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.

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!

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!

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?

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...

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!

Homesick Birthday

Never would I have imagined that on my 29th birthday I would be in Ghana, Africa.

I have yet to discover what celebrating my birthday Ghanaian-style actually means, as the events will happen this evening at a party hosted by a fellow JHR trainer, Jessie, whose birthday was on Tuesday. My birthday is today (Friday, October 12). We will celebrate together with Ghanaian friends she (who has been here for three months) and I (who has been here just over a week) have made along the way, and other obruni (white folk).

It is an odd feeling being away from those closest to you on the day you were born, particularly my mother and father. I have never been off the continent believe it or not on this day and have always had a chance to see friends and family within a few days of October 12 in all previous years.

Today I have experienced my first bout of homesickness. My first yearn to be with those closest to me, despite my excitement to celebrate this evening. I will be sure to fill you in on the details once it's all said and done.

So, just wanted to say to all of you that I am thinking of you, missing you and wishing you well.

Happy Birthday to me!

Yummy in my tummy!

Though I swore I would be, I have not been very cautious when it comes to what I put into my belly here in Accra, Ghana.

My theory is my system has to adjust at some point since I will be here for eight months, so why not get it over with.

Meat, including chicken, beef, sausage (yes family, sausage!!!) and even goat soup (yes goat!) has been on the menu so far.

My favourite dish a mix of red red (beans in a spicy red sauce), rice, fried fish and fried plantain (ahh plantain is so good!). My least desired Banku (doughy ball of cornmeal with a very oddly flavoured soup filled with goat intestines). I gagged and spat it out upon my first taste. I have yet to try Fufu and anything mixed with grass cutter (some kind of rodent similar to a rat!).

I have eaten at a bunch of places including western type establishments in Osu (a busy part of Accra where white folk live and hangout) to authentic roadside chopbars serving what tasted like mom's home cooking Ghanaian-style.

Though coffee is definitely here- finding it is another issue. So my four coffees a day have dwindled down to one, if I'm lucky. Being a juice fanatic I have managed to track down something similar to Sunny D - like tang - or any other overly-sweet orange drink you my have tasted. Healthy!

In Osu, there is a supermarket called Koala, which apparently has many many western items including a cheese bar. I plan to make a visit today (Saturday) to pick up some groceries for the new place (to be explained in another blog).

Alcohol, you ask? Beer is quite tasty, but not the 14 per cent alcohol content as I was told about before arriving here. I have taken to Star, about 5. 7 per cent alcohol level, similar to Heineken. Also tried a liquor called Cardinal - syrupy strawberry-flavoured stuff - and strong!

Despite a few severe stomach cramps Friday and a bout of diarrhea today ... so far, so good ... knock on wood!

Where's our luggage?

A relatively hassle free plane trip, via London, U.K., landed myself, and my five fellow JHR trainers (Hannah, Alison, Brennan, Indica and Nick - a native Ghanaian) safely in Accra, Ghana on Tuesday, October 2 at about 9pm (Ghanaian time - four hours ahead of Toronto). According to Indica, from leaving our homes or hotels in Toronto we were 32 hours in transit, including a three hour stopover at Heathrow airport. One other JHR trainer, Nichole, and her boyfriend, Sean, took an earlier flight over landing in Accra a couple hours before us.

Stepping off the plane, the soupy, campfire scented air was my very first of endless observations acquired over the last five days in Accra, Ghana. We quickly boarded a crammed shuttle bus - a mix of Ghanaians and obrunis (as white folk are called here) to take us to the terminal. A banner with Akwaaba! across it welcomed us. Akwaaba means welcome in Twi - the main indigenous language spoken here, though there are many others. In a sleepy, disorientated state, Hannah and I joined the Ghanaian national lineup at immigration instead of the visitors. Stares, chuckles (including our own once we we realized what we had done) followed suite.

After passing through immigration - where the officer I approached simply checked and stamped my passport and sent me on my way - we arrived at the luggage claim. The airport itself is nothing like those we just came from - much smaller, of course, resembling a church hall (as Hannah pointed out) instead of a major transportation hub. Ads with smiling children, beautiful Ghanaian women selling phone cards, other destination points etc. lined the walls. The luggage claim area included two carousals and a lost and found luggage area - a desk all of us, except Alison, were about to get to know well.

Yes all of us were missing a piece of luggage. Me, my main backpack with all my clothes. My claimed suitcase contained bathroom products, a mosquito net and a few other non-essentials. Luckily, Hannah had an eight month supply of Malaria medication to share! Our next challenge was filling out the lost luggage claim forms and finding Ato, our JHR country director, who was meant to meet us at the airport and take us to a guesthouse, where we would be staying until we found more permanent accommodation. While Hannah waited in the luggage claim line-up (14 flights and 100 passengers were apparently affected that day), Alison watched the luggage we did have. Brennan, Indica and I took turns traveling in and out of the airport, passed security, into a sea of black faces awaiting to greet there own friends and family coming off flights. How were we going to find Ato? We tried his cellphone, borrowing a security guards phone to text message, without any luck. Finally he arrived and after two hours at the airport - our first taste of Ghanaian time - we were on our way.

Joseph, a native Ghanaian, 28 years old, and Ato's right hand man (who has become Alison and my first local friend and very own personal tour guide), had apparently been waiting for us in the crowd of people outside the entire time. He had even seen Brennan and I but assumed we were not JHR people as we did not recognize his JHR t-shirt. Ha! Recognition is not the word I would use to describe anything I have experienced the last five days.

After traveling about 20 minutes in our own personal tro-tro (like a mini van that locals are crammed into to get them from place to place - much cheaper than taxis), we arrived at Dot's guesthouse and this is where I stayed for the next three nights.

Our luggage was reclaimed 48 hours later (Thursday) after visiting the airport luggage reclaim office two days in a row, searching through a backroom full of suitcases, backpacks and and signing several different forms. Hannah unfortunately waited an extra day for hers.

A fresh pair of underwear and shirt was very appreciated after two days in intense heat. Funny though how those situations that are such a big deal back home, became instantly tolerable miles away...

She's gone...

The day of my departure to Accra, Ghana where I will volunteer with Journalists for Human Rights (http://www.jhr.ca/) as a journalist trainer has finally arrived.

In less than 24 Hours, I will hit new turf ... a city I will call home for the next eight months.

Life has been a whirlwind since I left my post as a general assignment reporter at 24 Hours on August 16.

Many moments and memories in my life have reappeared as I visited my hometown, Pickering, cycled around Toronto where I have lived the last decade running errand after errand, said a temporary goodbye to old, new and dear friends, and spend quality time with loved ones. I kicked off this time with an unbelievably successful fundraiser and ended it with a free trip to Austin, Texas - one of my favourite cities in the world ... so far. How blessed am I?

Emotions have run rampant from sheer excitement, solemn sadness to trepidation and terror as I contemplate what this next venture in my life will bring, whether I will be able to achieve what is expected of me and how much I will miss the comforts of home and the closeness of so many dear people in my life.

Though my nerves are fried, my head spinning and my stomach churning as I rapidly type this last minute blog, I realize how very lucky I am to have this opportunity ... to be able to cut loose and take off from the regular day-to-day life I've lived the last two years ... to experience what I believe to be real life ... when you push your boundaries and dare to experience another culture and way of life. Ha! Lets hope I can keep that in mind as I experience rolling blackouts every three days, a technically-challenged newsroom (The Daily Guide newspaper is where I'll be working) where there is likely one computer for a team of journalists and who knows what kind of illness (travelers' diarrhea, malaria - apparently 50 per cent of the JHR trainers will get it as the medication is only 65 per cent effective - dengue fever or typhoid are all possibilities).

With just an hour and a half before I leave for the airport I must cut this blog short.

Embrace the challenges, experience both the highs and the lows because both will take turns and remember why I decided to take on this adventure is what has been said to me over and over again.

I keep these words and the thoughts and prayers of my family and friends close to my heart.

As my dear 2-year-old niece, Emily, said to me ... see you next time!