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.

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.

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.

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)