A spit from the truth

Where I come from spitting on or at someone is an ultimate sign of disrespect.

By law, it can even be considered an act of assault or battery.

To my understanding, the same stands true in Ghana.

I have witnessed Ghanaians spitting out of a tro-tro windows, into gutters, and even seen evidence of it splattered on sidewalks (i.e. last week while waiting outside Accra Stadium I almost placed my knapsack into two fresh and gleaming piles). I never imagined however, being greeted this way in a country where warm smiles are exchanged to the random passerby, introductory handshakes end with a quick snap of the finger and a phrase as soothing as "Ete Sen" means “Hello."

It was a Saturday, late afternoon, when I hopped off a tro-tro at one of Accra’s main transportation and market hubs, Circle, to find the STC bus station. I needed to purchase an advance ticket to Tamale, where I would travel the following week to explore Northern Ghana.

Unbeknownsed to me, this bus station was quite a distance away from Circle, so I pressed play on my IPOD and began the trek along Ring Road in the dry, lip-cracking Harmatan heat.

As usual, Circle was a hustle and bustle of tro-tros loading and unloading passengers and swerving around regular traffic. Market women and men were selling anything from pineapples, roasted plantains and groundnuts to deodorant, used shoes from the west and an abundance of red, green and yellow (Ghana’s national colours) CAN2008 paraphernalia, while locals rushed through the maze finishing up Saturday errands.

The walk was longer than I expected and I asked a few people along the way, receiving more than willing help to lead me in the right direction.

Bobbing my head to the familiar tunes from home blaring through my headphones, I caught eye contact with a man stomping towards me with either utter determination or a brewing grudge, perhaps held onto from years ago. His glare was hard, long and filled with contempt, anger and disgust. It caused my heart to jump up to my throat and fear to fill my belly.

Just a few paces away from me, the man pursed his lips and out shot a large glob of saliva in my direction, the oozing blob striking the pavement right before my feet. I dodged it with my next step and spun around to see that man’s glare still peering into mine. He pursed his lips again in my direction and I cried out “Don’t!”, heart pounding, scurrying away like a mouse avoiding the pounce of a leering feline. Luckily spit didn’t fly this time.

Now unless this man is from Kenya or Tanzania and is a member of the Massai tribe, who respectfully spit upon each other upon greeting and departing, it was clear he either did not like me or perhaps, in his mind, what I represented.

Tears welled up in my eyes. Through my next few paces confusion, guilt, anger and alienation -- a myriad of emotions – shifted through me. My angst turned to the ongoing conflict I’m experiencing as an NGO worker, contemplating the effectiveness or lack thereof with development work in Ghana and across the African continent.

“What am I doing here?”

“Is any of this sustainable?”

“If unreliable condoms can be manufactured, are we really trying to halt the spread of HIV?”

“If an abundance of SlimFast products can be sent over to Ethiopia as aid relief, are we really trying to feed the starving?”

“How can mistakes like these be made along the way?”

“Should we be doing these things in the first place?”

“Is development work and the presence of NGOs another form of colonization, in disguise?”

“Screw it, should we all just head home to watch and see what happens?”

These questions only skim the surface of what runs through my mind as a volunteer journalist trainer in Accra, Ghana, manifested as I read books including Margaret Laurence’s This Side Jordan, Maya Angelou's All God’s Children Need Traveling Shoes, and William Power’s Blue Clay People.

But that Saturday, I trekked on to the STC station buying that bus ticket to Tamale, dashing a guy 50 peshwa for showing me the rest of the way. And, I’ll stick around for the last four months of my placement, perhaps staying on longer if Ghana continues to suit my needs and fulfill my ambitions.

But not without continuing to wonder...

Who is benefiting more...?

Us or them...?

A New Year of Resolutions

The beginning of 2008 has, so far, proved to be a time of new beginnings and inevitable change.

Just three months into my eight month stay in Ghana as a journalist trainer with Journalists for Human Rights, (JHR), I have already changed placements and my residence.

One week ago I began volunteering with another newspaper, having resigned from my initial position before Christmas break. (I am intentionally omitting names to save face.)

Why you ask?

In short, the editors were uncompromising, the reporters too busy or disinterested to look up from their computers and the environment highly political. Human rights issues were claimed to be of importance to the paper, but weeks after producing four human-rights related stories with one reporter (who is not actually a writer, but rather a photographer) I was instructed to work alongside, only two were published. To top it all off, one of the stories ended up in the paper riddled with errors made during the editing process and in my absence.

That was the last straw for me. With every avenue turned and twisted down, in addition to many suggestions voiced and ignored, I was beat, my motivation stomped out. Following a final meeting with my JHR country director (there were several), a new placement was settled upon for my remaining five months in Ghana.

Now, the chance for a fresh start in my JHR role, to perhaps approach things differently with what seems like a more enthusiastic group of reporters and most definitely a more responsive editor. If I’ve learned something over the last few months, it’s to stick it out and stick around. Let the reporters see you are present in the newsroom with or without something to do and get the conversations rolling even if they range from China’s presence in Africa and the future of oil in Ghana to whether you have a husband waiting for you back home and when you’ll be available for “personal, intimate intercourse.”

In addition to easing into a new newsroom, just four days ago I moved from my four-bedroom, two-storey home on the Labone/Labadi border, to a much tinier three-bedroom bungalow in south Labadi. I now live with two of my fellow JHR trainers, Alison and Hannah, who have become not only my very dear friends but ultimate confidantes. Alison and I both decided to move from that two-storey house after Hannah, who had been looking for a place to live for a month, tracked down our new home in the exact area we were hoping to live, minutes away from our previous residence. It was not the location we wished to abandon. In fact, I will dearly miss that dirt road, strewn with dried or burning sewage and those groups of children calling out “Sofia!” each time I pass by.

What I won’t miss is the nit-picking about how much milk and laundry detergent I am using, the constant reminder that money is owed or needs to be spent, or those discussions about unresolved issues including the biting and barking guard dog and crying children with the family next door have. All that has suddenly ceased and I am no longer sitting on the porch for hours at a time, contemplating, complaining and chain-smoking. (Well, I have to admit, I am still chain-smoking)

My anxiety has diminished. My heart settled. And, I can breathe again, despite still having yet to recover $810 worth in rent money, find a new tenant to sublet my room for the next three months and negotiate with both the landlord and his lawyer.

On a side note, some of you may be wondering why this is the first work-related blog I have written since I arrived.

All of you who so graciously made generous donations and provided moral and emotional support to get and keep me in Ghana certainly deserve to know, not just how life, but how the JHR role is going.

Well, it’s been a struggle to say the least. But, despite having days where I feel useless and just want to return home, I have renewed hope and rekindled motivation that I can make my JHR role work here in some way.

Before I departed for Ghana, I claimed to have little to no expectations. I was lying, and only to myself.

Without expectations, there is no hope, no drive, no desire to pursue anything new and persist through it all when challenges inevitably arise.

I am back at square one, wondering how I will feel at the end of all this? Whether after eight months in Ghana I will feel satisfied with the work I have accomplished and life I have led? Or, perhaps I will just have started to claim my ground here, wishing to continue on in a similar or entirely new role.

Life in Ghana is good, whatever mishaps or bloopers I have stumbled upon.

Already there is an endearment and love for this country and its people too difficult to describe.

A part of me can’t ever imagine returning to lead that same life back home.

Another side can’t possibly see myself here indefinitely.

Just another contradiction I am dealing with and working through in Ghana, Africa.

A Vulgar Christmas in Volta

Unlike I predicted in my pre-Xmas blog, it wasn't Banku, Fu Fu or Kenke that filled my tummy to the brim on Christmas Day, but a good ole' fashioned chicken, prepared the good ole' fashioned way.

That's right folks back home, who buy their meat tightly wrapped in Styrofoam and plastic wrap or select it from behind that clear, clean glass at the local butcher, my Xmas companions and I caught, slaughtered, and cooked a live chicken, the Ghanaian way on Christmas Day.

Here's how the story goes...

After a rather lengthy, and I might add, bumpy journey to the Volta Region, up 2, 224 feet through the mountains to the village of Amedzofe (which means 'origin/home of humanity'), my JHR mate Hannah and I united with our other JHR crew members, Alison and Brennan, as well as our Ghanaian Rasta friend, Hassan.

The ride up was in my description, terrifying, swerving from one side to the other along the twisting, pothole-ridden, dusty, dirt road just as the sun set. And the sun sets fast here in Ghana due to its close vicinity to the equator.

Before we knew it total darkness had settled in. That however, did not deter our taxi driver from taking those roads full speed ahead, at one point traveling head on with another vehicle until I called out in a panic "There is a car in front of you, move over", while Hannah giggled "Small, Small", a common Ghanaian phrase, that usually makes me laugh. After swerving back over to the right and almost landing in the ditch my sense of humour, however, like my breath, was knocked right out of me.

After a couple swigs back of Cardinal (strawberry liquor) bought along with other Xmas alcoholic beverages at Ho market, where we journeyed from Accra, I was feeling a little warmer and calmer inside. And, the chain smoking began.

Expectantly, the cab driver did not know exactly where our guesthouse was located and we were almost dropped off at the Amedzofe (teacher) Training College, which has become a landmark since being built by German Missionaries in 1880. Despite the late hour, it was still in session. When we were asked whether we were here for the training course, we knew we were in the wrong spot. Like most willing-to-help Ghanaians, two hopped in the cab, escorting us to the actual location of our guesthouse.

Our guesthouse overlooked Gemi mountain, which bears a huge cross erected by the same German Missionaries. The location was stunning, though the view was skewed as the Harmattan season has now settled in creating a foggy mist over the entire country as sand blows off the Sub-Saharan desert. We however, arriving at night, would have to wait until the morning to feel the chaos of Accra fully vanish from memory and the serenity of Amedzofe settle in. Some Banku and groundnut soup at the local chop bar, a couple of STAR beers and my best night sleep in weeks sped up the process.

It was Christmas Eve the next day and we awoke about 8 a.m. to find a bucket of water outside of our door. The running water that was flowing out of the taps the night before had dried up. So much for escaping the bucket baths for a few days over Xmas vacation. From that point on I decided to leave my hair alone, without washing or combing it for the entire stay in Amedzofe. My potential dreads were a tiring conversation right through Xmas day.

Drinking coffee, well actually instant Nescafe with Ideal condensed milk and sugar, each morning on the guesthouse balcony overlooking Mount Gemi, with the echoes of drumming and dancing from villages below, was one of the main highlights for me in this tiny village.

So, too, was the video camera I had just bought off my sub-letter roommate, Stephanie, who was looking to sell and get rid of as much stuff as possible before heading home to Michigan. It was not only the conversation about my potential dreads that drove everyone nuts, but perhaps my constant pressing of the record button.

"Turn that camera off!", Hannah shouted repeatedly ... though I know she and all the others will feel differently once they receive a DVD capturing their first and perhaps most memorable Christmas in Ghana.

A late morning visit to 'downtown' Amedzofe, where we bought fresh bread, tomatoes, onions, eggs, groundnut paste (similar to peanut butter but without the sugar and scooped out of a big bucket into a tiny plastic bag) from the market and juice boxes from the local chop bar, was followed by breakfast back on that balcony. Cooking was done in the family kitchen. It was as though we were spending our vacation in a local Ghanaian home rather than a guesthouse.

The rest of our Christmas Eve was spent climbing to the top of Mont Gemi. About a half hour journey that burned the thighs and shortened the breath considering my increase in cigarette consumption due to their absurdly cheap price (80 cents/pack) and my entire lack of exercise, despite a few yoga sessions a week, since I arrived in Ghana three months ago. We took several photos of each other on the cross and sat overlooking the villages below for about an hour before making the trek back down, which although less tiring on my legs was more harsh on the ankles as I attempted to lock my grip into the sliding earth beneath my feet.

At the base of the mountain we were stopped by a elderly Ghanaian man, with deep set wrinkles and watery eyes, who claimed to run the mountain's tourist office. He led us into a canopy covered area, proceeded to show us age old photos of his trips around the area with other visitors and crumpled brochures advertising other guesthouses, the nearby waterfall, hiking and cycling trips. An elderly woman, perhaps his wife, in a dirty smeared dress, knelt, leaning her elbows upon a bench, hands in prayer position, muttering whispers to the lord above. Alison dropped 1 Cedis into the wooden donation box and we were off on our way.

We returned to the guesthouse with the intention of heading out again to see the Amedzofe waterfall, but time ticked by and complacency and relaxation set in. Before we knew it the sun was also setting in the hazy sky and the first beer of the day was cracked and shared between us. Before the booze made our heads hazy, Hannah and I decided to kick off a yoga session, during which Hassan joined, while Alison and Brennan shot video and photos of the attempt to partake in physical activity.

The evening approached. Where and what to eat for dinner wasn't a challenging choice considering the only chop bar open was the same as the night before, serving Banku yet again. This time, however, it was palm soup instead of groundnut.

Beers flowed at our picnic table that night. So much so, that we pushed that table to the side to create our own dance floor, which Hassan took over with the rhythm and soul of any African drummer and village boy, as he calls himself. Hassan was born and raised in Bolga (or Bolgatanga) - one of the farthest locations north in Ghana.

Whether it was the rising volume of music or the fact that four Whities and one Rasta were making a spectacle of themselves, word spread and soon at least a dozen Amedzofe residents, many of them children, were gathered around gawking. Some joined in with a little coxing, while others stood wide-eyed or giggle- infested as we all jived to Ghana's top 10 (including Akon's Don't Matter, Rihanna's Umbrella, Beyonce and Shakira's Beautiful Liar), which seems to be played no matter where in the country you are.

The evening shutdown early once the crowd dissipated and we decided to head back to the guesthouse. We sat overlooking the mountain, moon and stars above, polishing off the bottle of Cardinal and another of an Irish creme liquor, similar to Bailey's. During our late night gathering, Hassan admitted to having drunk several rounds of Apeteshi (very harsh local Ghanaian schnapps or `firewater`that tastes like turpentine) on our behalf that night. Subsequently, he was carried up the hill and into bed. Following a defunct game of Truth or Dare, we also hit the hay.

Christmas Day finally arrived, but it certainly didn't feel that way. I pulled out the video camera mere minutes after opening my eyes, filming Hannah groggy lying in bed, then Hassan and Alison already up, having taken a an early morning walk ... then Brennan dressed and ready to start the day as he joined us during coffee on the porch.

I can certainly say it was like no other Christmas morning I had ever experienced. There was no Christmas tree with piled-high, scattered presents, no children with glee and wonder in their eyes as they tore through to find out what Santa had brought them, and no snow glistening upon the ground or chilly air to inhale as I stepped outside. No the hazy heat was more than apparent, the village quiet as we scrambled to find breakfast goodies, and the only wonder in childrens' eyes was as to what we were doing wandering their dusty streets at such an early hour. My video camera rolled and camera flicked as we passed by two young sisters in their Christmas best, a man balancing a chainsaw on his head with ease and various other Amedzofe colour.

The best was however, yet to come.

A quiet morning at our guesthouse, led to a brainstorming session between Hannah and I as to how we could make this Christmas extraordinary ... to share with folks back home. Food was of course on our minds and we contemplated where to find a turkey, how to make stuffing on a gas stove rather than in an oven and the timing of it all considering it was getting on into the afternoon. Then a light bulb went off between both of us.

Chicken, of course, is similar to turkey. And, we've seen plenty of them running around Amedzofe's dusty streets. Why not buy a live chicken, kill it, cook it and eat it? Of course, I am not sure how serious we were when we actually brainstormed the idea, but when it was brought up to Hassan there was not a look of shock or surprise in his eyes. This village boy had slaughtered chickens, goats, even cows many times. He was ready when we were.

So, off we went trekking back into town, Hassan leading the way, and I with video tape in hand.
First stop was finding the live chicken. He asked around and finally we were led to a property where a lady showed us frozen chickens in a freezer. Though this could have been our way out from the entire killing process, we refused explaining we wanted a live one. There were a few running around the property and, though confused, the lady pointed to a black one.

Before we knew it Hassan had chased the bird down, lunging forward twice before successfully grabbing it by the abdomen, as the bird squawked and struggled, as if she already knew her fate. Hassan then flipped her upside down holding onto her by the feet. The bird`s heart beat ferociously beneath her feathers, her eyes bulging and breath short. Hannah and I looked at each other with guilt and fear in our eyes, while Alison and Brennan took turns passing the bird back and forth, taking photos. The video camera, perhaps how I kept my sanity, was still rolling.

Then it was my turn to hold the chicken ... I surely couldn`t miss this once in a lifetime opportunity Her heart having quieted down and breath slowed, I grabbed the feet from Alison's hands, while Hassan took a photo. Seconds later the bird squawked and struggled and Hannah let out a loud scream, as I tightened my grip, my heart now racing. She thought it would be funny to peer into the bird`s eyes for the photo`s sake. I quickly passed the chicken back to Hassan and that was the last physical contact I had with it, while it was alive anyway.

After picking up several other items including onions, tomatoes, hot peppers, traditional spices for Hassan's homemade Ghanaian stew, we made the trek back to the guesthouse with the help of a local, who carried a very heavy crate of beer on his head and Hassan still clutching the now sedate chicken by the feet. Other villagers we passed by along the way gawked, perhaps amazed at the site of four Whities, a Rasta and a live chicken.

Hassan wasted no time once we arrived home. The knife was sharpened across the guesthouse's concrete wall, a hole dug in the earth to catch the blood, a bowl of water collected from the kitchen. All the while the chicken, who was now named Mel, held still, awaiting it's mortal fate. Alison was elected to hold the neck when Hassan did the cutting ... while Hannah, the photographer, me, the videographer and Brennan, plain and simply the observer, waited on the sidelines.

Without going into too much gory detail ... and there was plenty in the slaughtering process. Hassan cut the neck and then threw Mel off to the side to die. It took several minutes for death to take over and Hannah and I were disgusted that it was prolonged instead of quick and painless.

"That's the way it's done," Hassan stated emotionless.

From there came the draining of the blood, the de-feathering and gutting, during which we found out Mel was pregnant. Once again Hannah and I were disgusted, saddened, guilt-stricken, while Hassan simply threw the tiny, underdeveloped eggs into the stew. At this point, having viewed the entire slaughtering, gutting and chopping process through a video screen, nausea took over and I returned to the porch for a break, a beer and a cigarette. If I was going to eventually eat this chicken, I needed some distance from this grueling process.

Less than an hour later, the sweet, warm smell of Mel marinading in spices permeated from the kitchen onto the porch. Hassan was rushing to and fro, a chef at work. Alison, Hannah, Brennan and I relaxed on the porch, watching the sunset, listening to Bob Marley over and over again on the tiny, ghetto blaster, which thankfully blocked out the out of tune Xmas carols from the multi-coloured musical lights decorating the porch window.

Dinner was served and shared with the guesthouse family at about 8:30pm. We all took turns scooping out the plain white rice and bright red chicken stew onto our plates. We sat around the porch table, making a toast to the Rasta`s hard work and Hannah and my brilliant idea. Mel's crispy head balanced on Hassan's white rice. It was a delicacy, of course, and he was welcome to it, as far as I was concerned.

The stew was excellent, rich in flavour, spice and oozing in palm oil - but I was getting used to that. The chicken on the other hand, though tasty, had more bone than meat. Nothing on those thick chicken breasts from Bruno's I remember barbequing and eating at my cottage in Muskoka years ago.

Though quite an experience and an Xmas Day never to be forgotten, witnessing the catching, slaughtering, de-feathering, gutting, chopping and cooking of a chicken, I could take or leave.

As one fellow Canadian said me when I returned to Accra after Christmas break ...

"Remember where you came from."

And, where I come from, chicken is bought in a grocery store or butcher, nicely wrapped, with the slaughtering process out of view. Somehow, I think I am okay with that. In some way, I think that's just fine.

But for those of you who aren`t sure, or who are perhaps chicken slaughtering curious, the entire process is captured on video for your viewing pleasure.

Happy New Year, everyone!