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
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