i've always spend christmas with my family, until this year. but it didn't really hit me how far away from home i was until the christmas bloodletting began. most times, "bloodletting" is hyperbole.
most times.
but this is africa.
on saturday morning, i got up before the sun, sleepily dreaming of paradise in the mountains. mistake number one. i'd been told i could get a tro-tro (broken down mini-vans that leave once they're full) to ho, the capital of volta region. as luck would have it, the tro-tro left at 6am on the dot. the first time in known history anything has happened on time in ghana, and my strange, badly planned two day quest for christmas joy was underway. i got another tro-tro, and by 7:30, jammed into the rattling old vehicle with 24 other people, we were off. there was also, propetically, a live chicken in a bucket at my feet. i tried not to disturb him so he wouldn't attack me, sure he was just waiting for a chance to peck me to death.
seven hours and one transfer later, i was in ho, ready to meet up with fellow jhr trainer alison, who had gotten a ride from accra and would be arriving in an hour or two. settling down at a local spot for a beer, i joined the locals in watching the ruling new patriotic party select a new leader for next year's presidential election.
after a few hours and a detour to volta star radio courtesy of a new friend, alison arrived fresh off a car breakdown and an unscheduled trip to the wildlife sanctuary/home/craft workshop of a ghanaian friend, sensibly named crafty. i never got his real name. or maybe that is his real name. but it fits, and that's all that matters. anyway, we, along with lang's friend al-hassan, spent a few hours looking at crafty's alligators, a bouncy little monkey named ayeh, and eating a leisurely dinner.
by this time, it was 10:30pm, and the plans were unraveling fast. we lost our reservation to the mountain paradise resort and had to crash at crafty's. lang slept with the gators, i got the monkey.
the next day we got up at the crack of 10am, determined to salvage the trip. especially since we promised our two colleagues sophie and hannah that we'd easily find replacement accomodations. it would turn out to be another epic.
as we climbed up into the mountains over the steep, rutted, dusty road, it became clear that al-hassan's car was not up to the challenge. we were pushed up one hill, but suffered a flat tire soon after. the rest of the afternoon was consumed by a sweaty hike up to the next village, choking on dust, and watching al-hassan argue with a drunken incompetent who claimed to be an expert tire man. we decided one of us better get up to our destination to find accomodations and salvage the plans. a picturesque little village, amedzofe is quiet and friendly, with beautiful mountain views and no pollution. i easily found a nice guest house that we had all to ourselves, right on the edge of the mountains. lang and al-hassan arrived, and things were looking up.
we spent the first night eating banku (cassava and corn ground into paste), drinking beer, dancing and meeting the friendly locals. when sophie and hannah arrived later, we had more banku, beer and cheer. the 24th passed with relaxation, followed by hiking, more banku and drinking and dancing and laughing, topped off by christmas sparklers. it almost felt like another christmas in whistler.
on christmas day we woke up craving something a little more like home. with no turkey in sight, we decided to get chicken. live chicken. the old woman whom we inquired with led us to a freezer. we asked for a live chicken; she said nothing, but her expression said enough. "what a bunch of crazy idiots". apparently, it's somewhat rare for white people to come and ask to slaughter their own chicken. undeterred, we made the arrangements, ending up with a black chicken we christened mel gibson. in honour of jesus' birthday and mel's anti-semitic nonsense.
then came the bloodletting. just like the movie, but more feathers.
it was a surreal scene, al-hassan expertly cutting mel's throat, bleeding and defeathering him, then gutting him, aided by alison. the rest of us gaped and took pictures while, somewhat incongruously, bob marley sang songs of love and peace. it wasn't until we cut the chicken up that we realized mel was actually melanie. and she was pregnant.
but, eaten in a stew along with rice and yams, she was delicious. cirle of life. it wasn't exactly a traditional christmas, but i'll always remember it. merry christmas to all and to all a good night!
Thursday, December 27, 2007
Friday, December 14, 2007
chapter 10: “i wish i was doing that!”
what in the holy hell am i doing here?
it's dry-fest '07! i'm looking forlonly at the tap, wishing a wondeful, refreshing gush of water would come burbling out. i'm rewarded with only the sick whooshing sound of stale air, not a drop of H2O, and self-deprecating thoughts of how pathetic it is for a grown man to be depressed at the sight.
up until now, this blog has been filled with the wonderful, the odd, the adventurous and the new...some good, some bad, but overwhelmingly enjoyed. but right now i'm feeling a little less inclined to see the bright side, a melancholic mood likely brought about by lack of sleep and lately, constantly feeling sweaty, sticky and dirty.
yes, let's all feel sorry for poor, little ol' me.
so many people have commented on my radical departure with variations of “i wish i was doing that!” i'm not sorry i came for a second, but the reality of life here, and something that can't possibly be understood until you experience it, is that for someone used to the embarassment of riches canadians enjoy, it's hard. sometimes really hard. Obviously it's even harder for people here who can't spoil themselves with a nice dinner or a vacation.
i've lost track of how many days the taps at home have been dry. I think it's at least eight, but it might be more like ten. i know this: with every hopeful turn off the knob dashed, a little part of the hardy spirit in me dies. or at least shrivels up a little bit more. a few days isn't a problem. There are large buckets of water strategically positioned in the bathroom and kitchen. but after a week, we're down to the dregs, red clay-coloured water dashed with dust and dirt from the bottom of the old plastic receptacles. it means showers as i've known them no longer exist. i can wipe myself down with a few cups of the stuff, realizing i'm not getting clean and returning to my former condition only minutes later. refreshing! i idly wonder at various times during the day if i smell more like a dog, or some kind of tropical swamp beast. and i also wonder when i use my cell phone if the sweat from my head is going to short out the stupid thing and give me an electric shock.
add a broken fan and you have sleep dep for $500, alex!
but this isn't the only problem. when you get to know them, ghanaians are wonderful, and many of my interactions with strangers have been unbelievably friendly compared to the typical encounter with a stranger back home. but as fellow jhr trainer allison and i discussed when she came to visit last weekend, this can be a very uncomfortable place for foreigners, even though we are completely safe here. we are targets for people who have ideas about us. for ghanaian men, white women are thought of as an easy lay and a ticket to paradise.
if you're a white man, you can expect to be anointed the saviour of the financially downtrodden. once when i was buying a soft drink, i heard a curiously invisible voice say “buy me one.” i looked around for the source, and realized it came from a woman standing behind me. a complete stranger i'd never even laid eyes on before! no hello, no walking around into my field of vision. “buy me one,” was all she said. it took the shock a beat or two to register, followed quickly by anger. i was like a cash register. ring the bell and take the money. that's only the most dispiriting incident in a long line of them. i can count how many times i've been asked for money by kids with large, expectant eyes, or hustled by seemingly friendly strangers. it's happened so often that i begin to wonder if every meeting is going to end with me having to tell someone i won't give them some paltry some of money and feelings of anger and guilt.
it's not that i'm stingy. the amount of money requested on a case-by-case basis is practically meaningless to me. but because i'm living here, i know the problem is much bigger than the sums demanded. i think much of the scarcity since the end of formalized colonialism here can be blamed on the expectation that when africa suffers, they need only go to the network of charities masquerading as international organizations for a handout. i hate to sound conservative, but i can't lie to myself. it's not idelogical on my part, i just don't want to perpetuate a cycle of begging that i see destroying the ambition of a people who can do so much more. it creates dependency and an inferiority complex that feels like slavery all over again.
“yes, massa!”
the result is a sickening compulsion to kowtow to the oh-so-generous white man, who is NOT helping the situation. so i say to ghanaians: stop giving me your seat! stop serving me first when there are people ahead of me in line! respect yourselves, dammit!
i can't save the world. right now, all i can bring myself to do is escape into a book and wait for the dawn of a new day and renewed optimism. this is what i signed up for, and i know I'll be fine.
but i can't help but wonder if africa will be.
it's dry-fest '07! i'm looking forlonly at the tap, wishing a wondeful, refreshing gush of water would come burbling out. i'm rewarded with only the sick whooshing sound of stale air, not a drop of H2O, and self-deprecating thoughts of how pathetic it is for a grown man to be depressed at the sight.
up until now, this blog has been filled with the wonderful, the odd, the adventurous and the new...some good, some bad, but overwhelmingly enjoyed. but right now i'm feeling a little less inclined to see the bright side, a melancholic mood likely brought about by lack of sleep and lately, constantly feeling sweaty, sticky and dirty.
yes, let's all feel sorry for poor, little ol' me.
so many people have commented on my radical departure with variations of “i wish i was doing that!” i'm not sorry i came for a second, but the reality of life here, and something that can't possibly be understood until you experience it, is that for someone used to the embarassment of riches canadians enjoy, it's hard. sometimes really hard. Obviously it's even harder for people here who can't spoil themselves with a nice dinner or a vacation.
i've lost track of how many days the taps at home have been dry. I think it's at least eight, but it might be more like ten. i know this: with every hopeful turn off the knob dashed, a little part of the hardy spirit in me dies. or at least shrivels up a little bit more. a few days isn't a problem. There are large buckets of water strategically positioned in the bathroom and kitchen. but after a week, we're down to the dregs, red clay-coloured water dashed with dust and dirt from the bottom of the old plastic receptacles. it means showers as i've known them no longer exist. i can wipe myself down with a few cups of the stuff, realizing i'm not getting clean and returning to my former condition only minutes later. refreshing! i idly wonder at various times during the day if i smell more like a dog, or some kind of tropical swamp beast. and i also wonder when i use my cell phone if the sweat from my head is going to short out the stupid thing and give me an electric shock.
add a broken fan and you have sleep dep for $500, alex!
but this isn't the only problem. when you get to know them, ghanaians are wonderful, and many of my interactions with strangers have been unbelievably friendly compared to the typical encounter with a stranger back home. but as fellow jhr trainer allison and i discussed when she came to visit last weekend, this can be a very uncomfortable place for foreigners, even though we are completely safe here. we are targets for people who have ideas about us. for ghanaian men, white women are thought of as an easy lay and a ticket to paradise.
if you're a white man, you can expect to be anointed the saviour of the financially downtrodden. once when i was buying a soft drink, i heard a curiously invisible voice say “buy me one.” i looked around for the source, and realized it came from a woman standing behind me. a complete stranger i'd never even laid eyes on before! no hello, no walking around into my field of vision. “buy me one,” was all she said. it took the shock a beat or two to register, followed quickly by anger. i was like a cash register. ring the bell and take the money. that's only the most dispiriting incident in a long line of them. i can count how many times i've been asked for money by kids with large, expectant eyes, or hustled by seemingly friendly strangers. it's happened so often that i begin to wonder if every meeting is going to end with me having to tell someone i won't give them some paltry some of money and feelings of anger and guilt.
it's not that i'm stingy. the amount of money requested on a case-by-case basis is practically meaningless to me. but because i'm living here, i know the problem is much bigger than the sums demanded. i think much of the scarcity since the end of formalized colonialism here can be blamed on the expectation that when africa suffers, they need only go to the network of charities masquerading as international organizations for a handout. i hate to sound conservative, but i can't lie to myself. it's not idelogical on my part, i just don't want to perpetuate a cycle of begging that i see destroying the ambition of a people who can do so much more. it creates dependency and an inferiority complex that feels like slavery all over again.
“yes, massa!”
the result is a sickening compulsion to kowtow to the oh-so-generous white man, who is NOT helping the situation. so i say to ghanaians: stop giving me your seat! stop serving me first when there are people ahead of me in line! respect yourselves, dammit!
i can't save the world. right now, all i can bring myself to do is escape into a book and wait for the dawn of a new day and renewed optimism. this is what i signed up for, and i know I'll be fine.
but i can't help but wonder if africa will be.
Friday, December 7, 2007
chapter 9: love letters
things i love about ghana:
things i miss about canada:
*little sounds people make constantly:
"oh!"...used to express surprise.
"eh!"...used to express surprise, anger, or any number of things.
"ah!"...frustrated resignation, disapproval.
"heeey"...happy surprise, like when an obruni correctly uses the local language.
*"thank you"...excited agreement during a 'discussion'. comes out more like tankyou
*"i'm coming"...translation, i'll be right back, please don't go away. in the local language, often expressed as "brahbrahbrah"...literally, i'mcomingi'mcomingi'mcoming
*everyone gets a nickname. mine, for reasons i'm not really sure of, is "papa sly"
*ghanaians love a good hug
*the warm, fragrant evenings, filled with the noise of crickets, frogs, birds and other animals
*you can always get a taxi
*you can leave the house with the ghanaian equivalent of ten dollars, take a cab to town, have lunch, a beer, buy a pineapple, take a cab home and still have change
*everything comes in doubles. if you want a small bottle of beer, it's not small, it's smallsmall
*the names. my jhr colleague sophie has compiled her own list, (http://shesghana.blogspot.com/2007/12/top-10-names-ive-come-across-in-ghana.html) but i'd like to add the following:
2pac
smiler
justice
gifty
fefe
gold
jewel
things i miss about canada:
*servers who actually serve
*hockey
*snow
*tap water
*showers
*stores with clothing in my size
*seats on all toilets
*anonymity
*businesses who have change readily available
*the ability to make reservations
*sidewalks
*canadian time
*the expectation of a fair shake
*not being constantly asked for money
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
chapter 8: jesus christ!
“blah blah blah praise jesus, blah blah hallelujah amen!”
i have mistakenly wandered onto a rolling sixth ring of hell. or heaven, i'm not really sure. either way, there's no escape.
disclaimer: if you are a born-again christian, don't understand sarcasm, or have no sense of humour about your religion, you should stop reading now. fair warning.
everywhere i go in ghana, i hear about god. or jesus. for fellow minions of satan out there, he was apparently some sort of saviour who dabbled in carpentry.
i've never really had a problem with christians before. i left them alone, they returned the favour. we both liked it that way. we had a deal, dammit! but it seems to be void here. the magic daddy in the sky is everywhere. on taxi dashboards and back windows, on tro-tros, on signs outside all manner of businesses. Every day on the ride into work, a billboard reminds me jesus is coming back, and am i prepared? hell no! the invocation of the holy name is so frequent and casual, i`m not sure even the big guy would approve. “god willing, the black stars will win the african cup.” “god willing, the traffic won't delay us.” “god willing, it won't rain today.”
even the supreme being needs a break, no?
so i'm on a bus from kumasi to tema, where i'll be covering the us navy`s curious new commitment to helping west african countries secure their waters against maritime threats. after waiting an hour for the bus to depart, i settle in for a long ride, hoping to do some research and maybe get some rest. suddenly, a man who's apparently a preacher stands up and starts slinging hellfire and brimstone.
that's right kids, an impromptu sermon! wheeee!
as impromptu events go, it ranks right up there with emergency root canals and passport lineups. i'm flabbergasted. i've had my share of weird religious eperiences here, like faith healers/snake oil salesmen, (get the full story here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/index.php?view=section&iid=9447&sid=72) but the randomness of this one tops them all. i turn to my friend gloria who's riding with me and ask her what's going on. “he always does it,” she replies matter-of-factly. “for how long,” i ask. she shrugs.
with internal temperature rising, i consider my options:
1- be quiet and suck it up.
2- tell him to shut up.
3- get the slingshot out and get biblical on his ass.
option three is the most attractive, but unfortunately, i've neglected to pack my emergency giant-killing kit. i seriously consider option two, but i remember my gramma's sage advice to occasionally think before i open my big fat mouth. see gramma? i do listen! so i satisfy myself with childishly shooting the jerk dirty looks for the next hour. it has no effect whatsoever.
look, i'm not completely without spirituality, but what about my right to not have god jammed down my throat? it's a bus, not a church, and i'm a complete captive. it's one of the things that bugs me about this otherwise wonderful country. admit you don't go to church, and you can expect people to cluck disapprovingly and try to save you. i don't want to be saved, okay? that's not religious freedom, it's christianity run amok.
anyway, next thing i know the “preacher” is leading about half the passengers in the singing of hymns. the other half stare out the window blankly, presumably waiting for it to stop. and the “preacher” actually has the nerve to go down the aisle collecting money!
blood now boiling, i reconsider option three. turning my shoe into a projectile as a substitute for the slingshot is looking pretty attractive. may god have mercy on my black little soul.
i have mistakenly wandered onto a rolling sixth ring of hell. or heaven, i'm not really sure. either way, there's no escape.
disclaimer: if you are a born-again christian, don't understand sarcasm, or have no sense of humour about your religion, you should stop reading now. fair warning.
everywhere i go in ghana, i hear about god. or jesus. for fellow minions of satan out there, he was apparently some sort of saviour who dabbled in carpentry.
i've never really had a problem with christians before. i left them alone, they returned the favour. we both liked it that way. we had a deal, dammit! but it seems to be void here. the magic daddy in the sky is everywhere. on taxi dashboards and back windows, on tro-tros, on signs outside all manner of businesses. Every day on the ride into work, a billboard reminds me jesus is coming back, and am i prepared? hell no! the invocation of the holy name is so frequent and casual, i`m not sure even the big guy would approve. “god willing, the black stars will win the african cup.” “god willing, the traffic won't delay us.” “god willing, it won't rain today.”
even the supreme being needs a break, no?
so i'm on a bus from kumasi to tema, where i'll be covering the us navy`s curious new commitment to helping west african countries secure their waters against maritime threats. after waiting an hour for the bus to depart, i settle in for a long ride, hoping to do some research and maybe get some rest. suddenly, a man who's apparently a preacher stands up and starts slinging hellfire and brimstone.
that's right kids, an impromptu sermon! wheeee!
as impromptu events go, it ranks right up there with emergency root canals and passport lineups. i'm flabbergasted. i've had my share of weird religious eperiences here, like faith healers/snake oil salesmen, (get the full story here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/index.php?view=section&iid=9447&sid=72) but the randomness of this one tops them all. i turn to my friend gloria who's riding with me and ask her what's going on. “he always does it,” she replies matter-of-factly. “for how long,” i ask. she shrugs.
with internal temperature rising, i consider my options:
1- be quiet and suck it up.
2- tell him to shut up.
3- get the slingshot out and get biblical on his ass.
option three is the most attractive, but unfortunately, i've neglected to pack my emergency giant-killing kit. i seriously consider option two, but i remember my gramma's sage advice to occasionally think before i open my big fat mouth. see gramma? i do listen! so i satisfy myself with childishly shooting the jerk dirty looks for the next hour. it has no effect whatsoever.
look, i'm not completely without spirituality, but what about my right to not have god jammed down my throat? it's a bus, not a church, and i'm a complete captive. it's one of the things that bugs me about this otherwise wonderful country. admit you don't go to church, and you can expect people to cluck disapprovingly and try to save you. i don't want to be saved, okay? that's not religious freedom, it's christianity run amok.
anyway, next thing i know the “preacher” is leading about half the passengers in the singing of hymns. the other half stare out the window blankly, presumably waiting for it to stop. and the “preacher” actually has the nerve to go down the aisle collecting money!
blood now boiling, i reconsider option three. turning my shoe into a projectile as a substitute for the slingshot is looking pretty attractive. may god have mercy on my black little soul.
Wednesday, November 14, 2007
chapter 7: chop chop!
as another steamy day dawns in ghana, neighbours and strangers alike are greeting eachother, i`m preoccupied with thoughts of the day's work, and somewhere, everywhere in fact, the sleazy engine of corruption is kicking into high gear. yes, it's another average day in the land with a gift for the casual grift.
corruption and bribery has been a big part of the scintillating debate leading up to next year`s presidential election, and it`s not hard to tell why. from the highest levels of government right down to the mundane aspects of life we take for granted in canada, people are being greased in return for looking the other way, or simply doing their jobs.
recently, a road that connects my house with my route to work was the scene of a small bridge collapse, adding 20 minutes to my commute and worsening kumasi's dreaded rush hour traffic snarls. the local department in charge of contracting the repair work promised the road would re-open in two months. three weeks later, a huge pile of dirt remains on the road, and the work hasn't even started.
standard operating procedure.
my ghanaian friends tell me not to hold my breath. contracts are often handed to ragtag outfits who are not qualified to carry out the work. as long as they pay off the right people, they can get the contract, pocket the cash and walk away. no fuss, no muss. as a result, ghana's infrastructure, customer service at government outlets and high level government business are all pathetically inefficient. every day, there are stories where a power-that-wannabe rails against the system and promises he will not stand for the rampant corruption so common under the government of the day.
yeah, right.
there are stories about politicians embezzling taxpayers money. There are stories about officials taking kickbacks from unscrupulous businessmen. and recently, all parties supported a motion to scrap a law that, in theory, seeks to prosecute officials who cause 'willful loss to the state”. way to be accountable guys!
despite all the rhetoric about stamping out corruption, ghanaians know better. it's a fact of life here. on the bumpy ride into work over rutted, pothole-filled roads, one of my luv fm colleagues casually asks me “have the police chopped you yet?” he's asking me if i've had to bribe the cops, in much the same tone we might ask, how's it goin', eh? they'll often stop people for no reason, then delay you until you pay them a fee to fuck off. i answer no, but i'm secretly disappointed i haven't had the experience. at about this time, in full view of a group of idle police officers, a driver idiotically decides to beat the slow-moving traffic, honking a warning as he travels the wrong way up the street. somewhere, death is sharpening his scythe and licking his lips, and the cops do nothing! instead, in very unsanta-like fashion, they're staring at license plates and checking them against a list of known licensing and vehicle import scofflaws who they can squeeze for some extra sugar.
as we sit in the serpentine line of painfully slow-moving cars, my companions point to a building slated for demolition since last year. the congested road badly needs to be widened, but the owner of the building apparently has ties to the presidents's office. so his building still stands, and we sit...and sit, and sit, and sit...
how can a poorly paid civil servant possibly house, clothe and feed a family of 8, plus help out his extended family? it's a riddle i've been pondering since i got here, but not any more. “we are magicians,” one of my car-mates sarcastically chortles.
chop chop, time is money!
corruption and bribery has been a big part of the scintillating debate leading up to next year`s presidential election, and it`s not hard to tell why. from the highest levels of government right down to the mundane aspects of life we take for granted in canada, people are being greased in return for looking the other way, or simply doing their jobs.
recently, a road that connects my house with my route to work was the scene of a small bridge collapse, adding 20 minutes to my commute and worsening kumasi's dreaded rush hour traffic snarls. the local department in charge of contracting the repair work promised the road would re-open in two months. three weeks later, a huge pile of dirt remains on the road, and the work hasn't even started.
standard operating procedure.
my ghanaian friends tell me not to hold my breath. contracts are often handed to ragtag outfits who are not qualified to carry out the work. as long as they pay off the right people, they can get the contract, pocket the cash and walk away. no fuss, no muss. as a result, ghana's infrastructure, customer service at government outlets and high level government business are all pathetically inefficient. every day, there are stories where a power-that-wannabe rails against the system and promises he will not stand for the rampant corruption so common under the government of the day.
yeah, right.
there are stories about politicians embezzling taxpayers money. There are stories about officials taking kickbacks from unscrupulous businessmen. and recently, all parties supported a motion to scrap a law that, in theory, seeks to prosecute officials who cause 'willful loss to the state”. way to be accountable guys!
despite all the rhetoric about stamping out corruption, ghanaians know better. it's a fact of life here. on the bumpy ride into work over rutted, pothole-filled roads, one of my luv fm colleagues casually asks me “have the police chopped you yet?” he's asking me if i've had to bribe the cops, in much the same tone we might ask, how's it goin', eh? they'll often stop people for no reason, then delay you until you pay them a fee to fuck off. i answer no, but i'm secretly disappointed i haven't had the experience. at about this time, in full view of a group of idle police officers, a driver idiotically decides to beat the slow-moving traffic, honking a warning as he travels the wrong way up the street. somewhere, death is sharpening his scythe and licking his lips, and the cops do nothing! instead, in very unsanta-like fashion, they're staring at license plates and checking them against a list of known licensing and vehicle import scofflaws who they can squeeze for some extra sugar.
as we sit in the serpentine line of painfully slow-moving cars, my companions point to a building slated for demolition since last year. the congested road badly needs to be widened, but the owner of the building apparently has ties to the presidents's office. so his building still stands, and we sit...and sit, and sit, and sit...
how can a poorly paid civil servant possibly house, clothe and feed a family of 8, plus help out his extended family? it's a riddle i've been pondering since i got here, but not any more. “we are magicians,” one of my car-mates sarcastically chortles.
chop chop, time is money!
Tuesday, November 6, 2007
chapter 6: pure old skuul, baby!
one of the best things about ghana is the sheer joy with which the people live life. at any point in the workday, they're sure to take a break for a good laugh or just to bullshit with you, to sing and dance if they hear a good song on the radio.
i got another good example of this on saturday. it was the annual luv fm old skuul's reunion. 50 secondary schools, hundreds of singing, dancing kids and hundreds more alumni and friends, all eating, drinking and letting loose in the same place.
we got there at about 10am, well before the festivities started. they were behind schedule, as is often the case, but even at that hour, with only a few schools present, i was transfixed. yes, "somewhere in the distance i heard the pounding of native drums..."
i went to investigate the source.
the boys were more than happy to play for the camera, liberally displaying the hilarious ghanaian obsession with showing off one's gyrating rear end. they're amazing dancers, but they love to goof off even more. by 11, the place was jammed with a sea of happy folks having a great time amid a cacophony of yelling and music, all greeting each other. even me and doug, who'd come up from takoradi for the spectacle, were treated like old friends. good thing we didn't have to pass a dance test to earn this kindness. if there's one thing i've learned here, whitey should never dance if he doesn't want to provoke spasms of laughter. especially whitey with a fused spine, and therefore a noticeable lack of gyrate-a-bility.
we were a particular hit with the boys from kumasi technical institute, who proudly call themselves the canadians. they have an alliance with a technical school from saskatchewan, and many of the teachers at kti trained there. when they found out i was from the land of the maple leaf, they pulled me into their circle and danced around me as i comically goggled at the spectacle i'd become.
ghanians get up early; 4 or 5am in many cases, but they also like to party late into the night. after the skuul's reunion, everyone headed over to the kiravi night club. i was constantly bombarded with "hey! eho beye butu butu!" for weeks before the skuul's reunion, luv had been running a promo featuring me saying that line which, loosely translated, means the party will be rockin'. everyone assumed correctly that the white man in the luv fm t-shirt was that voice. i was famous.
inside, the dance floor was packed, and there was barely any room to move. a nice coincidence for someone with no moves and a reputation to uphold. another funny thing about ghanaians is that they seem to be looking for something they can't find very much of in a mate: westerners. the men say it's because ghanaian women are only interested in money, which may or may not be true for one or both genders. in either case, westerners of either gender rarely get lonely.
'nuff said.
i arrived home that night just before 4am, exhausted but full of beer and a day packed with good memories.
i got another good example of this on saturday. it was the annual luv fm old skuul's reunion. 50 secondary schools, hundreds of singing, dancing kids and hundreds more alumni and friends, all eating, drinking and letting loose in the same place.
we got there at about 10am, well before the festivities started. they were behind schedule, as is often the case, but even at that hour, with only a few schools present, i was transfixed. yes, "somewhere in the distance i heard the pounding of native drums..."
i went to investigate the source.
the boys were more than happy to play for the camera, liberally displaying the hilarious ghanaian obsession with showing off one's gyrating rear end. they're amazing dancers, but they love to goof off even more. by 11, the place was jammed with a sea of happy folks having a great time amid a cacophony of yelling and music, all greeting each other. even me and doug, who'd come up from takoradi for the spectacle, were treated like old friends. good thing we didn't have to pass a dance test to earn this kindness. if there's one thing i've learned here, whitey should never dance if he doesn't want to provoke spasms of laughter. especially whitey with a fused spine, and therefore a noticeable lack of gyrate-a-bility.
we were a particular hit with the boys from kumasi technical institute, who proudly call themselves the canadians. they have an alliance with a technical school from saskatchewan, and many of the teachers at kti trained there. when they found out i was from the land of the maple leaf, they pulled me into their circle and danced around me as i comically goggled at the spectacle i'd become.
ghanians get up early; 4 or 5am in many cases, but they also like to party late into the night. after the skuul's reunion, everyone headed over to the kiravi night club. i was constantly bombarded with "hey! eho beye butu butu!" for weeks before the skuul's reunion, luv had been running a promo featuring me saying that line which, loosely translated, means the party will be rockin'. everyone assumed correctly that the white man in the luv fm t-shirt was that voice. i was famous.
inside, the dance floor was packed, and there was barely any room to move. a nice coincidence for someone with no moves and a reputation to uphold. another funny thing about ghanaians is that they seem to be looking for something they can't find very much of in a mate: westerners. the men say it's because ghanaian women are only interested in money, which may or may not be true for one or both genders. in either case, westerners of either gender rarely get lonely.
'nuff said.
i arrived home that night just before 4am, exhausted but full of beer and a day packed with good memories.
Friday, October 26, 2007
chapter 5: am i really this sexy and influential?
day 25 in ghana dawns like any other. roosters crowing, dogs barking, kids crying, radios blaring, and your sexy hero blearily wishing he didn't have to dump cold buckets of water over his head. i'll explain the odd, seemingly random reference to my overwhelming machismo in a moment.
first, a word of explanation on the water situation. it's in extremely short supply here. most times, you're lucky to get a trickle out of the shower head, and there's no hot water. good thing hot showers aren't really needed to warm up in the morning. anyway, everyone keeps buckets of water everywhere, because inevitably, you'll need them to wash up. and with the amount of personal body moisture i'm excreting these days, i have to take a shower every day. ironically, i was never one to shower every day at home. not because i'm dirty, but out of a desire to conserve water. ironic then, that in a place that has next to none of it in comparison to canada, conservation is no longer a priority.
okay, back to my suddent conversion to irresistible adonis. since i've been here, i have received no fewer than four marriage proposals from women, and one from a man on behalf of his sister. they usually begin when i'm walking down the street or going innocently about my business:
"hello! comes the shy greeting of a smiling ghanaian woman.
"hi," i craftily reply. "wo ho to sen?" (how are you?)
"eye." (i am well) a pause. "what is your name?"
"brennan."
"where are you from," she asks.
"canada," i respond.
"we will get married?" she asks hopefully.
"sure," i say.
this conversation has taken place no fewer than four times, and once a man offered me his sister's hand. i know what you're thinking.
only five proposals?
but, try as i might, i can't convince myself i've suddenly blossomed into an object of calvin klein obsession-esque desire. no, apparently, ghanaian women and men with sisters are clamouring for a canadian mate to take them off to paradise, where they'll no doubt live like princess diana, before the unfortunate tunnel thing, of course.
that brings us to my unexpected surge in power. unbeknownst to me, i have acquired the ability to mobilize vast, static bureaucracies into action.
"you will take me home with you," they'll say. i'm not sure if this is a request or an order. i politely explain that in canada, i am a little man, and have no power over the immigration system. it rarely registers. after all, i'm a rich obruni. i can simply "convince" my government to let me naturalize whomever i please, right? have money, will travel. that's how it works here. how to explain that at home, when you get a traffic ticket, you can't pay off the police, and immigration officials can't be bribed with a mere few dollars either? no, it takes millions to corrupt our upstanding civil servants.
i avoid the non-starter of a conversation and say, "i will take you to canada," praying they'll forget by the time i go back. but in the meantime, i'm looking for a much better paying job. after all, i've got a lot of mouths to feed all of a sudden.
first, a word of explanation on the water situation. it's in extremely short supply here. most times, you're lucky to get a trickle out of the shower head, and there's no hot water. good thing hot showers aren't really needed to warm up in the morning. anyway, everyone keeps buckets of water everywhere, because inevitably, you'll need them to wash up. and with the amount of personal body moisture i'm excreting these days, i have to take a shower every day. ironically, i was never one to shower every day at home. not because i'm dirty, but out of a desire to conserve water. ironic then, that in a place that has next to none of it in comparison to canada, conservation is no longer a priority.
okay, back to my suddent conversion to irresistible adonis. since i've been here, i have received no fewer than four marriage proposals from women, and one from a man on behalf of his sister. they usually begin when i'm walking down the street or going innocently about my business:
"hello! comes the shy greeting of a smiling ghanaian woman.
"hi," i craftily reply. "wo ho to sen?" (how are you?)
"eye." (i am well) a pause. "what is your name?"
"brennan."
"where are you from," she asks.
"canada," i respond.
"we will get married?" she asks hopefully.
"sure," i say.
this conversation has taken place no fewer than four times, and once a man offered me his sister's hand. i know what you're thinking.
only five proposals?
but, try as i might, i can't convince myself i've suddenly blossomed into an object of calvin klein obsession-esque desire. no, apparently, ghanaian women and men with sisters are clamouring for a canadian mate to take them off to paradise, where they'll no doubt live like princess diana, before the unfortunate tunnel thing, of course.
that brings us to my unexpected surge in power. unbeknownst to me, i have acquired the ability to mobilize vast, static bureaucracies into action.
"you will take me home with you," they'll say. i'm not sure if this is a request or an order. i politely explain that in canada, i am a little man, and have no power over the immigration system. it rarely registers. after all, i'm a rich obruni. i can simply "convince" my government to let me naturalize whomever i please, right? have money, will travel. that's how it works here. how to explain that at home, when you get a traffic ticket, you can't pay off the police, and immigration officials can't be bribed with a mere few dollars either? no, it takes millions to corrupt our upstanding civil servants.
i avoid the non-starter of a conversation and say, "i will take you to canada," praying they'll forget by the time i go back. but in the meantime, i'm looking for a much better paying job. after all, i've got a lot of mouths to feed all of a sudden.
Friday, October 19, 2007
chapter 4: the unbearable loudness of being
it's 2:30 in the morning, and i'm suddenly jolted awake by the megaphone crowing of a rooster. i do a panicky half-turn in bed, swim to the surface of consciousness and take a quick look at the clock. it's not time to get up. i heave a sigh, equal parts relief and annoyance. damn cock! i thought they were supposed to warn about the coming of the big orange disc?
the daily routine has begun. i roll over and go back to sleep, but not for long.
every morning, the roosters tune up well before sunrise, and continue crowing until well past daybreak. they're preceded by hordes of dogs, crickets, frogs and birds, all in fine voice. and later, when the people begin to stir, they join the chorus.
in ghana, life is live and in stereo. the televisions, radios, people, car horns...everything is deafening. when my alarm sounds every morning at 6:30, i've usually been half awake for some time, dimly aware of kids crying, radios blaring and people shouting. always shouting. The walls do little to insulate me from the uproar. i have no idea what they're shouting about because they're usually speaking in twi. most times, they're not angry, just happily greeting someone walking down the street or being loud for the sake of being loud.
it's a strange position i find myself in, wishing for a few minutes of peace and quiet. being loud for the sake of being loud has always been my style, a sign that i'm in a good mood. often commented on by friends and family...my dad in particular has never been a big fan of pointless noise. he's told me so dozens of times over the years. “brennan, you're like a goddamn foghorn!” i might be loud by our polite, reserved canadian standards, but over here, i'm the quiet, timid one.
dad would love ghana.
the conduct of drivers has been a constant source of amusement to me here. it's like the horn is an extension of their bodies, and they are conductors composing a great work.
constantly.
they honk when other cars get too close, they honk as warnings, they honk at people on the streets, at night and in the mornings. and since everyone greets everyone, i can't tell if they recognize someone, or if they honk simply because it's fun.
dr. seuss anyone?
even here in the luv fm newsroom, it's chaos. on one side is a blaring radio, on the other a television. if i turn them down, someone comes around and cranks the volume again. obviously, the fact that i'm not going deaf is a mistake. and all around me, a yelling, laughing, dancing mass merrily going about the day's business. this would never happen at home. i can't believe i used to complain about the annoying static of police scanners while i was trying to write news at ctv. ha!
personally, i think it's just part of the national character. like breaking out in spontaneous song and dance for no apparent reason. and for the most part, the sheer joy of living is infectious and fun.
but having said that, it can be exhausting. i think i'll go lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes of peace.
the daily routine has begun. i roll over and go back to sleep, but not for long.
every morning, the roosters tune up well before sunrise, and continue crowing until well past daybreak. they're preceded by hordes of dogs, crickets, frogs and birds, all in fine voice. and later, when the people begin to stir, they join the chorus.
in ghana, life is live and in stereo. the televisions, radios, people, car horns...everything is deafening. when my alarm sounds every morning at 6:30, i've usually been half awake for some time, dimly aware of kids crying, radios blaring and people shouting. always shouting. The walls do little to insulate me from the uproar. i have no idea what they're shouting about because they're usually speaking in twi. most times, they're not angry, just happily greeting someone walking down the street or being loud for the sake of being loud.
it's a strange position i find myself in, wishing for a few minutes of peace and quiet. being loud for the sake of being loud has always been my style, a sign that i'm in a good mood. often commented on by friends and family...my dad in particular has never been a big fan of pointless noise. he's told me so dozens of times over the years. “brennan, you're like a goddamn foghorn!” i might be loud by our polite, reserved canadian standards, but over here, i'm the quiet, timid one.
dad would love ghana.
the conduct of drivers has been a constant source of amusement to me here. it's like the horn is an extension of their bodies, and they are conductors composing a great work.
constantly.
they honk when other cars get too close, they honk as warnings, they honk at people on the streets, at night and in the mornings. and since everyone greets everyone, i can't tell if they recognize someone, or if they honk simply because it's fun.
dr. seuss anyone?
even here in the luv fm newsroom, it's chaos. on one side is a blaring radio, on the other a television. if i turn them down, someone comes around and cranks the volume again. obviously, the fact that i'm not going deaf is a mistake. and all around me, a yelling, laughing, dancing mass merrily going about the day's business. this would never happen at home. i can't believe i used to complain about the annoying static of police scanners while i was trying to write news at ctv. ha!
personally, i think it's just part of the national character. like breaking out in spontaneous song and dance for no apparent reason. and for the most part, the sheer joy of living is infectious and fun.
but having said that, it can be exhausting. i think i'll go lock myself in the bathroom for a few minutes of peace.
Saturday, October 13, 2007
chapter 3: a stranger in a strange land (or, the obruni strikes back)
“obruni!” they shout. i've heard this before. i know it's not meant as an insult, they're just not used to seeing white people. but still, it rankles. and the constant honking from taxis and smiley catering from merchants...they even call me master sometimes. wha? they're basically singling me out, putting me ahead of their own people, because they think (know?) i have money.
“obibini!” i shout back, cringing.
they call me white person, i'm calling them black person. my basic western philosophy of political correctness warns me against it. this might earn me a beating at home. but people tell me it will earn me respect; it puts us on somewhat of an equal footing. and it works. they smile big, and i can see the surprise in their eyes, plus a small dose of admiration as well. political correctness is definitely not in play here.
i'm starting to figure a few things out.
i'll be living here in ghana for the better part of a year. the sooner i learn how to differentiate the hucksters from the real people, the better. after a day at work getting to know my fellow luv fm'ers, finding a friend, and a likely place to stay, i'm getting more comfortable.
i can do basic greetings in the local language, i've figured out how to set myself apart from the tourists. kofi, one of the dj's at the station, offers me a room in his nice, quiet place, about ten minutes from work. but we're coming from completely different angles. I'm thinking supply and demand...he's welcoming me for whatever price. i'm trying to pin him down, get him to name a figure. but he won't. he's so welcoming, and i feel like a jerk for wondering what the scam is. it could still be a scam, but every clue i have says it's not. he takes me around in a taxi driven by his friend all day. it's his friend, he explains, and they take care of eachother. he introduces me to other friends, vouches for me. i finally offer the relatively paltry sum of ghc (ghana cedis, about par with our dollar) 100 per month, and he accepts wihout hesitation. (side note: “cedi” is taken from the native language called akan. it refers to the cowrie shell, which was legal currency in parts of west africa before the europeans arrived.)
it wasn't supposed to be this way. it was suppose to be scary. africans should hate us. they'd be well withing their rights. for centuries, the west raped their land, kept them in slavery and in some ways, we're still doing it. gold mining companies from my own backyard have poisoned rivers, killed towns, made people sick and i'm waiting for the revenge. it looks like we're about to do it with ghana's rich bauxite reserves too. either they're really patient, really naive or they judge us individually, based on our character, not our history. i put the question to kofi. he explains that we can steal ghana's material riches, but we can't rob its people of their hospitality.
they seem to know what bob marley was talking about, when he said: “don't gain the world and lose your soul, wisdom is better than silver and gold.”
what a concept.
i'm still waiting for the hammer blow to fall. but i want to believe people, strangers basically, can be this generous. tune in next time. it'll either be more adventures of the incredibly naive, or more ludicrous tales from a stranger in a strange land.
“obibini!” i shout back, cringing.
they call me white person, i'm calling them black person. my basic western philosophy of political correctness warns me against it. this might earn me a beating at home. but people tell me it will earn me respect; it puts us on somewhat of an equal footing. and it works. they smile big, and i can see the surprise in their eyes, plus a small dose of admiration as well. political correctness is definitely not in play here.
i'm starting to figure a few things out.
i'll be living here in ghana for the better part of a year. the sooner i learn how to differentiate the hucksters from the real people, the better. after a day at work getting to know my fellow luv fm'ers, finding a friend, and a likely place to stay, i'm getting more comfortable.
i can do basic greetings in the local language, i've figured out how to set myself apart from the tourists. kofi, one of the dj's at the station, offers me a room in his nice, quiet place, about ten minutes from work. but we're coming from completely different angles. I'm thinking supply and demand...he's welcoming me for whatever price. i'm trying to pin him down, get him to name a figure. but he won't. he's so welcoming, and i feel like a jerk for wondering what the scam is. it could still be a scam, but every clue i have says it's not. he takes me around in a taxi driven by his friend all day. it's his friend, he explains, and they take care of eachother. he introduces me to other friends, vouches for me. i finally offer the relatively paltry sum of ghc (ghana cedis, about par with our dollar) 100 per month, and he accepts wihout hesitation. (side note: “cedi” is taken from the native language called akan. it refers to the cowrie shell, which was legal currency in parts of west africa before the europeans arrived.)
it wasn't supposed to be this way. it was suppose to be scary. africans should hate us. they'd be well withing their rights. for centuries, the west raped their land, kept them in slavery and in some ways, we're still doing it. gold mining companies from my own backyard have poisoned rivers, killed towns, made people sick and i'm waiting for the revenge. it looks like we're about to do it with ghana's rich bauxite reserves too. either they're really patient, really naive or they judge us individually, based on our character, not our history. i put the question to kofi. he explains that we can steal ghana's material riches, but we can't rob its people of their hospitality.
they seem to know what bob marley was talking about, when he said: “don't gain the world and lose your soul, wisdom is better than silver and gold.”
what a concept.
i'm still waiting for the hammer blow to fall. but i want to believe people, strangers basically, can be this generous. tune in next time. it'll either be more adventures of the incredibly naive, or more ludicrous tales from a stranger in a strange land.
Wednesday, October 3, 2007
chapter 2: hey obruni!
"hey white man, white man!" "hey obruni"...oh, they mean me. yes, i've finally arrived, after flying, waiting, flying, waiting, lost luggage, waiting and more waiting.
today, stinking in the same clothes because of aforementioned lost luggage, melting in the heat, and causing a stir with the locals.
but i'm here.
we finally got to our hotel in accra after a day that can only be described as surreal and exhausting. i slept until early morning, woken up by oppressive heat and excitement.
i took a stroll through the neighbourhood. but this is no resort. i walk among the locals, hearing shouts of the curious, the merchants, and the honks of taxi drivers. the mingled smell of open sewers and tropical air is in my nose, but strangely, it's not unpleasant.
and it's hot. oh yeah, hot.
an hour down a local road, seeing all sorts of wares for sale, some familiar (coca-cola) some not (some kind of roadside meat, which i decline)...and i'm hotter than i've ever felt. i stop to ask some local boys why it's so hot, but nobody's sweating. they point and call me fat. "you eat too much". i conceded the point with a laugh. we do eat too much.
but it's all in good fun. i'm just happy to be off the plane and living the world i envisioned a prepared for.
this is africa. (with apologies ot keelio)
today, stinking in the same clothes because of aforementioned lost luggage, melting in the heat, and causing a stir with the locals.
but i'm here.
we finally got to our hotel in accra after a day that can only be described as surreal and exhausting. i slept until early morning, woken up by oppressive heat and excitement.
i took a stroll through the neighbourhood. but this is no resort. i walk among the locals, hearing shouts of the curious, the merchants, and the honks of taxi drivers. the mingled smell of open sewers and tropical air is in my nose, but strangely, it's not unpleasant.
and it's hot. oh yeah, hot.
an hour down a local road, seeing all sorts of wares for sale, some familiar (coca-cola) some not (some kind of roadside meat, which i decline)...and i'm hotter than i've ever felt. i stop to ask some local boys why it's so hot, but nobody's sweating. they point and call me fat. "you eat too much". i conceded the point with a laugh. we do eat too much.
but it's all in good fun. i'm just happy to be off the plane and living the world i envisioned a prepared for.
this is africa. (with apologies ot keelio)
Saturday, September 29, 2007
chapter 1: getting ready to get ready
so here it is...1:13am in toronto, and i can't sleep. after a week of intercultural training, and hearing "does anyone have any questions" a thousand times (hell, yes); and, "what might the impicit message be here" (it could bloody well be anything), my subconscious is stuffed, my brain is empty, and i'm ready to throw the damn manual out and wing it.
but the questions come in waves, and i really don't have any answers.
aside from not using my left hand because it's apparently very insulting to ghanians, being eaten alive by all manner of nasty creepy crawlies, and becoming ill with some exotic sickness or other, i'm not sure of anything. in canada the only sure things are death and taxes. add to that the embarassing social gaffes of the short, foolish white man who's obviously ridiculously out of his depth, and those are the only things i'm sure of in an african context.
but despite all that, i'm ready. i've said my goodbyes, i've gleaned all the advice i could, and i've planned for every contingency i could think of.
i just hope i don't forget my passport.
come tuesday when i land in accra and step out into the african night, things will never be the same for me.
but the questions come in waves, and i really don't have any answers.
aside from not using my left hand because it's apparently very insulting to ghanians, being eaten alive by all manner of nasty creepy crawlies, and becoming ill with some exotic sickness or other, i'm not sure of anything. in canada the only sure things are death and taxes. add to that the embarassing social gaffes of the short, foolish white man who's obviously ridiculously out of his depth, and those are the only things i'm sure of in an african context.
but despite all that, i'm ready. i've said my goodbyes, i've gleaned all the advice i could, and i've planned for every contingency i could think of.
i just hope i don't forget my passport.
come tuesday when i land in accra and step out into the african night, things will never be the same for me.
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