She's a Ghana

Home Bitter Sweet Home

2008-08-01T17:09:00.000-07:00

Been home now two weeks.
Feels more like two months.
Memories of my nine and a half months in Ghana, eight of which were spent working with Journalists for Human Rights (JHR), come in flashes ... already feeling like ancient flashbacks, though some situations occurred less than a month ago.

I remember the devastating feeling in the pit of my belly as I said a sad goodbye outside Accra's Kotoka airport on July 16. Tears streaming down my face, my breath taken away by overwhelming sobs.
Fear enveloped me.
Fear of losing what I was leaving behind. Apprehensively questioning what could possibly lie ahead once back upon my homeland, Canada.
The anxiety hasn't ceased.
Only wish, instead of doubting, I could embrace this erratic and insecure transitional time in my life. After all, following resigning from a full-time job with salary plus benefits, and signing up for my JHR adventure in Ghana last July, what should I expect?
But the question "What are you going to do now?" referencing various areas of my life keeps creeping up in my mind and naturally out of the mouth's of everyone I meet; like a chilly, breathy whisper in my ear.
A clear "I don't know." is all I can say.
Is that okay?
In between the consistent "I don't knows" I have experienced much for the first time all over again.
Toronto's incredible skyline and shimmering high rise buildings hanging over me as I venture up Bay Street from Union Station. I gaze up awestruck like a true first-comer to any major city should do.
The rush of suits swerving around me, briefcases swinging, stone cold eyes staring ahead intently focused upon the minutes left to hop and squeeze onto that 905 GO-TRAIN. I struggle to keep up with that, once normal, rapid pace.
The realization during a bike ride that Toronto's east end boardwalk is actually quite beautiful on a warm summer's day and the beach isn't strewn with black polythene bags, or feet away from a clearly visible dumping ground, nor is anyone completing their morning constitution along its sidelines.
The odd use of the English language from a dinner party ... describing an overpriced bill as obscene and brutal. What are the true definitions of these words and is the feeling of being ripped off worthy of their use?
Then there's the 'typical' Toronto attitude encountered when a TTC (Toronto Transit Commission) streetcar driver rudely refuses a ticket bought before I left the country. I mouth back much, screaming out a sarcastic "Welcome Home to Toronto, Ontario!" for all on board to hear.
And, in contrast, the ultimate comfort in visiting adored family members, dear friends, respected former co-workers; sharing a memory, a West African experience, a joke, hug, perhaps a few tears. The realization just how much they were all missed.
Yes, it's been two weeks.
And, I am biding my time.
The cliche of reversed culture shock has settled in, as I attempt to settle back in.
I don't have a job.
I am broke. Dirt broke.
My 2007 taxes haven't been filed.
I have no where to live that I can call my own.
My 30th birthday falls in just over two months.
And, as of now, I don't have a return date to the country I just left and yearn for again in so many, many ways.
But, I'm okay.
I'll be okay.
And, isn't this how I planned it anyway?

NOT IN THEIR BACKYARD - E-WASTE IN GHANA

2008-05-27T07:55:00.001-07:00

Agbogbloshie Market in Accra is a massive dumpsite where tons of electronic waste (e-waste), most of which is exported and shipped from western nations, is delivered each day from Tema Port.

Billowing black smoke can be seen blanketing the grounds from the market’s chaotic entrance, where a myriad of people go about their day-to-day business surrounded by piles of obsolete computers, broken televisions, rusted refrigerators, air-conditioners and old car batteries .

Children as young as eight years old right through to the elderly lug, rifle through, dismantle and burn this toxic material with bare hands, feet and skin exposed and mouths unmasked to resell the debris to make a meager living.

Breaking, smashing, tearing apart and bagging the waste or setting ablaze flame-retardant wires to extract strands of copper is the daily, 12 to 15 hour grind these workers tolerate. Deadly chemicals and carcinogenic agents including bromine, lead and mercury released into the atmosphere are absorbed with every breathe leaving them vulnerable to health defects such as chronic headaches, respiratory ailments, skin and eye infections, burns and other, sometimes fatal, diseases. Eating, sleeping, drinking, defecating and other day-to-day duties all occur on the same grounds. Wages depend solely upon the weight of the debris and copper collected.

“All these toxic metals bio-accumulate. They persist in environment and human body and can even be present in breast milk fed to babies,” explains Environmentalist Mr. Mike Anane, who is spearheading a campaign, "Stop the Exportation and Dumping of Toxic Waste" alongside the United Nations Environment Programme (UNEP). “(Workers) are opening up their bodies to carcinogens, cancers and a lot of ailments as they grow older. They make something but it is nothing to die for.”

Most labourers come from Northern Ghana, while a minority migrate from neighbouring countries including Cote D’Ivoire, Togo and Burkina Faso, in hopes of an improved way of life. Many of the children, unable to afford an education, leave their villages on their own in an attempt to garner money for school fees or to help support their families. Left to fend for themselves on the city streets, hope to return home prevails. However, years may pass before they do; if they ever find a way.

“They say ‘we need money to go to school, for clothing, to buy food’,” says Anane. “’We know the work is damaging to our health, and we can’t run as fast but we have no choice.’”

If the health and safety hazards or human rights violations upon these labourers and surrounding residents in the area are not enough to raise eyebrows, then consider the toxic waste that enters directly into the Adore River and Korle Lagoon, which flow around the dumping grounds, through the city and into the ocean. Furthermore, envision this during a tropical downpour. Imagine cattle and sheep grazing upon the site and ending up on citizens’ dinner plates.

The market could be viewed under the guise of a recycling plant, as broken plastic is bagged, delivered back to Tema Port and shipped to manufacturing plants in China, while bundles of copper are sold to various local electronic agents for re-use. Some may also argue that the site provides a source of employment and a means to survive for thousands.

“There is some positive side to it ... People are making a living and using cannibalized parts to do business,” says Mr. William Abaidoo of Ghana’s Environmental Protection Agency (EPA). “However because of the inability to manage hazardous parts ... in 10 to 15 years what is the essence? The long term (health) effects are incalculable.”

According to the UNEP an estimated 20 to 50 million tonnes of e-waste is generated across the globe each year and 70 per cent of it is shipped in from countries all over Europe and North America landing in third-world nations. An international treaty, the Basel Convention was created in 1989 and has been signed by 170 countries, including Ghana. This treaty is meant to prohibit the transfer of hazardous waste from developed to less developed countries. But, it has yet to be enforced.

Anane describes the situation in Ghana as a “crisis.” He has been working for four years encouraging the Government to halt the import of e-waste by strengthening environmental laws and regulations. He says the international community must take responsibility for the waste generated and stop the dumping in other country’s backyards. Shipping companies and electronic manufacturers should also be held accountable.

“It’s easier and cheaper to bring the waste here. Out of sight, out of mind,” says Anane. “It is a crisis. It is immoral. It ought to be illegal.”

According to the EPA, the Ghanaian Government needs US$1.5 billion to deal with waste water, sanitation and pollution management, which is the cause of 70 per cent of diseases on the African continent. The agency claims it is aware of the e-waste problem and says action including setting guidelines, standards, as well as taking an inventory of the situation on the ground, will take place “as soon as possible.”

“As an agency we view the e-waste situation as emerging,” says Abaidoo. “If you say it’s a crisis then you are saying it has gone beyond epidemic proportions ... The number of Ghanaians engaging in dismantling computers is negligible, so you can’t describe it as a crisis. A crisis is the cyclone in Burma.”

As for when action will take place. “It takes time,” explains Abaidoo. “We don’t want to conjecture because we may be telling lies and heightening the hopes of people.”

On that note, lets take a closer look at what is actually happening on the ground at Agbogbloshie Market and where you’re discarded keyboard, fax machine or washing machine may have ended up.

Abudullah Haffiz smashes computer debris to get to the copper-filled wiring. The 27-year-old from Tamale, the capital of Ghana’s Northern Region, works a 12 hour day at the market and receives about CDN$2 for every kilogram of copper he collects. He has made a living at the dump site since he was a teenager and often suffers from a cough and headache.

A pile of printers and other metal waste lies along the main path leading into market. This is a common sight throughout the dumping ground.

Much of the e-waste has confidential information attached including names, companies, addresses, even phone numbers of their origin destination. Wonder if David Griffith, member of the Alliance Industry Association (AIA), realizes where his broken washing machines end up. Perhaps someone should give the Washing Machine Man a call to find out.

Two teens hammer off the insulation of a refrigerator. Step two
will involve breaking through the plastic to extract copper wiring.

Ibraham Abdul-Rahaman White uses a broom to burn a piece of metal, while sheep graze and residents play football in the distance. The 19-year-old, who has never been to school, came to Agbogbloshie Market from the north with his brother. He is aware of the negative health impacts but says he is trying to make a living.

Here is a closer look at a group of sheep grazing on the dumpsite. Rotten food, feces, computers parts and other toxic material is what they ingest. These sheep may be slaughtered and their meat then sold at local markets.

Kwaku Nyaba from Bolgatanga in Ghana’s Upper East Region, collects debris off the ash-ridden ground to assist with the burning of wires, while other teen labourers and their family members work in the background. The 16-year-old has been working at the market for one year and on a good day earns about CDN$3 a day.

These pieces of debris are a great source of copper once the metal is burned off. Positioned this way speeds up the burning process.

A bag of wire collected by 16-year-old Kuaku Nyaba is ready for burning to extract copper. The colourful flame-retardant material surrounding the wire is highly toxic. Notice the burn scars on the Nyaba's hand (left).

This three-year-old girl helps out by using a piece of Styrofoam as kindling. Immediately after this photo was snapped she threw it into the fire. Her sister takes care of her while selling water on the grounds.

Once debris is bagged and copper collected it is weighed on this scale and labourers are paid accordingly. The average daily wage is about CDN$3 per day.

When Nature’s Call Becomes a Health Hazard – Public Toilets in Ghana

2008-05-23T08:27:00.000-07:00

By: Felicity Boachie-Danquah, Daily Dispatch and Sophie Nicholls, JHR

For Rita Adjetey using a public bathroom daily isn’t a choice, it is nature’s call.

The mother of two, who lives in a Labadi neighbourhood near Accra’s Trade Centre, wished she had a private toilet and shower inside her home but her family cannot afford the installation costs.

“We are making do with this until we have the money to build our own,” she says. “We wish the government would come to our aid, but they are not coming.”

Mrs. Adjetey is just one of thousands of Ghanaians, living in both urban and rural areas, who rely upon public toilets that are far too often seeping, spilling and smelling. According to a June 2006 study, Behavioral Indicators of Household Decision-Making and Demand for Sanitation and Potential Gains from Sanitation Marketing in Ghana, 58 per cent of adults across the country are queuing up daily to use these facilities, while 65 per cent of are dissatisfied with where they have to defecate.

Luckily for Mrs. Adjetey the facility she uses, which is open 4:30am to 9pm, is fairly well maintained. The 10 toilets are cleaned once a day and five showers once a week. Entrance costs are standard at about 10 cents to use the toilet or shower, about 5 cents to empty chamber pots, while a wad of toilet paper or piece of newspaper are free. Queues are only experienced during morning and evening rush hour, as people head off or return from work.

Despite this, Mrs. Adjetey feels a dent in her wallet after paying about 12 GHC a month to use this facility. She is even charged to empty her children's potties.

“It’s very costly,” she admits.

But what choice does Mrs. Adejtey have?

According to Mr. Demedeme Naah, Director of Environment and Sanitation with the Ministry of Local Government, although public toilets are meant for the floating population, it is actually illegal to erect such structures in neighbourhoods due to the health implications. He feels people are now relying upon them instead of focussing on ways to implement domestic toilets into their homes.

“People say they can’t afford it but I don’t want to accept that,” he says. “I think having a toilet in the house is not a priority because they have access to public toilets. They think, why worry ourselves?”

Public Washroom owner, Mr. Samuel Amant Tetteh, however, believes that if it was not for his facility, which was erected a year ago for about Cdn$200, Labadi residents would still be defecating openly in a park across the street.

“I was trying to help the community. People used the park and it’s unfair,” he explains, adding that some residents even defecated on the streets. “Some people used to come and spoil the place. Human beings can be difficult. If you say you are going to help the community you have to have patience.”

The problem gets deeper when looking at legal facilities located in local markets and public transport terminals, such as Kaneshie and Makola. According to Mr. Demedeme these are so poorly maintained that some patrons remove all their clothing before entering.

“(Public washrooms) are an eyesore and a public health hazard,” explains Mr. Demedeme, who recommends they be washed down twice a day, morning and evening. “The problem is keeping them well-cleaned. People go in and some end up contracting diseases.”

Children using public toilets or defecating outdoors are at even greater risk. According to a March 2005 study, Journal of Health & Population in Developing Countries, conducted in the Accra Metropolitan area, children who were sharing a toilet with more than 10 families had a higher incidence of diahrrea (30.4 per cent) and dysentery (53.6 per cent). Just over 24 per cent of diarrhea cases were reported from children whose families participated in outdoor defecation.

So, whose responsibility is it to make sure the public washroom facilities are legal and adhere to proper health standards?

According to Mr. Demedeme, the private sector took the mantle in 1999 when a National Environmental Sanitation Policy was established by the Ministry of Local Government and Rural Development. This sector is now responsible for 80 per cent of waste management services, while the assemblies and municipalities are left to make sure all runs smoothly and according to policy.

“It was the responsibility of the Metropolitan, Municipal, and District Assemblies to take care of public toilets and bathrooms in the country, but they seemed to be non-performing,” he explains. "So, in early 2000, the private sectors were encouraged to put up such structures and pay franchise fees."

Owners like Mr. Tetteh, who pays about Cdn$15 in taxes a month to the Accra Metropolitan Assembly (AMA), are now responsible for collecting monies, cleaning, recruiting labour and paying the franchise fee. According to Mr. Tetteh, it’s all about the cash.

“AMA did not help me,” says Mr. Tetteh. “They just collect the money.”

Mr. Demedeme agrees that financial gains have become the main focus. He says owners are more interested in the profits from patrons than maintenance, while assemblies are busy collecting their fees and failing to monitor facilities through inspections and assessments.

“The biggest problem we have is enforcement of laws,” admits Mr. Demedeme, adding that it is actually law for every property to have a domestic toilet and illegal for people to openly defecate.

“People won’t do it (break the law) if they know they can’t get off scot free.”

On the Ministry’s side, Mr. Demedeme admits his office plays a key role in ensuring policies are implemented and assemblies, the private sector, even citizens are living up to their responsibilities.

“We are also not doing our part well,” he admits. “But it is all because of the constraints we have in the system ... time, logistics and personnel.”

Despite all these constraints, the government still hopes to have domestic toilets installed in 90 per cent of Ghanaian households, with the remaining 10 per cent of the population using hygienic public washrooms, by 2020. Pan (bucket) Latrines and open trench latrines are also to be phased out and replaced with flush toilets by 2010.

If these aspirations, inspired from the Millennium Development Goals (MDGs), are to be met, then efforts will have to be doubled, according to Mr. Demedeme. “Doubling means a lot more than education and enforcement,” he says. “But we are getting a lot of support from our developing partners to try and push us to do so. “

In the meantime, citizens will keep queuing up, paying out and stripping down when nature calls.

A Trip to Togo - Full of Chaos & Corruption!

2008-05-08T09:04:00.000-07:00

The tumultuous journey began on a Saturday afternoon in April amidst the chaos of Accra’s Tudu station. Hawkers selling everything from pure water sachets to fake gold watches trampled upon trash, huddling around the air-conditioned, Ford minivan, that my Ghanaian traveling mate and I were lucky enough to board as soon as we stepped out from a taxi.

We were Togo bound, via the Aflao border, to update my one-year, multiple-entry Ghanaian visa, and I was feeling confident that since we had found comfortable means of travel so easily the journey would go smoothly. Even the music selection, a Lucky Dube cassette, was to our liking. I bought chocolate milk, sat back, sipped and smiled. The mini-van even filled to capacity with other passengers quite quickly, and we were heading across Greater Accra within forty-five minutes of leaving home in Labadi.

As we flew along the traffic-free Accra-Tema motorway, I quadruple checked that I had all potentially required documents. Passport, check, Visa Extension receipts, check, copy of Journalist for Human Rights (JHR) contract (the Canadian organization I work for) check, proof of Yellow Fever vaccination, check ... I think that just about covers it.

All was going as expected - with ease -that is until we reached the outskirts of Sege –about half way between Accra and Aflao. Coming up ahead of us was a motorbike carrying two passengers, zooming along the middle of the lane, instead of to one side, as is typically practised here in Ghana. The minivan honked, once than twice, but the motorbike didn’t budge to the right. In haste, our driver began to overtake, and despite having a clear oncoming lane, he left mere inches between the motorbike and minivan. I looked right through the passenger window, and my belly flipped when I saw how close those two humans aboard the bike were to our vehicle. Thump, my heart jumped to my throat, and nausea set in as I swiveled my head around to see the moto swerve onto the shoulder and both men tumble off the bike onto the gravel.

Our minivan came to an abrupt halt, but only after passengers in the back began yelling at the driver to do so. We returned to the accident scene to find one badly scratched up driver, his arms and legs stripped of skin, oozing blood. The other rider was in worse shape. He sat crumpled in a ball on the ground, shaking. Palms bloody, hopping on his slightly twisted right leg, somehow he made it, with assistance, into the minivan’s front seat.

The plan was for our driver and all passengers to travel with the injured to the nearest hospital. There was no calling for the police and ambulance or waiting around for a report and investigation to take place, as is standard and the legal way in my home country, Canada. Instead, my friend, who is an experienced moto driver, and I hopped on the bike and followed the minivan onwards.

This part of the journey ended about 10 minutes later along a dirt road in what appeared to be the middle of nowhere. My friend and I pulled over to where the minivan had stopped, hopped off the bike, and entered into an argument between the driver, passengers and the injured, as to what to do next. It was only then that I realized my friend had been wearing a helmet splattered with blood.

Finally the passengers, including ourselves, were given a partial refund for our fare and left on the side of the road to find our way back to Sege, to find alternate transportation to Aflao. The minivan driver was left to get the injured to the hospital; that is if they didn’t pursue a threat of stopping by the police station first.

After walking a few kilometres and being ignored by several passing cars, we were all snatched up by an empty tro-tro . The driver and mate delivered us to the main road and within an hour of the accident we were back on another tro-tro on our way to Aflao.

But the adventure had only begun. This driver had never traveled to Aflao before, so instead of taking the shortcut along a recently paved road, he took another pot-hole ridden route, which had the vehicle dodging and swerving at top speed, with the brakes slamming throwing use forward every so often. If that wasn’t nerve wracking enough, the ride that should have taken an hour-and-a-half took three hours, and there was a fear the border might close early on a Saturday.

Luckily, it didn’t, and our arrival at just before 6pm gave use plenty of time to get through before the gates closed at 10pm.If the rat race at Tumu station isn’t enough to challenge one’s sanity, the one at Aflao border certainly is. As soon as an ‘obruni’ steps out of a vehicle here, those “ready and willing” to offer advice, show you the ropes, help you exchange Ghana Cedis into CFA (Togo’s currency) are at your feet, grabbing your shoulders, pulling your shirt and yelling in your ear (for a small dash or two). So much for thinking having a local Ghanaian along for the ride would ease the hassle.

First stop was Ghana Immigration Service (GIS). Sounds simple, but try finding which gate to pass through, who to show your passport to first and what building to enter to get to the office, while pushing through a crowd of Togolese and Ghanaians, all trying to do the same thing at the exact same time. This in itself took about 10 minutes of, eventually abruptly, telling ‘guides’ were we fine on our own and following the correct directions of the official GIS men in uniform.

As is standard, a lengthy form had to be filled out at the GIS office by both myself and my Ghanaian counterpart. Only problem was, he didn’t have his passport on him and was now unable to find his I.D. card. After a few minutes in panic, there it was tucked and zipped inside his money belt. Sigh of relief and roll of the eyes from me as crossing the border on my own was simply not an option at this point. Though asked why he did not have a passport, my friend’s I.D. card seemed to prove sufficient, for the GIS anyway. With forms filled I approached the GIS desk, only to be reprimanded by one officer for the fact that I had over-stayed my stay in Ghana by 15 days since my last extension.

“You have violated the state of Ghana” said one guard to me in an authoritative voice.

“Yes, I know” I responded squeamishly.

"Are you prepared to accept the penalty?” he added.“I have to do, what I have to do.” I responded hesitantly.

After being reprimanded a second time by another officer and realizing my innocent, wide-eyed, clueless expression wasn’t working, I accepted the financial consequences paying a month plus a month penalty fee (40 GHC for Canadians). We were then free to move on to step two - crossing the Togolese border.

Back into the rat-race we scurried, once again to be harassed by ‘guides’ who pulled us this way and that towards the final GIC barrier. My friend and I were split up into two separate lines. I passed by with ease as there were no other foreigners; the guard simply looking at my passport and waving me through. My friend, however, had a longer line to contend with ... a mix of Togolese and Ghanaians pushing each other aggressively forward to see who could make it through first. He made it but not before arguing with the guard as to why he had to pay 1 GHC to do so. Resentfully, he gave in when he saw everyone else was paying. This was the beginning of corruption at its best.

Part B of step two - getting my visa for Toga (my friend being Ghanaian did not need one) – created more confusion. We didn’t know which way to turn next and were completely ignoring anyone who tried to assist us. Plus my friend was still angry about having to tip off the guard. So angry, that he approached some other GIS guards to ask them about it only to be told they had nothing to do with it, refusing to admit whether the request was right or wrong.

"You must deal with the guard you gave the money to," one guard responded.

At this point I was exhausted, sweaty and bewildered, leaving me to contemplate whether hopping back across the Ghanaian border and heading back to Accra might be the best option. But, I had to get the Togo visa before even thinking about doing so.

There was yet another barrier to pass through and my friend and I were divided again, me passing with ease, he having to wait in a chaotic line-up, as another Togolese guard demanded money from Ghanaians and his fellow citizens. This time, however, the fee was in CFA; 1,000 CFA to be exact, which is about 2.4 GHC. Standing on the other side of this barrier waiting for my friend, I had no idea what was going on, nor where to go to get my visa. So, I returned to him, only to find out how much more he had to pay. An argument ensued and yet another barrier presented itself. The Togolese guard would only speak French, ignoring any phrases or questions asked in English. My ‘working knowledge’ of French as a Canadian wasn’t going to cut it and my Ghanaian friend was, to put it simply, lost in translation.

We stared at each other eyes wide, knowing there was nothing left to do, but pay this guy off. Using a 10 GHC bill, we struggled to get exact change, forgetting that we had exchanged 100 GHC to CFA in Accra. Managing to get back 8 GHC change we moved onto the Togo Immigration Service; which was not an office but rather a sole desk placed off to the side of the chaos and monitored by two guards, who at the very least agreed to speak English.

We approached to find there was another detailed form to fill out, including the full name of my mother and father, as well as another 20,000 CFA fee to pay for the visa. This works out to about 50 GHC. My mind raced counting up the amount of money spent. After 20 minutes of contemplation and two cigarettes, I gave in, filled the form out, paid for the visa (despite my friend’s profound efforts to convince the guard to wave the fee) and watched the rest of the process unfold. My name and information were hand-written into a book with pages and pages of others who had crossed the border that day, week, month, who knows. Then my passport stamped, signed and handed back to me. I was left wondering what they will do with my mother and father’s full names.

Dusk had come and gone by the time we completed this task. We herded through the final barrier with a crooked line of others, showing our identification one last time, and entered into Lome, Togo, where we would pass the night. The idea of heading back across that border to Accra was long abandoned.

Stumbling along a bumpy, dirt path, passed Togolese market women and currency exchangers, we grabbed the first taxi, knowing - thanks to the advice of a Togolese guard - that we should pay no more than 1,500 CFA to get to the closest hotel. We reached Le Galion Hotel just after 7pm – about eight hours from the time we left Accra earlier that day – and after a quick meal crashed for the night.

Our Togo trip was to be short and sweet, as most of the money was gone and inspiration to see more diminished. I only hoped that one; returning to Ghana the next day would not be as hectic or as costly and two; that I would never have to cross the Aflao border into Togo again.

The Ins and Outs of a Smoke-Free Nation

2008-04-23T07:15:00.000-07:00

- Following the likes of other anti-tobacco laws implemented in the west, Ghana’s ready and waiting to butt out once and for all -

By: Felicity Boachie-Danquah, Daily Dispatch and Sophie Nicholls, JHR

If “Big J” has his way, Ghana will be butting out for good.

The 65-year-old owner of Bywel bar in Osu, is leading the way towards a smoke-free nation, despite inhaling the tar, nicotine, carbon monoxide and other deadly substances rampant in sticks himself for more than 50 years.

“When you come to a public place it is better not to have smoking at all,” he says, taking a deep inhale and exhale of his Rothman’s King Size. “Where there’s a lot of smoke it gets in your eyes, makes you cough. A cleaner environment keeps you healthy.”

Officially known as Jai Gulabrai, Big J recently implemented a smoking section at his bar, which is enforced by bouncers. Now smokers are restricted to lighting up along one side of the bar near the doorway. If they try to do so elsewhere, smokers are respectfully asked to move themselves over to the designated section, or head outside, as Big J does, to finish their sticks.

“I have been thinking about this a long time and gave everyone a clear indication of when it was going to happen,” says Big J, adding that he plans to ban smoking completely in his 25-year-old establishment by July. “I am setting an example. I tell them (smokers) point blank if you don’t want to come, don’t come. If you come here you obey the laws of the house.”

Other hospitality industry owners like Big J may be forced to do the same thing if a Tobacco Control Bill, drafted back in 2005 by the Tobacco and Substance Abuse Department within the Food and Drug Board (FDB), becomes law.

The bill, which has been created to protect current and future generations from the harmful effects of smoking, will regulate tobacco use in the country, restricting where people smoke and forcing smokers to do so in a more responsible way. About 20 provisions are outlined, looking to other smoke free nations including Canada and Brazil, which speak to banning tobacco advertisements, sponsorship and youth access, among others. When passed, the bill will restrict youths under 18 years from purchasing and selling tobacco and prohibit smoking in places including restaurants, bars, nightclubs, hotels, offices, and upon public transit vehicles.

“When the legislation is finally in place, there would be “dos and don’ts” stating a complete ban on smoking, but before that, there would be a transitional period,” explains Mrs. Akua Amartey, Head of the Tobacco and Substances of Abuse Department at FDB, adding she is unsure when the bill will be implemented. “Until such time ... there isn’t much we can do. We are all hoping it will pass one day.”

According to Amartey, the drafting of the bill was necessary because many citizens have expressed the desire to see a smoke-free Ghana. This is evident when certain businesses, like Bywel, and institutions, such as educational and health facilities, are taking it upon themselves to eliminate tobacco use.

“It is generally accepted that you don’t smoke in certain places and so it’s working well,” she says. “I know that lots of Ghanaians are for the passing of this bill. Why it is taking so long? I do not know.”

Big J argues that the law will not be accepted so easily, due to smokers and business owners alike crying out for their rights.

“A lot of clubs will say they are going to lose business,” he says, adding that owners will demand keeping smoking and non-smoking sections to accommodate all clients. “In Ghana it is going to take a long time ... but if you do it, bit by bit, it’s like a slow poison.”

Manager of restaurant and lounge, Venus, in Osu, Axmi Conjahy, is one such owner, in complete disagreement with a smoking ban and feeling that it would negatively impact business.

“You don’t need someone telling you to put your cigarettes out,” says Mr Conjahy, who is also a smoker. “We have seating where people feel comfortable. I am not going to be like a school teacher and say ‘no, (don’t smoke) here, you’ve got to go outside.’”

Another smoker agrees, admitting that he has chosen to live in West Africa for the last 38 years because of the lax smoking laws.

“I would never accept it. I cannot enter a restaurant if I can’t smoke because when I am in the middle of eating, I want to have a cigarette,” says 51-year-old Robert Cowen. “If I stop smoking, I am finished.”

Venus, which was recently renovated, has both a smoking and non-smoking section, with three extractors, which cost between $50 and $300 each, to help clear the air.

“We realize some clients do prefer to have a non-smoking area,” says Mr.Conjahy. “We are putting a couple of (non-smoking) signs up. We have to respect others.”

But according to Mrs. Amartey, smoking and non-smoking sections, even with extractors, don’t clear the air enough to eliminate all the negative effects of second-hand smoke. Just like in smokers themselves, short term impacts include breathing difficulties, coughing, eye irritation, headaches, nausea and a runny nose or sneezing. The long term impacts include upper and lower respiratory tract infections such as bronchitis, Emphysema, heart disease and cancer of the Lungs, larynx/oral cavity/oesophagus, liver or pancreas. Pregnant Women who inhale second hand smoke also expose the harmful gases and chemicals, like cyanide, carbon monoxide and nicotine, to their unborn babies.

“I don’t agree with dividing part of the place ... that doesn’t work,” she says. “Anytime you smell the cigarette you are indirectly smoking. The air is always circulating.”

“I think smoking should be banned because when you’re in an environment where someone is smoking you’re inhaling it,” adds one non-smoker, Sowee Sanes, who frequents many bars in Accra. “You get a sore throat, your eyes burn and especially in the morning you feel the phlegm.”

Beyond patrons, there are also the rights of employees, who are inevitably exposed and affected by second-hand smoke, to consider.

“I don’t think smokers have any rights. I think they should keep their smoke to themselves,” says Kay Estherman, a bar manager in Accra, who fully supports the smoking ban. “It’s up to the establishment, but I don’t think that smokers should expect to light up where they want.”

Miss Estherman, a former smoker, who suffers from burning and tired eyes, stinky clothing and a raspy throat on the job, now finds herself lighting up the odd cigarette to deal with it.

“It makes it easier. I notice it less if I smoke,” she admits. “I choose to work in a place where there are smokers, so I have given up my right.”

Mr. Conjahy agrees adding that employees know the conditions before they begin working in the hospitality industry.

“It’s a fact of life,” he says. “They know what they’re in for before they decide to take the job.”

Though Mrs. Amartey agrees that smokers have the right to smoke, she says not at the expense of others. She advises tobacco users to act more responsibly.

“Smoking is your right but don’t let the unfortunate victims smoke your smoke,” she says, adding that one person’s smoke can affect thousands. “When people get sick as a result of other people’s smoke, it becomes a drain on the country’s resources. It therefore, behoves on smokers to watch their actions so that innocent people and unborn children are not killed through second-hand smoke.”

Although bill has been waiting three years to pass, the FDB are pushing anti-smoking messages, including that every cigarette smoked reduces life by five to twenty minutes, to the public in other ways. Training sessions with the hospitality industry have taken place promoting the need for smoke-free facilities. This year 100 Junior High Schools (JHS) across the country’s 10 regions will be visited to educate youths on the harmful effects of tobacco and other substance abuse. Amartey believes that with the right information, youths can make informed decisions. Targeting students before they proceed to Senior High School (SHS) is important since pressure to engage in negative acts is strongest.

“By the time they start SHS they will be able to tell right from wrong when they are away from their parents,” she says.

Coming back to Big J, the bar owner supports FDB’s activities, adding that targeting youth is the key to securing a smoke-free future in Ghana.

“It’s about getting the young ones not to even start smoking,” he explains. “They don’t know the damage it does. With us old ones the damage is done.”

According to the 2000 Global Youth Tobacco Survey (GYTS), 19 per cent of students in Junior Secondary Schools (JSS) were using some form of tobacco and five per cent were smoking cigarettes, while a Finnish National Public Health Institute study in 2004 estimated that 17 per cent of Ghanaian youths were smoking cigarettes. A 2004 US Census Bureau estimated that 22.3 per cent of Ghanaians were using tobacco.

SAFE SANITATION - THE ONUS IS ON GHANAIANS!

2008-04-21T06:23:00.000-07:00

Constant awareness and an attitudinal change amongst Ghanaians is the key to tackling this nation's grave sanitation problems.

A recent visit to the Labadi community by myself and a Daily Dispatch reporter revealed how some conscientious and innovative residents are attempting to live cleanly, acknowledging that a dirty environment is not created on its own.

Clearing out the gutters along a busy section of La Road is one way Ms. Cecilia Onyame and her family are dealing with their community’s sanitation problems, which range from garbage infested laneways and overflowing sewers to refuse running into the ocean and defecation along the beach.

Five of Ms. Onyame’s relatives unite once a week to shovel sand and scoop out litter, including dozens of plastic water sachets, discarded clothing and rotting food, to prevent the gutters lining their homes from clogging. The garbage is delivered to a public dump site down the street along the beach, while the sand is used for construction.

“It’s a worry to us. (Clearing the gutters) is not our responsibility,” said Ms. Onyame. “But, we can’t sit in the dirt and wait for the authorities to come and help. Because we sell her we don’t want the place to look dirty.”

Their practice began about five years ago, and since then sanitation has improved in the area, so much so, that according to Ms. Onyame, the street no longer floods during heavy rains.

“Initially, the gutters were choked. Now, in general, the sanitation problems have been minimized,” said Ms. Onyame. “Since we are taking the garbage out frequently the water moves freely down the gutter.”

Another Labadi resident, Timothy Nyaqortey Molai, whose family of about 20 live on a property beside Tawala Beach, keeps his living environment clean in other ways.

Twice a month jerry cans, which store water when pipes run dry, are washed out with detergent. When the taps are flowing, water left over in the jerry cans is quickly used up or discarded. The jerry cans are then refilled with fresh water. Garbage is collected and, though not advisable, burned along the beach, as there is no litter pick-up in the area.

“To keep the beaches clean is very tough unless the authorities step in,” he said. “I see the pollution of the beach the responsibility of the whole nation.”

When asked whether he worries about the quality of the water flowing from his tap, which serves about 20 other people in his community, Mr. Nyaqortey Molai claims not.

“Sometimes when it first starts flowing from the tap it’s dirty, but we just wait for it to clear,” says the 32-year-old father of one, who once contracted typhoid from contaminated water. “I don’t worry.”

Although Ms. Onyame and Mr. Nyaqortey Molai realize that ensuring proper sanitation is also a government duty, they share in the responsibility to clean-up litter and recognize that a dirty living environment can negatively affect one’s health.

It’s an attitude Mr. Robert Van-Ess, Director of Technical Services for the Community Sanitation and Water Agency (CWSA) believes needs to spread, not only across Accra, but the country.

“There is a personal responsibility to keep the environment clean...,” he says adding that open defecation and the discharge of raw sewage and refuse into rivers, streams and oceans are key sanitation issues in Ghana. “Don’t litter and live a healthy life to contribute to the development of the country.”

Some residents, however, may not be getting the message.

According to a report recently aired on TV3, residents in an Osu neighbourhood, claim their water supply was contaminated by insects causing several people to fall ill. Though they are blaming this upon poor water quality, could it be their sanitation practices, or lack thereof, that caused the problem?

Based upon CWSA’s recommendations, it could be so. Disinfecting and keeping lids on water containers, jerry cans and Polytanks; boiling the water that is used to wash dishes; discarding water that has been standing stagnant for more than a week; and washing hands regularly with soap can all prevent illness and ensure a healthy living environment.CWSA, which focuses on improving sanitation practices across Ghana’s rural communities where more than 50,000 Ventilated Improved Pit Latrines (VIP) have been set-up so far, also suggests digging and burying refuse instead of dumping and burning it indiscriminately.

“In the end, if your environment is littered with all kinds of rubbish it’s you who is getting sick ... it’s you who is spending money at the hospital,” explains Mr. Van-Ess.

He adds that spreading the message is more challenging in urban areas such as Accra. In rural areas there are less people with more time to listen, while city’s are chaotic, more densely populated and bigger waste producers.

“Because they are more cosmopolitan you have all kinds of people with all kinds of mindsets,” he says. “Everyone is running from place to place, unlike in rural areas where people are available.”

His recommendations to local government, which he says suffers from a lack of staff and resources, include dividing Greater Accra into zones and getting people on the ground to educate residents, showing them the ins and outs and dos and don’ts of hygiene practices.

“Bring the message to the people ... it takes constant interaction,” he says. “Over time they can change their behaviour and appreciate the issue.”

Currently, Ghana’s major cities including Accra, Tamale, Sekondi, Takoradi and Tema generate 3,200 tonnes of garbage per day. Two-thirds of this refuse is either discarded in public dumps, dumped indiscriminately or burned.

Psych Hospital - Home for mentally-challenged children?

2008-03-17T04:36:00.000-07:00

-Reflections after a recent visit to the children’s ward at Accra’s Psychiatric Hospital with a reporter from the Daily Dispatch newspaper -

Standing in front of the children’s ward at the Accra Psychiatric Hospital a flurry of excited voices can be heard from behind a large, wooden door.

The noise is similar to that heard at a playground.

Beyond the door however, the scene is quite different. There is no slithering down slides, swings swinging or teeter-totters tottering.

Instead, fourteen children living with various mental and physical disabilities, including mental retardation, polio, epilepsy and hunchback, are scattered across the barren, concrete grounds. A potent stench of vomit lingers in the background.

One boy stands staring intently at his hands, twitching his fingers in front his eyes. Another leans against a wooden post, his body folded in half as he rests his entire torso along his legs. The child is apparently completing his daily exercises.

A woman, known as YaYa, who is 46-years-old with the mental capacity of a toddler, sits hunchback along a bench, head bowed. When approached she lifts up her face to boast a huge toothless grin. She is the ward’s eldest patient and has resided there for 28 years, after being dropped off by her mother. Her condition supposedly developed after she fell from a bed at three months old.

According to nurse, Christie Brown, the number of patients in the children’s ward has doubled since she began working at the hospital five years ago. The majority are either dropped off by family members or found abandoned outside. Nurses name those who are unidentified, based upon the day and nature of their arrival. For example, one boy was named Kofi Strike because he brought in on a Friday during the nurse’s strike, while another girl was named Ama Peace because she was brought in on a Saturday by PEACE FM.

“Their future is unknown because they are here,” explains Miss Brown, adding that staff has to plead with parents to visit. “We have taken them on as our own children, so they also love us. We don’t reject them.”

“It’s a big problem, they become hospital property, they die off, they have nowhere to go,” says the hospital’s Medical Director, Dr. Akwasi Osei, adding that he aims to treat his patients and send them home. “They are not really supposed to be here. We are not supposed to house mentally retarded people.”

Though the children’s ward may seem chaotic, the nurses (there are at least two on duty in eight hour shifts, with two assistants, at any given time) appear calm and the children follow a regimented daily routine. They are awake and eating breakfast by 7:30 a.m., lunch is at noon and following playtime and dinner, bedtime arrives early at 6:45 p.m. There are about three children to a room and each has their own bed.

Food served includes cocoa, rice and ‘wakye’ (aka. wocheh). There is even a school on the premises staffed by specially-trained teachers through the Ghana Education Service. About half the children attend daily from 8 a.m. to 2 p.m., while the others remain inside the ward.

According Dr. Osei, each child costs hospital about US$5.00 per day. Social Welfare provides about 60 cents per patient/per day for food, while other necessities including clothing, toiletries, medicines, toys and a TV (which is rarely watched) are provided by the hospital itself or NGO donations.

When asked what would happen to these children if they released back into society, Dr. Osei explains that given the stigma in Ghana surrounding the mentally handicapped and that they have been deserted by families, the hospital is the best place for them.

“If not here, they would be abandoned in town,” he says. “This place is the lesser of two evils for them.”

Alexander Tetteh, National Administrator for the Ghana Society of the Physically Disabled (GSPD), disagrees, insisting these children have basic rights just like any other human being.

“It’s just like living in a prison. It’s very discriminatory against their human rights,” he says. “Children with disabilities are not a curse. It’s not a crime.”

Tetteh identifies with the parents’ struggle explaining that not only are there no support services in Ghana for mentally disabled children and their families, but there is also the pressure from other family members and communities, who reject these children and those who conceive them. His suggestions include educating society and providing families with facilities that offer assistance and advice on how to successfully raise mentally-challenged children.

“It’s the government’s responsibility to take care of the vulnerable,” he says. “(Mentally disabled children) can be rehabilitated and reintegrated into society and society can benefit from them. No human being is useless.”

Link to JHR Site

2008-02-20T07:22:00.000-08:00

Please visit www.jhr.ca and link to the "Foreign Correspondence" site to see what else I have been up to in Ghana.

Just search my name to pull up the postings

Some of the them overlap with my blog, but others don't.

Thanks to all you avid readers back home!

A First for Everything

2008-02-19T05:57:00.000-08:00

Not far beyond the borders of Wa, in Ghana’s Upper West (Northern) Region, lies a village named Ullo.

The road to Ullo is a thick layer of red dust, with bumps to brace and grinds to swerve around rendering the motorbike as the best and most common form of transportation used to get there. On the back of one is how I traveled to Ullo earlier this month, with a Ghanaian friend of mine who was born and raised there.

The Karnie market lies halfway between Jirapa – the closest major town from Wa - and Ullo. Deep fried balls of dough sprinkled with salt and various kinds of roasted meat seem to be the most common items sold here. Sachets of pure water are not so common, so I settled for a bottle of Coke. This market visits Ullo once a week to sell goods to locals without means to travel beyond their village borders.

Upon entering the village, the Ullo Naa’s palace lies to the right. The grounds are large, adjacent to a mosque with a bright yellow concrete, roofless public urinal labelled in red "male" and "female". There is also a well for pumping water.

On the palace property, which includes various concrete structures where Chief Salifu, his wives and family live, stands a grand Baobab tree. Legend says that the late chief fought over a woman, chopping off another suitor’s family jewels and hanging them upon this tree to display that he had indeed won the battle and a wife.

The population of Ullo is at most a thousand and the dusty serene streets lie peaceful come sunset. Upon my visit there, not many graced the streets at this time but a few curious but sceptical children, who rarely see foreigners, and a couple of men roasting a recently slaughtered pig, selling its bright red meat, ears, feet, intestines by the roadside.

Ullo has one bar called No Food For A Lazy Man, which sells the West African standards including STAR, Guinness, and Club as well as a locally brewed liquor available in tiny sachets - similar to take away Chinese food soya sauce packets - called Goal. Goal tastes like fermented sugar cane and makes your head ache and eyes squint with each sip.

It was at No Food For A Lazy Man that I met Solomon and Sylvester, about 7 and 5 years old, who live somewhere just behind the bar. Both children wore mismatched, ill-fitting clothing. Solomon a filthy green and black striped T-shirt with beige pinstriped polyester short; Sylvester a girl’s pink woollen button-up sweater and plaid wool pants that were inches too short. Solomon was barefoot. Sylvester was lucky enough to have pink slippers (flip-flops) that oddly matched his sweater. Their foreheads, mouths, legs and hands were caked with dried mud. Beneath Sylvester’s sweater was a bloated belly, like those seen in World Vision infomercials. Long straight scars, in the design of a star, extended from his large round protruding belly button.

The two children huddled together across the bar staring incessantly and squirming and giggling each time our eyes made contact or I smiled and waved a “hello” or “atumo”, in their language. Eventually, I suggested that they join us and two seats were pulled up beside me. Sipping casually on my beer and inhaling frequently on my cigarettes, it quickly dawned on me that neither child had anything to drink, so I offered them soda. My offer, which was translated, was accepted with shy smiles.

Eyes were wide, and lips tightly pursed, as they took the first few gulps, gripping onto the glass bottles as if that was the last drink they’d swallow in their tiny lifetimes.

And then to my dismay, I discovered ... it was the very first time they'd tasted Coke.

The sugary, syrupy, caffeine-infused drink, which I refuse to serve my little sister, niece and nephew back in Canada, was chugged down in minutes and a drunken glee followed.

Soon three more children had joined Solomon and Sylvester and all five of them jived before me to Bob Marley crackling out from the blown speakers. One shirtless, soiled boy disappeared, returning a few minutes later, pulling on one of his best shirts.

The dancing continued ‘til dusk, when I joined them.

Then darkness and thoughts of the ride back to Wa on the rear of a bike along a lightless, bumpy dirt road set in.

The children, some of whom had already dispersed, gathered by the bar’s gated entrance, as I hopped on that bike and a handful of wave’s goodbye sent me off.

As quickly as I arrived in Ullo with a trail of dust to follow, I was departing leaving a trail of dust behind. But, somehow I know that's not my first and last visit.

A spit from the truth

2008-01-28T09:12:00.000-08:00

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

2008-01-09T07:11:00.001-08:00

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

2008-01-09T07:11:00.000-08:00

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!

A Christmas Story

2007-12-20T03:59:00.000-08:00

I am about to celebrate my first Christmas away from my family.

Since I was born, Christmas has always been spent with at least one blood relation ... be it the winter skiing trips with Dad, the annual midnight mass services with Mom, the 17 course British Xmas meals (with 4 types of potatoes and 8 vegetable dishes) at my Auntie Mary and Cousin Phillipa's or the soothing, Wine Gum, KitKat and Smartie filled Xmas visits to England with my Bompa and Yvonne.

For me, family has always been a staple, perhaps even a necessity, at Christmas time.

This year, I find myself in a place surrounded by people, traditions and situations completely unfamiliar to me. With no snow and soaring temperatures the Xmas tunes I hear blaring in Koala supermarket and Sharpnet Internet cafe seem so totally out of place. The tacky sparkling streams of red and green tinsel, artificial Xmas trees and strings of coloured lights sold on dusty street corners are plain odd. And, those few cards I just picked up at Makola Market yesterday took all my energy just to find, let alone write, stamp and send.

The only reason I am truly willing to accept that it's Christmas, is because of the recent phone conversation I had with my mom as I listened to all her plans over the next week. Nostalgia has officially set in as I imagine her home decorated - the tiny tree in the bay window and Christmas cards from friends and family hung along the wall; the feeling of cold air filling my nostrils and snow crunching beneath my feet; the light in their eyes as my nephew, Jonathan, niece, Emily, and little sister, Molly, rip open their presents on Christmas Day at my older sister' s home in Dundas, Ontario; and the taste of sweet stuffing, juicy turkey and a good glass of red wine, instead of the cheap two dollar stuff I buy now at the Goil gas station.

Ahhh ... where's Christmas I beg you?

I am looking for it as I make plans to head up to the north with my Ghanaian friend, Roxy, who has offered to show my JHR pals and I what life is like on the other side of the country. Hoping to let go of this nostalgia, I plan to experience a Christmas celebration completely different from any I am used to. Why look for the familiar when you can embrace the strange?

So, perhaps I'll devour bitter Banku, Fufu or Kenke instead of that juicy turkey and sweet stuffing.

Maybe I'll sip upon tangy Palm wine instead of that bold, red Shiraz or Cabernet Sauvignon.

And, likely I'll skip along hot sand or drip sweat strolling down a dirt road rather than trek through the snow and tip toe to avoid slipping on the ice.

Afenhyia-pa (Merry Christmas) all!

Learning to flow

2007-12-20T03:14:00.000-08:00

Water flows right?

You turn on your tap each morning and it’s magically there ... so you brush your teeth.

Next the shower; you hop in, dodging the sprays of steaming hot water, turning the cold tap up, the hot tap down, marked red and blue accordingly, until the shower head shoots out a consistently streaming, soothing temperature.

And, those dishes left on the counter from the night before; just a flip of the tap fills that sink. Better yet, load them in the dishwasher and with a press of a button they’re clean within half an hour.

Don’t forget that load of laundry; pour in the soap, throw in the soiled clothes and turn a knob, just before you rush out the door to work.

Water even flows out of sight, doesn’t it?

Yes, I remember those days well ... perhaps miss them ... and then again, not, as I realize how much I took the turn of a tap for granted.

I have been living in my comfortable abode in Labadi, Accra, without flowing water for almost five weeks now.

So has the hospital down the street. On and off for six months, relying upon the fire service to fill its tanks for an additional cost of about $50/day, when water is usually provided for free by Ghana Water Service Company Inc. (GWSC, Inc.) Surgeries are postponed, nurses lug buckets up the stairs, as there is no elevator, and patients are forced to pay to use toilets without even the means to wash their hands.

Along the dirt roads that surround my home, young girls, their mothers, even children barely out of their days as diapered toddlers, balance gallon yellow plastic water jugs filled to the brim on their heads, trekking God knows how far so dinner can be cooked, babies bathed and laundry done. Others carry ten empty jugs at a time across their backs, some even riding bicycles to destinations where taps aren’t running dry.

When I reflect upon this, the bucket baths, pouring water over my head from one small container to the next and letting the yellow mellow, only flushing the brown stuff, seem a delight. While, the search for those gallon water jugs - borrowed from Ghanaian friends – and the trek around the city to find a flowing pipe are a breeze. My roommates and I may have the means to pay up to $10 to fill our three big garbage bins with more water every few days but the manicurist, Angela, across the dirt road from us certainly does not.

So, the lights are on, but the pipes are dry. Accra has left a power crisis and entered a water shortage.

I know, I know ... it’s Africa, right? And, I, after all, expected it to be this way, didn’t I?

The confusing side of it all is that just 20 metres from my home, the ditches are full, which means water flows out of the taps down there. Our ditches, which are interconnected, remain dry, with nothing but scattered litter and moist sewage, which gets shovelled up and dumped along the side of the road every few days when it's dry. I still have yet to understand the piping system in this city.

So, why the water shortage you ask?

Well according to GWSC Inc., the Weija and Kpong Head Works, the city’s two main water suppliers, are running over capacity with the Greater Accra area demanding 50 million gallons of water each day. A $30-million project, funded by the government and private sector, will expand the capacity to 150 million gallons of water daily. Catch is ... it won’t be completed for a year and a half (Lets hope they’re not running on Ghanaian time). Until then, communities will continue to experience the on and off water supply, especially since Ghana has just entered the dry season. This should prove interesting when thousands of visitors enter Accra for CAN2008 in January.

So, as I type this latest entry sitting upon a dirty sheet crumpled up on my bed, wearing a sweaty tank top and stained pants (I have yet to another round of laundry since I don’t want to waste our water supply), I think about the day living out of a bucket of water will become normal to me.

I yearn for the day that rushing out to find gallon jugs and a flowing pipe will no longer feel like an incredible effort but rather a part of day to day life.

And, I wonder why exactly, being as spoiled as I am, I thought before I left for Ghana that these adjustments would come so easily to me?

Like water, I’m learning to flow.

Quirky things I've heard in Ghana

2007-12-06T02:57:00.001-08:00

Question from restaurant server

"What is food?"

Question from Ghanaian friend

"What's diaper?"

Comment from Ghanaian friend while unloading a bag full of African masks

"I brought you some groceries"

Common phrase used to say "what" or "pardon"

"You say?"

Called out to me on the street

"Hey, yellow hair"

Question asked to a volunteer by a Ghanaian coworker, as he pointed to porn on a computer screen

"Do you do that?"

Dialogue between volunteer (V) and host family member (HFM)

V - "I lost the key to the house, but I lost my cell phone too."

HFM - "Oh sorry (long pause). That's okay. I ate your sandwich."

V - "Okay, I guess I'll go get some chicken down the street."

HFM - "Oh, is it good?"

V - "Yes, it's good."

HFM - "Can you get me some?"

Text Message

"R u pissed to meet me, think u r so i have to quiet call u. Bye."

Comment made to volunteer by a Ghanaian coworker

"Oh, you've gained weight. Sorry."

Comment made to me by a Ghanaian coworker

"You're body is changing. And, you look really pale. Are you okay?"

Pick-up line by Ghanaian guy while I was lying on the beach

"I imagine that you must have been much, much prettier when you were 21."

TOP 15 NAMES COME ACROSS IN GHANA

2007-12-05T09:08:00.000-08:00

COUNTDOWN BEGINS ... (DRUMROLL)

15) Candi

14) Gold

13) Sparrow

12) Wonder

11) Patience

10) Confidence

9) Achievement

8) Pleasure

7) Marvin Gay

6) Barfo

5) Fortune

4) King

3) Squirrel

2) Tilapia

1) Roxy Robinson

All about Perspective

2007-11-19T06:18:00.000-08:00

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!

2007-11-05T02:09:00.001-08:00

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

2007-11-05T01:49:00.000-08:00

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

2007-11-05T01:38:00.000-08:00

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.

Living, struggling and wondering in Labadi

2007-10-30T10:46:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-25T03:42:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-25T03:17:00.000-07:00

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!

2007-10-24T08:17:00.001-07:00

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

2007-10-23T03:37:00.000-07:00

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...