian volunteers ... about a 20-minute walk from our place, where some volunteers reside temporarily whether their placements are in Accra or beyond the city's borders, perhaps north to Kumasi or Tamale, or west to Takoradi. Kirsten - the head of the VA house, who looks no older than 25 years old- greeted us, offering coffee and a seat at the dining room table where three of the newest volunteers - having just arrived in Accra the day before - and Tristan - a British freelance journalist - finished a late breakfast. The volunteers themselves - all in their early 20s - were off to Osu and then Labadi beach later that day. We made tentative plans to join them. Tristan, who has been in Accra several months and stays at VA house despite lacking Canadian citizenship - sat sipping his coffee made in a bodum, typing listlessly on his laptop. We spoke with him briefly about what we were all doing in Ghana.
Our next stop was a chop bar (roadside eatery) just up the street from the VA house, across from a used bicycle shop. Alison and I made verbal plans to purchase a bike to share. They are apparently about 40 Cedis (just over $40 each). At this point however, we were hungry and cheap, local food seemed fitting. The two of us exchanged looks of concern as we devoured the rice covered in what Ghanaians calls gravy (a spicy tomato-based sauce made with mashed up shrimp), fried fish and plantain (my favourite), wondering if our mass consumption of local food since we arrived was soon to catch up with us. With each bite the tastiness of Ghanaian home-cooking eased our concerns. (On a side note: Ghanaians also smother their salad - coleslaw made with lots of mayo - with ketchup. Yummy!)
My edible confidence waned when not long after the digestive process began severe stomach cramps set in and I rushed back to VA house to use the bathroom. While waiting for Joseph and Alison after that drama, I was approached by a few 15-year-old girls - one named Dorris - who wanted to meet, talk and get my phone number so they could call me later. Random people, strangers, and especially men, have asked for my cell number without a flinch. It is a common place request to obruni’s and cell phones are everywhere. But cell phone culture in Accra is another blog entry in and of itself. Stay tuned…
While speaking with the girls, I could hear drumming in the distance, getting louder and louder and asked what it was about. The community was apparently mourning the death of a doctor - a white man - who had worked in the area for 20 years. A group of about six Ghanaian musicians circulated along the dusty roads banging drums, singing ... celebrating his life. I never did find out the doctor’s name or the cause of his death and wonder if his funeral has yet been held. Ghanaians will often wait months to officially bury their dead ... but perhaps since this man is white the funeral has already been and gone.
Once we three had met up again, Joseph then led us to Tawala - a beach front restaurant/bar and one of my favourite places to eat and drink STAR beer - where the waves crash just a few feet away - kicking up old shoes, grocery bags, and other random bits of trash upon the sand. This is not the side of the beach where you swim or even consider strolling barefoot. Over to the right, in the distance sits Osu castle - a tourist attraction, that dates back to the 1600s, where the government resides. We sat upon a wooden bench overlooking the ocean for about an hour - feeling the wind in our faces, the smell of salt stinging our nostrils, a sticky feeling resonating on our skin. Tears sprung into both Alison and my eyes - down my cheeks - and Joseph giggled mocking our random and open display of emotion, not quite comprehending that some tears aren't about sadness.
The day was creeping on and Joseph was anxious to show us where he lived, so we set out again on foot, walking along a busy highway, I have come to know as La Road, which takes travelers out of Accra. We headed in the direction of Tema. On our way we ran into many children, dressed in rich brown and bright yellow uniforms with their school names sewn into the sleeves - the girls in pinafore dresses, the boys in shorts and button-up short-sleeved shirts - on their way home from a day at school. Cheerful "Hello, how are you’s” rung in unison as we strolled by.
Though late in the day, the sun and heat did not let up. At this point, though, I was so sweaty, my feet and ankles dusty, thick dirt trapped beneath my nails, that what was another few miles to complete the trek. La Road curves around the shoreline, a divider between Joseph's community and the ocean. We cut across a huge dirt lot where soccer games are regularly played. A courthouse and bar/restaurant, reggae music blaring, also lie a few feet away to the left. Dividing the soccer field and Joseph's compound is a concrete fence just a few feet above the ground. We hopped over a gap where the concrete had caved and were ferociously greeted by a group of children, ranging in age from about 2 to 7 years old. The white eyes and bright smiles returned. A few sprinted towards me grabbing at my legs, laughing, squealing and jumping with delight. I wondered when the last time an obruni had crossed this boundary and cursed that I had not brought my camera.
Walking through the compound was quite surreal. Though the site of trash piled along the outside of the concrete wall and the smell from ditches filled with sewage along the highway resonated, it was overshadowed by an intense sense of community and companionship. Moms, Dads, sisters, brothers, grandparents, neighbours sat on each other porches relaxing, called out to each other, completed chores together. We even saw the head of a man peaking above a concrete shower stall as he bathed and washed his hair, while boys played ball right beside him.
Joseph led us into his home. The front room, what he said was his kitchen, was small, quaint and dark, but only because the lights were off. A beaded curtain divided it and the second room, which was about double the size. He plopped down on his single bed and immediately popped on some music (can't recall whether it was reggae or hip hop, but it was one of the two) using one of his two computers. His friend, Raymond, who lives just a few houses down, joined us and we attempted to watch an African film/DVD on Joseph's TV. No luck so we used the laptop. The juxtaposition of the rural life beyond the beaded curtain to this high-technology inside Joseph’s place astounded me. We stayed there awhile, resting after a day of trekking and getting our first taste of Cardinal strawberry liquor, which Raymond receives free from his work – the local Coca-Cola factory that manufactures this booze as well.
Before long the sun was setting (it disappears quickly because Ghana is situated so close to the equator) and it was time to catch a cab home. There was more nightly fun to be had before we buckled down and began our placements – Alison at JOY FM and myself at the Daily Guide newspaper - that Monday.
Joseph led us back the way we came, zigzagging through the wooden and mud shacks of his compound, hopping over that concrete wall to be greeted by more excited children as we crossed the dirt soccer field and ventured back onto that busy highway. He hailed a cab, negotiated a price in Twi (one of the local languages) and off we went agreeing to meet up again later.
Riding along towards our new place called home, a final look exchanged with Alison and I knew she was as deeply affected by the day as I was. It remains one of the most memorable so far...
Thursday, October 18, 2007
A birthday's a birthday wherever you are
Turns out my Ghanaian birthday celebration was similar to how I mark the annual occasion in Canada.
Though the location, music and people differed there was a party, birthday cake with candles and drinks just like home.
My fellow JHR trainer, Jessie Johnston, was kind enough to throw the party within her Labone compound on the Friday (my actual birthday - Oct. 12, a few days after hers - Oct. 9), inviting many of her Ghanaian and obruni (white folk) friends. My invites paled in comparison, but I attribute that to having only arrived in Accra two weeks ago.
The music - a mix of reggae and hip hop - was blaring and many party patrons were already dancing when Alison (my roommate and fellow JHR trainer) and I arrived just after 8:30pm. Party's apparently start and end early for many Ghanaians, leaving obrunis to close it down.
Some of my other fellow JHR trainers were present - Indika and Kevin - who I had not seen for over a week. Joseph, Ghanaian friend number one, had also arrived - and Raymond, Ghanaian friend number two, and Hannah - another fellow JHR trainer - showed up a little later. There were about 20 people present in total, with good food and a grand selection of drinks thanks to Jessie - a positive vibe indeed.
Just as I began to settle into the party and meet people, my cell phone started ringing. The calls were from family and friends who had yet to wish me Happy Birthday. Unable to hear their voices over the music, I moved to the front of the compound and that is where I stayed for a good portion of the night, almost missing the birthday cake candle blow-out and Happy Birthday song for Jessie and I. Though I indeed wanted to mingle and get to know people better, I also yearned to hear from and connect with people from home.
Before I knew it the clock had reached midnight, the birthday party crowd had dissipated and there was still karaoke to be had at Champs - a bar in Accra that also features trivia night on Thursdays and movie night on Sundays. I had promised myself that Alison and I would end the night off with a song or two. A love for karaoke is just one thing we share in common.
So, off Joseph, Alison, Raymond and I went, leaving Hanna behind to get home to bed, as she had a Ghanaian wedding to attend (she was invited by a co-worker) early the next morning.
Surprisingly, Champs was similar to a frat bar in any southern Ontario university town before the anti-smoking laws came into affect. Though it was a mix of Ghanaians and obrunis, the atmosphere was quite overbearing as people pushed passed each other, cramming up to the bar to get a drink.
Alison and I ordered doubles (which took about 15 mins) and prepared ourselves for our big debut on stage. Unlike karaoke participants in Canada, the people singing at Champs were in key and quite good.
Crazy by Gnarls Barklay was Alison's personal selection and Beat It (yes, Beat It!) by Michael Jackson as well as Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers were our duet selections. We scribbled them down on a piece of paper and handed them over to the karaoke host.
While awaiting our turn, we came up with the grand idea to order a round of tequilas for Alison, Joseph and I (Raymond doesn't drink). Joseph had never tried tequila before. But just as they were set down on the bar, the familiar sound of Crazy took off and there was Alison belting it out on stage. I have to say, given the speed of the lyrics and high pitch tone, she did really well despite what she described as an absent reaction from her audience.
Upon her return from the stage, we grabbed the tequila shots and taught Joseph how to lick the salt off his hand, chug back the shooter and suck on the lemon as a chaser. How funny was that!
Beat It came up soon after and that's when the real fun began. Knowing none of the lyrics and having not heard the song in over a decade, we hit the stage to make a mockery of ourselves - Karaoke the Canadian way! Fun indeed with another absent reaction from the audience.
Our night ended soon after that and instead of sticking around to sing Ain't No Sunshine on stage, we broke into it on the street while waiting for a cab.
All and all a great birthday celebration and though celebrated in a similar fashion to those in Canada, one never to be forgotten!
p.s. Thanks to Alison and my other fellow roommates, Jane and Grace, for the makeshift birthday cake including ice cream, cupcakes, chocolate syrup and candies shared with our neighbour's children!
Though the location, music and people differed there was a party, birthday cake with candles and drinks just like home.
My fellow JHR trainer, Jessie Johnston, was kind enough to throw the party within her Labone compound on the Friday (my actual birthday - Oct. 12, a few days after hers - Oct. 9), inviting many of her Ghanaian and obruni (white folk) friends. My invites paled in comparison, but I attribute that to having only arrived in Accra two weeks ago.
The music - a mix of reggae and hip hop - was blaring and many party patrons were already dancing when Alison (my roommate and fellow JHR trainer) and I arrived just after 8:30pm. Party's apparently start and end early for many Ghanaians, leaving obrunis to close it down.
Some of my other fellow JHR trainers were present - Indika and Kevin - who I had not seen for over a week. Joseph, Ghanaian friend number one, had also arrived - and Raymond, Ghanaian friend number two, and Hannah - another fellow JHR trainer - showed up a little later. There were about 20 people present in total, with good food and a grand selection of drinks thanks to Jessie - a positive vibe indeed.
Just as I began to settle into the party and meet people, my cell phone started ringing. The calls were from family and friends who had yet to wish me Happy Birthday. Unable to hear their voices over the music, I moved to the front of the compound and that is where I stayed for a good portion of the night, almost missing the birthday cake candle blow-out and Happy Birthday song for Jessie and I. Though I indeed wanted to mingle and get to know people better, I also yearned to hear from and connect with people from home.
Before I knew it the clock had reached midnight, the birthday party crowd had dissipated and there was still karaoke to be had at Champs - a bar in Accra that also features trivia night on Thursdays and movie night on Sundays. I had promised myself that Alison and I would end the night off with a song or two. A love for karaoke is just one thing we share in common.
So, off Joseph, Alison, Raymond and I went, leaving Hanna behind to get home to bed, as she had a Ghanaian wedding to attend (she was invited by a co-worker) early the next morning.
Surprisingly, Champs was similar to a frat bar in any southern Ontario university town before the anti-smoking laws came into affect. Though it was a mix of Ghanaians and obrunis, the atmosphere was quite overbearing as people pushed passed each other, cramming up to the bar to get a drink.
Alison and I ordered doubles (which took about 15 mins) and prepared ourselves for our big debut on stage. Unlike karaoke participants in Canada, the people singing at Champs were in key and quite good.
Crazy by Gnarls Barklay was Alison's personal selection and Beat It (yes, Beat It!) by Michael Jackson as well as Ain't No Sunshine by Bill Withers were our duet selections. We scribbled them down on a piece of paper and handed them over to the karaoke host.
While awaiting our turn, we came up with the grand idea to order a round of tequilas for Alison, Joseph and I (Raymond doesn't drink). Joseph had never tried tequila before. But just as they were set down on the bar, the familiar sound of Crazy took off and there was Alison belting it out on stage. I have to say, given the speed of the lyrics and high pitch tone, she did really well despite what she described as an absent reaction from her audience.
Upon her return from the stage, we grabbed the tequila shots and taught Joseph how to lick the salt off his hand, chug back the shooter and suck on the lemon as a chaser. How funny was that!
Beat It came up soon after and that's when the real fun began. Knowing none of the lyrics and having not heard the song in over a decade, we hit the stage to make a mockery of ourselves - Karaoke the Canadian way! Fun indeed with another absent reaction from the audience.
Our night ended soon after that and instead of sticking around to sing Ain't No Sunshine on stage, we broke into it on the street while waiting for a cab.
All and all a great birthday celebration and though celebrated in a similar fashion to those in Canada, one never to be forgotten!
p.s. Thanks to Alison and my other fellow roommates, Jane and Grace, for the makeshift birthday cake including ice cream, cupcakes, chocolate syrup and candies shared with our neighbour's children!
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