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?

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!

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.

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.