writer on the storm: the Canada chronicles

Chapter 78: Veni, Vidi, Vici

2010-08-31T22:26:00.000-07:00

"Veni, Vidi, Vici."
-Julius Caesar

Translated, the above means "I came, I saw, I conquered." At the end of my Canadian epic, that's kind of how I feel. I've traveled more than half the circumference of the globe. That's how vast this country is. So...how to sum it up? Superlatives won't do, so here are some highlights.

-days: 50
-kilometres: 20,628
-provinces: 10
-territories: 1
-national parks: 6
-UNESCO world heritage sites: 5
-best places to wonder at the beauty of it all: Tofino and Cape Breton Island
-best place to kill your liver: Halifax
-most likely to make you feel like a rock star: Montreal
-best surprises: Alberta badlands, and Saskatchewan's Great Sand Hills
-best place to get lost and never found: the Dempster Highway, Yukon
-best views from a car: Icefields Parkway, Alberta
-quirkiest place: Newfoundland
-best place to feel like a foreigner and love it: Quebec City

And the best part is, there's still so much more to explore. Here's to next time...who wants to come with?

Chapter 77: The best kept secret in Canada

2010-08-31T21:56:00.000-07:00

I'm sure I'm biased, but before setting off on my cross-country epic, I was pretty sure the west was the most beautiful part of Canada. There have been amazing sights along the way, but I left Newfoundland more convinced of that than ever, particularly Tofino.

Suddenly a new contender entered the ring. Cape Breton island is stunningly beautiful, teeming with wildlife, both land and water-based, and compared to Tofino, it's relatively easy to find accomodations on short notice.

When explorer John Cabot arrived in 1497, he must have thought he'd stumbled on the world's best kept secret. The trail named for him winds around the top of the island, with sweeping coastal viewpoints accessible by car or hundreds of kilometres of hiking trails, overlooking waters teeming with lobster and whales.

I camped on a grassy plateau above a beach which was only accessible by a rope ladder. Being that I was the only one brave, or maybe foolish enough to climb down, I had the entire beach to myself. I took a swim, nearly stepping on a live lobster, and saw a few more at a glance. Looking out at the horizon, I spied a dozen pilot whales under a golden sunset.

It's the kind of place that would get much more acclaim if more people knew how special it is.

I'm glad they don't. It was a fitting end to an amazing trip.

Chapter 76: Near death experience

2010-08-24T18:55:00.000-07:00

Prologue:

-Wild animals sighted: Buffalo, bears, deer, foxes, coyotes, caribou and a beaver
-Near death experiences: 1

Foreshadowing!

I have seen dozens of animals during the last seven weeks, but the moose have been invisible. I've seen a female, but not the more impressive male. Insert joke here.

Upon entry into Gros Morne National Park in Newfoundland, I was greeted by this sign depicting a massive and apparently mange-ridden, homicidal moose crushing a car.

Also, a sign saying there have been 23 moose-vehicle accidents in the park this year. I've driven through dozens of moose territories without incident, so I didn't really pay much attention.

After seeing evidence of continental shift in the mountains of Gros Morne Park that proves Europe and North America were once one, I decided to embark on a crazy day of driving to see North America's first Viking settlement, to the north in L'Anse Aux Meadows, then a mad dash back to the ferry for Nova Scotia by 7am the next morning. That's about 400 km one way, then another 700 or so in the opposite direction.

That presented the problem of driving in the dark, when most moose encounters happen. This time, the decision to risk it resulted in a split second of sheer horror, followed by several hours of paranoia.

I got back to Gros Morne about 10pm. I was thinking about the long stretch of driving, and looking ahead for animals on the road. All of a sudden, a monstrous THING with long legs and massive antlers materialized out of the dark in my peripheral vision. No warning, no nothing. Thanks a lot Bullwinkle. I yanked the wheel to the right, and avoided it by maybe a foot.

I'm embarassed to admit that there's just the slightest possibility I may have screamed like a girl. I'm not sure. I stopped and looked back to see the thing trot into the woods. It was way bigger than Silken, and would have absolutely demolished her, with me inside. I can say without a bit of exaggeration that it was one of the most sudden and terrifying things I have ever experienced.

After allowing myself a brief sobbing spell, I calmly got back on the road. And spent the next 6 or 7 hours going roughly the same speed as a Conservative government tackling climate change.

I've seen enough moose now, thank you.

chapter 75: Alison in Wonderland; the Hali-Fax of life

2010-08-24T04:18:00.000-07:00

"You take the good, you take the bad, you take 'em both, and there you have, the facts of life, the facts of life."
"The Facts of Life"

I know, cheesy. But this is my blog, deal with it.

Halifax is another one of those unique places that punches way above its weight class in the culture and creativity department. It's a small city with an angsty, artistic vibe, fueled by a mix of youthful disillusionment, underemployment, and beer. It has six universities, by far the highest per capita in Canada. Not surprisingly, it also has one of the highest concentrations of bars. The city's motto may as well be "fuck it, let's get wasted."

Anyway, I rolled into this tempest in a beer glass looking forward to re-connecting with my long-lost Africa colleague and partner in clumsy, drunken falls, Alison Lang. She lives in the gritty north end among idealistic twenty-somethings and down-and-outers whose ideas are pretty much limited to their next bender.

Unlike many Haligonians, Alison has a pretty decent job, but she still embodies the energy of her surroundings. She sings, er, screams, in a hard rock band named Peeler, with a guitar player named Mingus who likes to spit whiskey at the crowd. He looks pretty much exactly like you're imagining. I saw them at a bar called the Seahorse, which is fittingly decorated with demonic looking, red-eyed seahorses. Typically, locals decry the renovations that transformed it into the dingy rock dungeon it is now. Apparently, its previous grimy incarnation was way cooler.

Alison has an anchor tattoo on her shoulder and a scene from Alice in Wonderland on her back. Fitting, because as soon as I arrived, she pulled me down into her rabbit hole. I stayed at a hostel the first three nights, quickly meeting a typical cast of characters, ending the first night drunk at a neighbourhood dive bar. The next day, I met Alison after work, and we proceeded to drink in the park and catch up. She, somewhat like me, seems to have an unquenchable thirst to complicate her life. Basing a fictional character on her would almost be too easy.

Anyway, the week went by with drinking while relaxing in Halifax's many parks, drinking in bars, drinking at Alison's house and a trip to the famous lighthouse at Peggy's Cove. Legend has the town is named after the sole survivor of a shipwreck in a storm in the 1700's. The locals named her Peggy after she couldn't remember her name. Today, the lighthouse is a major tourist attraction. But wicked storms are a constant threat, and despite warnings posted all over the place, rogue waves typically drag several foolhardy visitors a year to their ultimate, watery demise.

I also got a chance to meet ex-Global National colleague Ross Lord for drinks, and another friend who offered me the use of her apartment for a couple nights.

So no, I didn't go to Lunenberg, and I didn't see this church or that Celtic band. But I did meet the locals who showed me the Hali-fax of life. It's a small city with deep cultural roots, boundless creativity, and a mild stench of fatalism that drives its people to live in the now.

Carpe diem, Halifax.

chapter 74: Uncharted waters

2010-08-22T07:00:00.000-07:00

"Burning every bridge that I cross,
To find some beautiful place to get lost."
"Let's Get Lost" - Elliott Smith

Working the rat race can really make you misplace your perspective, and sometimes the only way to find it again is to get lost. And my much-anticipated first visit to the comparatively small Maritime provinces offered ample opportunity to do that.

I slashed my way into New Brunswick on Friday, August 13th, ironically leaving my horrifying French behind. I've made a point of avoiding cities, except where I have friends to reconnect with. At the risk of becoming a cliche, the land and the open road have really become my companions. It's as close to a spiritual experience as I come.

I'm not a great tourist as far as seeing specific landmarks; I prefer to watch people and check out the landscape to really get a feel for what that place is like. I've always believed going without a plan is the best way to get somewhere you've never been.

I dutifully checked out Hopewell Rocks along the Bay of Fundy, home to the world's most active tides. A hundred billion tonnes of water flows in and out every day, a differential of four stories.

At low tide you can walk on the muddy ocean floor and see fossils, and hours later the tides erase any evidence you were ever there. It's a pretty amazing sight, but you do fight the crowds.

After leaving, I drove around aimlessly for a while, checking out this dirt road or that viewpoint, and this where I started to see the true Maritime character. Most of the time, when you tell people you're lost, they'll help - but you have to ask. Not here.

A typical exchange:
"Are you lost?" a friendly local inquires.
"I'm trying to be," I grin.
"Oh. Okay." They smile, and back away slowly.

It sounds silly, but this is how I've been able to see some amazing, secluded spots that aren't on a map. I drove down an unmarked gravel road, and came upon a beautiful private beach.

Unlike much of the country, I wasn't warned about the risk of prosecution for trespassing. A sign simply said "Enjoy our beach, but please, take nothing but pictures and leave nothing but footprints."

And that's the kind of thing a tour company can't sell.

Chapter 73: Escape from Montreal

2010-08-19T07:20:00.002-07:00

After a week of debauchery in Montreal, I made it out alive and headed to Quebec City. If the former is stylish, sexy, and slightly tacky, the latter is the wise matriarch of French Canada.

Beautiful, but older, and much classier. Inside the walls of 400 year-old Vieux Quebec, you still get the same feeling of protection from an attack that might come from outside. She's a beautiful sight all lit up at night, and unlike Montreal, still looks good in the morning.

The history is amazing, and once you've been there, it's impossible not to understand how Quebec could be its own country, and why we should continue to do whatever it takes to prevent that from happening.

After Quebec, I spent a day driving around the Gaspe Peninsula. It's rural, struggling economically and very Francophone. If you live here, you speak French first, last and always. There were vineyards, for sale signs and little fromageries everywhere. Despite economic hardships, they aren't giving up on the old standards.

I spoke to one woman who was so serious about her cheese, the fromagerie had actually funded research at the University of Laval to engineer cultures that are not only delicious, but also help your digestive tract. I made a lame attempt at a 'cultural' double entendre. She didn't laugh. Apparently, good taste also applies to humour.

Signposts:

-Kilometres driven: 16,000+

-free cheese samples eaten: 4

-French phrases butchered: countless

chapter 72: the greg johnson reality tour

2010-08-08T22:20:00.000-07:00

1)Saskatchewan, reunion with friends, and a less scary picture of Regina than the one painted by Macleans magazine? Check.
2)Manitoba and a beery visit with former GN colleagues in Winnipeg? Check.
3)Ontario, long distances, speeding ticket (no longer down with OPP), expensive camping at Lake Superior, Toronto friends and business connections? Check.

I rolled into Canada's coolest city last Tuesday feeling pretty good. After picking up my pal Greg in Toronto, we jumped in Silken and made for la Belle Province and Montreal, leapfrogging the 13,000 kilometre barrier in the process. I hadn't been there in 20 years, and to fully OD on Montreal's cool, it helps to have a knowledgeable tour guide. Greg spent six years in Montreal going broke while partying too much and working too little, so he seemed like the perfect man for this challenging job.

I started calling it the Greg Johnson reality tour, and it's been as disgustingly, delighfully, drunkenly debaucherous as I could have hoped.

The living situation has been interesting to say the least. We stayed one night in a half-room in a tiny apartment while the regular tenant slept on a mattress in the living room. We've been at an empty fraternity house the rest of the time. And my bike got stolen. But I've seen a few of Montreal's hottest spots, basically been drunk and smoking (bad!) for five days straight, while eating things like poutine and huge smoked meat sandwiches. The city is what a doctor would prescribe for a patient with square-itis.

It's a whole different world than healthy-image conscious, rule obsessed, no fun Vancouver. You can buy beer at a corner store here. People eat poutine and fast food regularly. They go out practically every night. They drink way too much. They defiantly continue to disregard all sensible reasons to stop smoking. They litter. They park almost anywhere they want, and drivers will run you over if you step into the street without due care. They don't substitute work for having a life.

Nightlife is practically a career for a lot of people here. The streets are alive with good-looking, fashionable people from different age and income groups who stay out all night at stylish clubs. Then they go to the same cheap diners for all-day breakfast the next morning, looking much less stylish, much more haggard, and determined to do it all again. Montreal is like a sexy stranger who keeps you up and makes you wanna take chances with your health, rather than do the sensible thing and miss a night out.

After that, making the sensible choice doesn't seem to make much sense at all, does it?

Places I have slept:

-sandy beaches

-my tent at various camgrounds

-my car at a rest stop

-a hostel

-a gravelly driveway

-a luxury hotel

-a University dorm

-a mattress sized bedroom

-a frat house

chapter 71: The prairies: so flat you can see the future...or are they?

2010-07-27T21:42:00.000-07:00

Honestly, the prairie provinces were the part of this trip I was least looking forward to. Okay, Edmonton sucks (sorry) but the rest of Alberta and Saskatchewan has been better than expected. From the ice fields to the badlands, to a virtual desert in the middle of farmer's fields, there is some breathtaking and unexpected mad scientist shit going on.

Driving north of Calgary, you go through flat, bright yellow canola fields, until suddenly a huge Arizona-like canyon opens up in front of you, which by the way, you can climb down into and get lost and sweaty for a couple hours. Ahem. Anyway, it's the start of the area of Alberta where more species of dinosaur fossils have been found than anywhere in the world.

Then, driving into Saskatchewan, the same thing happens, only this time it's sand hills where nothing really grows - think Saudi Arabia. A small piece of Saudi Arabian desert. But fewer sheikhs.

Les nombres:
-nights in hotel: 2
-with family/friends: 8
-nights camping: 10
-buffalo spotted: 4
-pairs of eyeglasses recovered: 1!
-kilometres traveled: 9,424

chapter 70: Dawson City time warp

2010-07-18T09:28:00.000-07:00

There are strange things done in the midnight sun
By the men who moil for gold;
The arctic trails have their secret tales
That would make your blood run cold
“The Cremation of Sam McGee” by Robert Service, Dawson City Poet

Northern BC is beautiful, but there is something both romantic and unsettling about the Yukon. The tourism slogan is “Larger than life”. It's vast and empty, but breathtaking. Comforting, yet unsettling, and stuck in a time warp in more ways than one.

I spent my first full day at the beautiful Tombstone Territorial Park. Even though I
knew about it, the midnight sun still took me by surprise. We time our lives to the setting of the sun subconsciously. I set up camp, went hiking, built a fire, and didn't even realize I was hungry until it was 10:30pm. Dusk came around 1am, then a couple hours of light grey, then the sun came out again. Weird.
The first casualty of the trip came on the amazing but treacherous Dempster Highway. The rutted gravel road that runs all the way to Inuvik, Northwest Territories ripped one of my tires to shreds, and cut short my bid for the arctic circle and the 'other' territory. After putting on a temporary tire, I decided the travel gods didn't want me there, and headed for Dawson City.

The Dawson City Music Festival is renowned for its lively vibe and friendly crowd. It's a strange feeling to party under perpetual daylight alongside refugees from the 70's. Long haired burnouts do their freaky dances beside bohemian girls in flower dresses, while packs of scruffy teenagers roam around hiding their beer and looking at girls. It's like the cast of “Dazed and Confused”, but it's not the 70's or the 90's.

Meanwhile, the rest of the city is stuck in the early 1900's. Old-timey facades have been re-created advertising an era long past, alongside new businesses disguised in turn of the century clothes. Everything looks new, but is supposed to be old. Nothing is real. Dawson City became the centre of the Canadian gold rush in the late 1800's, and a city sprung up almost overnight. Without tourism, nobody would be here, and the city would die almost as fast. So everyone lives in the past, and invites visitors to do the same – more information available on the internet of course! But that's not in the pamphlets.

By the numbers:
-kilometres traveled: 4,268
-bears sighted: 4
-police sirens heard: 0
-eyeglasses lost: 1
-flat tires: 1

chapter 69: the long road north

2010-07-15T16:11:00.000-07:00

Day 6.

After having spent a couple beach days in Tofino-Ucluelet and then a couple more at my Dad's, Silken and I are tearing ass north. After leaving Parksville on Monday morning, I've spent the last two days driving nearly 1,500 kilometres, 8-10 hours on the road each day. I have to do about 1,800 more to get to Dawson city by Friday for the start of the music festival. I know, life is so hard. I never want to get out of the car, because the roads are empty and I can motor through while rocking out to a random selection of every album I've ever liked. Suh-weet.

Yesterday, I drove through the Stein Valley to Lillooet, and then today the Bulkley Valley and Smithers. I hiked to where two glacier-fed waterfalls converge and make an icy river. I stupidly waded in of course, and immediately froze.

There are so many amazing parks in BC, so camping has been a lot of fun. After a long day of driving, there's nothing better than taking some time to unwind, then staring at a campfire for a couple hours. Trust me, it's fun. Some more fun facts:
Kilometres traveled: 2,069
Animals killed: One bird (hit windshield)
Sunglasses lost: 1
Wrong turns taken: 2
Dirty looks from hitchhikers after I drove by: 7, or 8 if you count the guy I drove by twice after making a wrong turn

Minor bitches:
-when camping, everything, including the camper, is guaranteed to get smoky, plus wet or dirty or both.
-I am too lazy to duct tape the fabric on the car ceiling. The hole in it exposes me to a shower of fossilized adhesive particles every time I open the sunroof. Probably not too healthy. Fix this tomorrow, or if not possible tomorrow, at some point in the not-too-worried-about-it-future.

chapter 68: the Canada chronicles

2010-07-09T11:44:00.000-07:00

I've done it. In just three weeks, I've redefined my existence (again). I've gleefully gotten rid of almost everything I own. I've irresponsibly left a good job. I've willfully disappointed some family, friends and colleagues. But in so doing, I've overthrown that fascist dictator we call “life”. And It's easier than you might think to spontaneously throw it all away. New slogan: Impatience – it's worth the wait.

Thursday, I threw my now-meagre possessions into my 1989 Volvo, my Swedish traveling companion, hereafter referred to as Silken. Silken is a boxy throwback with some mileage on her, but she's a chanp. And she's never been accused of cheating. First stop: Tofino.

This will be a truly epic journey. Canada is a hugely gifted, diverse, and of course, immense expanse of land. The distances are mind boggling. I've always thought of it as a travel buzzkill. Canadians have to go further than almost anyone else on the planet to reach exotic climes, especially Westerners.

But distance can be your friend. It's 2400 kilometres to Dawson City alone. That will be just a prelude of what's to come.

Silken and I will take our chances on bumpy logging roads through towering rainforests. We'll try to avoid gravel road showers under eerie constant daylight in the far north. We'll follow the ribbon of the Trans-Canada Highway on the backs of immigrant slaves, through wild mountains, and blood-red prairie sunsets We'll cruise gaudy, riotous cities in eight lane comfort. And we'll trace the rocky coastline that welcomed the first visitors to Canada.

I'm making playlists for the road as we speak.

chapter 67: the outsider

2010-05-31T22:31:00.000-07:00

for him, getting comfortable is the itch that can't be scratched.

he wants to be loved, but can't accept it when it comes.

he's a compassionate psychopath.

he works hard to touch his dreams, but runs from daylight fantasies.

the familiar is terrifying, the unknown is exhilarating.

the darkened road must be followed.

chapter 66: that. was. awesome.

2010-03-01T16:02:00.000-08:00

26.5 million people saw team canada take back our game, and a storybook ending to the games. that's 80% of the country. and it was the people, not the ioc or vanoc, who swept aside all the greed and hypocrisy an event like this can engender. and this is how they did it:

chapter 65: who are we?

2010-02-19T23:14:00.000-08:00

the last week of unbridled patriotism has really left me wondering: who are we?

we are champions.

we can have our hearts broken.

we can proudly wear the maple leaf and not apologize. but everyone's invited all the same.

we aren't just happy to be here.

we expect the best of ourselves, and respect from others.

we aren't as quiet and unassuming as the world thought we were.

we are, in many ways, still finding our way.

what unifies us? it's always been hard to explain in words what it means to be canadian. but this week has shown the world that we are unique, and that's something to be proud of.

the world is learning something about us. so are we. we've always defined ourselves by what we are not.

we are not american.

we are not european.

we are not first nations, quebecois, chinese, indian, or any of the other dozens of cultures that make up the mosaic.

the truth is, we don't know exactly who we are yet.

and maybe that's how it should be, because we are always changing.

maybe it's that undefinable quality, that lack of an easy definition, that makes us special.

as the man said, we are more.

chapter 64: i've got a bad feeling about this...

2010-01-14T18:02:00.000-08:00

remember katrina? the floods, the devastation, etc...and then it somehow turned into an even bigger nightmare for the people who managed to survive.

and that's what i'm afraid will happen in haiti. it's a country that was already living on the edge of oblivion. to paraphrase a colleague of mine, they had very little before the earthquake, now they have much, much less.

so what happens now? restlessness, check. hunger, check. thirst, check. looting, check. disease? roving gangs?

my job has often had me immersed in misery; through the filter of distance, but still...this just has a more visceral feel to it. and it could easily get worse. join me in trying to do what we can to stop that from happening.

http://www.redcross.ca/article.asp?id=000005&tid=003

chapter 63: way off track!

2009-11-14T00:04:00.000-08:00

day 13 total: 2,488 words.
running total: 10,754 words.

i suck.

i boozed and loozed for days on either side of my birthday, and now i'm about 10,000 words behind where i should be. seriously. as always, i've used my unique talent for making things harder than they have to be. even something as idiotic and difficult as writing a novel in a month.

the good news? i'm good at being an underdog. which is encouraging, because i'm now up a certain creek that you may be aquaintded with, sans paddle.

but i got back on it today, and actually had my most productive day yet.

here's hoping i've got a few more of them in me, cause i now have to average 2,300 words per day to hit my goal.

yikes.

chapter 62: back on track!

2009-11-05T23:31:00.000-08:00

day 5 total: 2,180 words.
running total: 8,296 words.

i am finally back on track, after spending the last few days catching up from taking a day off. okay, so i'm technically off by 39 words. whatever.

the plot has started to go in different directions, and i still don't know how i'll get from here to the last sentence of the novel, which i've already thought of...whether it's still the last sentence when i'm done, who can say.

i'm also becoming weird and isolated. even more than usual. i undersand why so many writers have beards now. every time i got to shave, a plot point occurs. are female novelists hairy? this is what passes for non-noveling thought.

clearly, i'm losing it, and we're only five days in. alert the men in the white coats.

onward to 10,002 words!

chapter 61: best day yet!

2009-11-05T05:23:00.000-08:00

day four total: 2,440 words.
running total: 6,116 words.

well, i'm slowly getting close to being back on track with my daily averages. i'm only about 500 words behind where i should be now. today (wednesday) was my best day yet, but it sure is hard to catch up. i'll have to duplicate today's ouput to get to the day five goal. it doesn't seem like it when things are going well, but 1,667 words day after day is a blistering pace. and i've only missed one day so far. note to self: no more days off!

it's gotten a lot easier since i actually took time to flesh out the plot. imagine that! i seem to be decent at plot, but bad at character and dialogue. meh, whatever. see no evil, hear no evil.

the words are getting on the page. that's the goal.

onward to 8,335 words!

chapter 60: the plot thickens

2009-11-04T06:51:00.000-08:00

day three total: 1,987 words.
running total: 3,676 words.

ok, so i'm a little short of my three day goal of 5,001 words, but considering i didn't write at all on day two, it's not too bad.

i was tired when i came home from work tuesday, so i thought i'd take a little, 12 hour nap. so i screwed up there, but i recovered nicely on wednesday. by the time i'd scratched out a painful 600 words in the morning going on afternoon, i had a massive plot problem. scary when it's only day three, but i managed to pound out another 1,400 words and got back in the swing.

my plot is now wide open, i have the main characters established and evolving, and i even have a couple subplots brewing. i won't say it's great writing. i honestly can't tell, but it's not a bad story. feels awesome to solve my first problem.

onward to 6,668 words, my day four destination!

chapter 59: day one, and all's well. sort of.

2009-11-02T00:47:00.001-08:00

day 1: 1689 words.

ack. yes, ack.

after working a full day at the job, i have managed to focus my mental energy on getting my novel rolling and reached my daily quota of 1,667 words. i even surpassed in by 22 words...killed it!

i now have two characters, the scene partly established, and some admittedly hackneyed prose. it was somewhat more difficult than i thought it'd be to shut off my angry internal censor, though. he's clearly not happy that i'm letting myself suck. i don't deal well with sucking.

but the point of this excercise is to get the words down on paper, so i guess i've reached my goal.

here's hoping it comes easier and gets better on day two.

ps - shut up, brain.
pps - if anyone knows a good character name for a clumsy, clueless, do-gooding journalist who's in over his head in africa, i'm taking suggestions.
ppps - the first person to suggest "Brennan Leffler" gets hit with a barrage of obscenities.

chapter 58: three, two, oooooone

2009-10-29T14:20:00.000-07:00

we're now t-minus three days and counting until my writing rocket ship blasts off, and i can't believe how antsy i am to get started.

top five awesome things about writing a novel:

5. slipping the phrase "my novel" into casual conversation.

4. letting my wacky personality out of its cage, and not worrying about facts getting in the way of a good story.

3. dressing like a slob and being called "eccentric" instead of "freak".

2. basking in the adoration of my many, many fans of the female persuasion.

1. delusions of grandeur.

chapter 57: me and ernest

2009-10-26T00:50:00.000-07:00

yup, i'm back, with a new, bigger (and possibly even more foolish) adventure. starting november 1st, i will start on the road to fulfilling a lifelong goal of writing a novel. like many people, i've wanted to do this for a long time. i've even started a few times, but never finished for various reasons. this time, it's personal.

not only will i start this novel on november 1st, but i will also finish it by the end of the calendar month. impressive, no?

it's part of national novel writing month, a novel in a month contest...that you guessed it, challenges you to write...a novel in a month.

i know you're all excited, i can already hear the buzz building. to do this, i will have to write 1,667 words a day. and no, you can't read it until it comes out in print...no doubt a bestseller.

but i will be posting updates, word counts, psychotic rantings as the month grows shorter, my beard grows thicker, and my sanity wears thinner.

so follow along, it's gonna be a helluva ride.

ps - i apologize in advance for any jerkish leanings i might display throughout november.

chapter 56: jumping the celebrity death shark

2009-07-08T00:20:00.000-07:00

we've covered a lot of celebrity news lately.

yes, yes i know...the people wanna see every little detail of the last chapter of the lurid book that contained michael jackson's story. don't lie, you've been watching.

it's the dream "i gotta see that" story.

the mystery death.

the drugs.

the sex (alleged sex, ahem).

the family feud.

the creepy shots of a procession rolling down the highway in a bzarro version of the oj simpson slo-mo getaway. and inside one of the vehicles, a coffin that may contain a body or cinderblocks!

ok yes, the spellbinding talent and showmanship. there was that for sure.

but it's been nearly two weeks. enough already. there are wars going on. real people dying.

for mj's tragic upbringing early, the isolation when he got famous, then jealous scavenging later by his own family, up to and including his apparently self-destructive death (i'm looking at you joe jackson, plugging your label) i actually felt terrible for him. it's the classic rags-riches-rags story of fame. it's a good ole rock and roll flameout.

but it's becoming an ugly, self-perpetuating mess, and i blame the family. i find almost all of them mildly off-putting to outright despicable, and now that the story's basically dead, we're giving this strange brood exactly what they want. fame.

it would drive me completely stark-raving mad if it weren't for completely ridiculous things like this -- proving that yes, we are going to hell in a handbasket. but it's still absurdly amusing.

warning: the following rap tribute contains language you may find offensive. it contains a low talent threshold, which you may also find offensive. it contains a pro basketball player rapping. badly.

chapter 55: my canada

2009-07-01T19:16:00.000-07:00

i have a confession to make: i hate crowds. i usually avoid big events, because i generally don't like to be stuck in huge throngs of people. there's something about losing my personal space that rubs me wrong.

i've always been a bit of a loner...and i guess that's part of what i love about canada; the country is so big, there's usually more than enough space for everyone, even in big cities. you can always find a tranquil spot with a stunning view and just sit and think quietly and reflect on the nearly never-ending beauty in front of you.

it's crowded in the west end today. people everywhere. restaurants, bars, shops, beaches, sidewalks, buses...everything is packed.

but today i don't mind.

i look around and see the whole world. i hear different languages, see different skin colours, smell different aromas. everyone is here, and nobody looks out of place. if i didn't know better, i wouldn't really be sure who belongs and who doesn't. but, like sherlock holmes and the dog that wasn't barking, that's the giveaway.

everyone i see has as much right to be here as the next person. nobody's trying to make the chattering koreans speak english. nobody's getting mad at the slow walking indian family. nobody's telling the muslims to take off their traditional coverings. nobody's telling the panhandlers to get off the sidewalk. nobody's telling the obnoxious white teenage suburbanites to go back to surrey, even though some are no doubt thinking it.

look, i've been some places, and i've seen some things, and that kind of freedom just doesn't exist anywhere else. is it perfect? no. but it's as close as it gets on this earth.

that's my country, or should i say our country. because we all own it...miraculously, in what's often a hard, selfish, hateful world, we've learned how to share.

happy birthday canada.

chapter 54: my africa

2009-01-08T22:03:00.000-08:00

congratulations to the black star nation of africa, and the continent's shining star of democracy. hey, it's a start!

Ghana's Example
How one African nation has made democracy work

Friday, January 9, 2009; Page A16
AFRICAN POLITICS were shaped in the past year by two disastrous presidential elections -- that of Kenya in December 2007, which ended in a fraud-marred impasse and triggered ethnic violence in which more than 1,000 people died; and Robert Mugabe's first-round defeat and second-round theft of a Zimbabwean poll, which has prompted a catastrophic national collapse. But democracy in Africa is not dead, as the small but influential nation of Ghana demonstrated over the past month. Its two-round election for president ended with a razor-thin margin of victory for the opposition candidate. There was no major fraud or violence: The winning candidate, John Atta Mills, promised to "be president for all"; his opponent, Nana Akufo-Addo, accepted defeat and publicly congratulated his opponent.
On being sworn in Wednesday, Mr. Atta Mills became the second opposition candidate to peacefully succeed an elected president since Ghana returned to democracy in 1992. A pioneer of Africa's independence movement in the 1960s, Ghana is the first country in sub-Saharan Africa to accomplish that political feat. For the rest of the continent -- including its giant and perpetually unstable neighbor, Nigeria -- Ghana offers a demonstration that such political maturity pays off. Ghana's average annual growth rate of 5.6 percent during the past six years has been one of Africa's highest, and the country has become a favorite of foreign investors as well as donors.
Mr. Atta Mills faces serious challenges, including growing transshipment of cocaine through Ghana to Europe -- and the corruption that the drug trafficking has engendered. He will also need to skillfully manage the country's recently discovered offshore oil, which could propel Ghana to greater prosperity or mire it in the political and economic diseases that afflict Nigeria and other petro-states. For now, however, the new president and his country can bask in the congratulations that have poured in from the European Union, the United Nations and the United States -- not to mention from Ghana's neighbors. "The conduct of the people of Ghana provides a rare example of democracy at work in Africa," said Kenya's prime minister, Raila Odinga. As Mr. Odinga knows all too well, it's an example from which Kenya, Zimbabwe and other states could learn.

chapter 53: r.i.p. stephane dion 2006 - 2008; or, how we learned that stephen harper was right

2008-12-08T12:51:00.000-08:00

it turned out stephen harper was right about stephane dion. he's not capable of leading a government. pardon me for a moment, while i try to keep my lunch down.

but really, dion has shown time and time again he isn't capable of doing simple things required of a politician, particularly in his dealings with the media.

and today, perhaps recognizing his credibility as leader is shot, he stepped down. and for the centre-left movement in canada, which still comprises a majority of the country by the way, it comes not a moment too soon.

first, there was the infamous restart debacle. just as every prime minister has to be able to speak french, every prime minister must speak english too. but dion, as intelligent as he may be, clearly isn't up to that task. watch as he asks a reporter to restart an interview three times because he doesn't understand a pretty simple question:

then, when he was given a time to respond to stephen harper on the coalition government issue, he and his team delivered a poor quality taped message late. it was out of focus, it was poorly framed, and awkward to watch. this is what discomfort looks like:

dion has proven himself a good politician with good ideas in the past. but if his team can't be trusted with simple tasks, how can we trust him to do the right things for the country during a challenging time?

chapter 52: prorogue-ies and sour cream

2008-12-04T14:40:00.001-08:00

a week ago, most of us had never even heard of the word prorogue, now it's on the tip of everybody's tongue. and for some, it tastes pretty sour.

governor general michaelle jean decided today to grant stephen harper's request to prorogue, or suspend, parliament until he can come back to present his budget on january 26. here is his press conference after that decision:

the somewhat surprising decision comes after a constitutional crisis that threatened to unseat the government less than two months after a federal election. for the past week, there's been a pr war going on to win public opinion, and to nobody's surprise, the conservatives appear to have won that battle with another round of fear-mongering.

to wit, a few fun facts:

1 - the proposed coalition government would have been only the second in canadian history. the conservatives said the coalition's plan was undemocratic. in reality, the parliamentary system allows for it. parliament can only operate when it has the confidence of a majority of members, who represent the public. the coalition would have the support of the majority, unlike the tories.

2 - the quebec separatist movement is, for all intents and purposes, dormant, before harper and the conservatives started invoking it as a boogeyman. the conservatives used the specter of the new government being beholden to separatists to stay afloat. in reality, the searatist movement has been losing steam since 1995, and now it's almost irrelevant. quebec's provincial election is widely expected to result in a solid majority for quebec liberals, led by jean charest, a federalist. if anything, harper's divisive rhetoric could spark a renaissance.

3 - harper called a snap election for october in late summer this year, saying parliament was unworkable. now, the new parliament has been shut down for two months until the new budget announcement. frankly, i don't think either side deserves to lead. but i also don't see parliament working any better when mp's go back on january 26th. at that point, we'll probably find ourselves in the situation we're in now, except we will have wasted two months of valuable time, while other countries work to make the coming recession as painless as possible.

4 - the is the first time prorogation has been used to prevent a government from falling, in canadian history. frankly, i wasn't thrilled with either option, but i do know that while the house is away, no stimulus package will be set in motion.

one thing is certain.

nobody can complain any longer about canadian politics being boring. but for all the auto industry workers in oshawa, and others across the country who are worried about making house payments, the prospect of losing their jobs while the politicians screw around is more disgusting than exciting.

chapter 51: welcome back, america

2008-11-04T21:26:00.000-08:00

the united states of america really is a baffling country.

they can bungle along for years, corrupt, greedy, cynical, aggressive and mean, until the country's downfall looks predictable and swift.

and then, out of nowhere, we see the qualities that have made the united states great. a country that specializes in bold, courageous moves that change the world.

tonight's election of barack obama felt like that. it felt like one of those moments people tell their children and grandchildren about. it felt magical, like a new era of compassion, hope, honesty and solidarity that unites people around the world. the great phoenix has regenerated and risen from the ashes again.

know what?

after tonight, i like those yanks much better.

welcome back, america. we missed you.

chapter 50: really america? really?

2008-11-01T16:14:00.000-07:00

i can barely contain myself.

we knew sarah palin was no einstein, but this is ridiculous. she spoke to one of quebec's radio pranksters who are known as the "masked avengers" for six minutes, and never caught on that she wasn't actually talking to french president nicolas sarkozy.

this is the woman who the republicans want to be president if john mccain were to die in office.

simply stunning.

chapter 49: ghoulishly entertaining

2008-10-25T23:47:00.000-07:00

sometimes, it's better when you don't have to think about stuff. that's what i like about halloween, even those years when i lamely do nothing to celebrate it. this is one of those years.

but despite that, the halloween-ish magic that is the thriller endures. you've seen the thriller-thons and the phillipino 'cons-cum-choreatricians'?

they can both suck it. this is the best thriller tribute ever. ever. you're welcome.

chapter 48: the story maclean's didn't tell

2008-10-21T22:37:00.000-07:00

recently, maclean's magazine did a story on international volunteerism. i and several other volunteers i worked with and respect appeared in pictures and in quotes, focusing particularly on jhr. the article painted a picture of volunteers that is not very flattering, and even though i knew it was missing a lot of perspective, it stung.

it also made me mad, because it's the kind of article that hardens people's hearts and discourages the kind of compassion and leadership on cooperation and peacebuilding that forms such an important part of canada's identity.

but this article, taken from a correspondent for ctv's canada am who visited sierra leone and met some jhr volunteers gets it right.

it encapsulates the maddening beauty, the beautiful tragedy, and the tragic hope of a country where life is so hard, yet the people continue to look to a better day.

and they continue to look to canadians for a hand up. it's only through the continuing efforts from people giving of themselves to work in the trenches, no matter how slow and frustrating the process may be, that canada can fulfill its true potential to be a light to people in dark places.

idealistic? maybe...but doesn't every great victory start with a crazy idea?

here's the article:

Marci Ien in Sierra Leone: Human Rights reporting

Updated Tue. Oct. 21 2008 6:25 PM ET

Marci Ien, Canada AM

Last month I travelled to Sierra Leone for the Canadian organization Journalists for Human Rights (JHR). The group was founded in 2002 with the goal of assisting local media in Africa and North America to expand their coverage of human rights.

JHR has sent more than 175 journalist trainers to work in sub-Saharan African countries, and by its own estimates, has directly helped to produce more than 2,100 stories on human rights issues.

Sierra Leone is the most deprived country in the world. It ranks last, 177th, on the United Nations' annual Human Development Index. A newborn in Sierra Leone has the lowest chance in the world of surviving until age five.

A decade of civil war ended in 2002, and the country is now in the process of reconstruction. A UN-sponsored war crimes court is trying those accused of horrible war crimes, while the state works on the challenges of extreme poverty and an economic crisis.

Journalists have their own challenges covering political issues and the topics of human rights and corruption. My job was to meet with working journalists in Sierra Leone and help assess the training programs. Here's my diary from the week:

Friday Sept. 19 (late evening)

I arrived at Lungi International Airport and was met by Nina DeVries and Abu Bakarr Jalloh (ABJ). Nina is a media trainer with JHR and ABJ is an intern. On the way to my guest house I took in all the action on the lively streets of Freetown. The city was originally built for 500,000, but the population has swelled in recent years to 1.5 million. The infrastructure isn't there, and that leaves a lot of people conducting their social lives on the streets. People were eating, selling food, just kind of hanging out. Everyone looked young. "Where are all the seniors?" I asked. "Marci," my colleagues replied, almost in unison, "The life expectancy here is 39, 40 years old." "I'm 39," I said. That was the last question I asked that night.

Saturday Sept. 20

I went to the JHR office and met Elvis Hallowell, the country director for the organization. He shared with me his thoughts on the state of journalism in Sierra Leone -- in particular the coverage of human rights stories. Elvis told me that a lot of the human rights coverage are opinion pieces, and that's not how human rights issues should be covered. Much of the media training shows journalists how to back up their stories with facts, digging, and research. It's all about balance.

There are 15 to 20 daily newspapers, as well as private and public television stations. Radio, however, is the medium of choice for most Sierra Leonians. That evening I met all five JHR media trainers who had been working in various media houses throughout Sierra Leone for eight months. Mackay, Kevin, Jared, Rachael, and Nina took me to dinner.

Sunday Sept. 21

On Sundays, many people go to the beach. It was a gorgeous day and not a cloud in the sky. The car ride to River Number 2 was long, and the roads bumpy, but it gave us time to chat. As we travelled, we came across several kids who had put up faux checkpoints using tree branches to block the road. They asked for money...and in turn would lift the branches.
"What message are we sending if we give them cash?" one of my colleagues said. "Are we sending a message that extortion is OK?" It was a valid point -- but all I could see was my four-year-old's face. How do you say no?

The beach was stunning. As I sat on the sand I took in the sounds of the sea. In a moment of complete calm, I thought of the chaos that had ravaged this country, and the perseverance of a people trying to move forward, trying to better their lives. I asked many questions of my friends. What had they learned? Did they feel they were making a difference as journalists? It was an interesting discussion, and in the coming days I would see first-hand what life in the field was like.

Monday Sept. 22

The Special Court of Sierra Leone is a city unto itself. There have been hundreds of witnesses so far, recounting a bloody civil war that lasted 10 years and ended in 2001. Hundreds of thousands were killed or injured in the war. Three trial judges have presided over the past six years. One of them, Judge Pierre Boutet, is Canadian. Deliberations are underway. I told Judge Boutet that when his work was done -- and he comes home to Canada -- he had an open invitation to sit down and talk about his experiences on Canada AM.
When I walked into the empty court and looked at the witness box. It was an eerie space. I stood in a place where victim and victimizer came together, and I wondered if a spirit of forgiveness could ever prevail.

I had accompanied Nina and a reporter from ABC Action News. While at the court, Nina checked in with a source for another story she was working on. It involved children who were allegedly being abused at an orphanage. One little girl, Marie, had polio was said to be in particularly bad shape.

Tuesday Sept. 23

Nowhere else is the strength of women more apparent than in Sierra Leone. In the face of patriarchal laws, second-class citizenship, spousal abuse and staggering maternal mortality rates -- they live and in some cases thrive. I had lunch with 25 women at a local hangout for journalists called "Stop Press."

They were members of a group called Women in Media in Sierra Leone (WIMSAL). The women came together out of necessity, meeting every Sunday in various places. They could speak about injustices in their newsrooms and in the field. There were editors who deemed them too weak to cover certain stories. Officials who questioned their capabilities as the female journalists tried to question them on policy or other matters.

There were partners at home -- who said their place was *in* the home -- and that having a job was something a good woman wouldn't do. WIMSAL will have a formal launch on November 21. The group has invited government officials, diplomats, the press corps and members of the public to witness what a group of women with serious ideas, journalistic integrity, and a love for a country that doesn't always love them can do.

Wednesday Sept. 24

One in eight women will die while giving birth in Sierra Leone. It's a brutal statistic ... and made major news while I was there. Following the story was the Concord Times, a well-respected newspaper based in Freetown. I accompanied Kevin Hill, a JHR trainer, and Rachel Horner, a reporter with the Times. We travelled to PCM Hospital to see first-hand what was happening.

We met Dr. Ibrahim Thorlie, the chief of staff, who told us there were many contributing factors to the death rate: women arriving at the hospital already in a traumatic state, and a lack of equipment, blood, drugs, and staff. Ironically he talked of a brain drain -- one that saw medical talent leave to work in the very NGOs that were meant to help stabilize the country. Many also left for more lucrative private practice.

I will never forget one woman we saw. She was in labour...writhing in pain on a hospital cot -- that had no sheet. Above her, the tiles on the wall were crumbling. I wondered if one would fall on her. Now I wonder if she and her baby survived.

Later in the day, Kevin, Rachel and I met with Sierra Leone's Health Minister, Dr. Soccoh Alex Kabia. We recounted what we had seen at the hospital. He said the government had a plan that would be introduced in the coming months. I couldn't help but think that plan would come far too late for many.

Thursday Sept. 25

This was the first time my husband and I haven't been together on our anniversary in the seven years we've been married. It's always been a sacred time for us. When the opportunity to travel to Sierra Leone came up, I knew I would have to use my vacation time to make it work. My husband agreed I should go. "You'll grow as a person, Marce. This could be life-changing."

There are many things I will remember about my trip. I met dozens of journalists whose personal stories could in fact be front-page news. I visited radio stations, newspapers, and a televison studio. I talked to officials in the Special Court, people on the street. I spent a considerable amount of time in a hospital speaking to medical staff and patients about their predicaments and how to move forward. I read just about everything I could get my hands on that would help me to understand the complexities of this West African nation. Nothing yet could have prepared me for Kroo Bay.

Kroo Bay is home to more than 6,000 people, and used to be a small fishing settlement that sits below sea level at the point where two rivers meet the Atlantic. It became a shantytown during the civil war as people fled the violence. Now garbage is everywhere. The water is used as an open sewer. I saw children playing, defecating and being washed in it. I saw mothers whose eyes told me they had given up.

I didn't take a single picture...but the images of Kroo Bay are forever cemented in my mind. The children were curious about the two men and woman who walked through. They looked at us -- our clothes, our shoes. I looked at their nakedness...but also their beautiful smiles. How could they smile? What was there to be happy about? I could smell the desperation and despair.

My friend Mackay asked if the kids knew the ABC song. He had told me they sang it to the tune of Auld Lang Syne in Sierra Leone. In unison, five children started to sing. I held back my tears. We clapped and told them they were wonderful. This all in a place where one in four children dies before their fifth birthday, which Save the Children calls "the worst place on earth."

chapter 47: caption mania!!!

2008-10-18T12:33:00.000-07:00

hey all...i've been inspired by john mccain.

or, citizen mccain, mcsame, or surgy mcgee...whatever your favourite name for the republican presidential candidate, he's inadvertently spawned a brand new feature here.

the picture below was taken right after the second presidential debate. what the heck was mccain thinking? i don't know, but i bet some of you clever cats out there have some idea.

it's caption mania!

simply reply with your best caption and win...my undying admiration and the envy of your peers.

chapter 46: second verse, same as the first

2008-10-15T10:56:00.000-07:00

after five weeks of being messaged to death, watching the parties squabble over bird poop and other meaningless tripe, the 2008 federal election gave us...pretty much the same dysfunctional parliament we had before.

yes, all this for the low-low price of 300 million dollars!

the third election in four years, totalling nearly a billion dollars. wouldn't that money have been better spent giving more money to our fat cat bankers, so they can keep the windfall for themselves like they always do?

despite being chosen by canadians as the best leader of a bad lot, a would-be warm and cuddly stephen harper still couldn't manage to convince canadians to give him the keys to the castle, though he did come pretty close.

that big sucking sound you heard? stephane dion's liberals doing the down stroke on their way to the party's worst showing ever. i'll say it again: worst. showing. ever.

about the only thing drowning out the liberal suckfest was the collective yawn that could be heard coast to cast, as only 59% of elegibile voters bothered to show up at the polls, a record low.

when asked to explain the landslide victory for apathy, disengaged voters said...oh, who am i kidding...who cares?

chapter 45: 15 minutes of shame

2008-10-04T11:20:00.000-07:00

so, some of you might have noticed there was recently a photo of me holding a chicken and looking like a douchebag foreigner in a maclean's magazine article about international volunteers.

the article questions the value taxpayers are getting by sending volunteers overseas on development projects. it focuses on jhr particularly, with a couple former trainers who didn't think they did anything productive on media training placements in africa.

for my part, i'll say my stint in ghana was successful. to those volunteers who had a different experience, i'll say only that i think alot of people go to places without the experience or self confidence to carve out their own niche and win over the locals.

yes, overseas volunteerism is a great adventure, but it's also difficult. it tests your determination and persistence, and it can also be lonely and mentally taxing. you're pretty much on your own, doing a difficult job and living in uncomfortable material conditions. and going for less than six months is, in my opinion, a waste of time. i was pretty much useless for the first two months in ghana.

i think sending people overseas is valuable for the individual, canada's reputation abroad, and the host country. but we have to send our best and brightest, not whiners who thought they'd be catching rays in the tropics and basking in the automatic appreciation of the poor, grateful africans!

chapter 44: beware the open set!

2008-10-04T11:14:00.000-07:00

one of the first things i learned when i became a citizen of tv land, is to watch what i was doing when working in an open set. apparently, a couple people at a dutch tv station didn't get the memo.

this is one of the funniest background bloopers i've ever seen. check it out!

chapter 43: time to send harper to the principal's office

2008-09-30T11:26:00.000-07:00

if i do it, i get sued.

if students do it, they get expelled.

if stephen harper does it, his cronies applaud.

yes, today it was revealed stephen harper plagiarized a speech given in march 2003, by then-australian prime minister john howard. and he didn't just copy some ideas, he copied it word for freaking word!

check it out:

i'm trying to remain neutral, but beyond the issue of personal integrity, i have issues with this. if stephen harper has to copy a speech from someone else, what does it say about his ability to come up with fresh ideas and creative solutions to the problems facing the country?

also, it's clear that harper not only supported the war in iraq, but he was taking his cues from foreign conservatives who were in lockstep with bush and the gang.

obviously, not participating in dubya's excellent adventure was the right call. so when the next iraq happens, and it will, is "steve" going to just go along?

chapter 42: time to panic!!!

2008-09-29T13:20:00.000-07:00

is this it? is this how the 21st century version of rome falls?

the republicans defeated the us congress bailout bill today, and worldwide markets tanked in response.

it was a purely political response to a crisis of which, i'm convinced, americans don't fully understand the consequences. many of them didn't support the $700 billion rescue of wall street firms, whose greed arguably started all this.

i don't really blame them.

why should they bail out the hideously wealthy fat cats of wall street? in short, because regular americans - with mortgages, jobs and mutual funds - are about to feel the pain.

and the rest of us are too.

that's why it's clearer than ever that the republicans are driving the american empire into decline. they voted against a bill that could have helped slow down a global economic crisis that's threatening to destroy their financial system, ruin ordinary people, and sink the entire world into depression.

thanks guys.

and now they're doing what they usually do - dragging out the socialist boogeyman and suggesting the market should be left to its own devices. but that's what got us into this mess.

meanwhile, here's the message from the us treasury:

chapter 41: conservatives gone wild

2008-09-21T15:28:00.000-07:00

during the 2006 campaign, the conservative party became known as a well-oiled machine on the way to ending the liberals reign of terror. but this time around, the pc's have been decidedly un-pc.

there was the puffin poop incident. (http://www.canada.com/edmontonjournal/news/story.html?id=566e7b2d-7dc1-4ce9-99ed-bf7b06bd829e)

next, a tory staffer was canned for suggesting a father of a dead soldier who was critical of the conservatives had political motives. (http://www.canada.com/story.html?id=634dfca0-8c67-4a0f-9528-59ee0ffd64da)

then there was the "death by 1000 cold cuts" remark made by agriculture minister gerry ritz, that spawned outrage (http://www.canada.com/topics/news/features/decisioncanada/story.html?id=97e5ce8f-3afc-404d-bd7e-2f11f8761f06) and a satirical video game (www.deathby1000coldcuts.info)

finally, a toronto-area conservative candidate quit today because of remarks he made in his blog criticizing bus passengers who didn't try to stop the brutal beheading of tim mclean. here's the full text of what he said:

"So there was a bus stabbing on the Prairies. A man with a knife was able to go on a murderous rapage decapitating a fellow human being. The rest of the bus was unarmed and helpless. What was the generous Canadian thing to do? Help a fellow human being? No. Flee in terror. Passengers and the bus driver stood by and watched another person being butchered, and couldn't muster up any courage or self sacrifice to intervene. This is where socialism as gotten us folks, a castrated effeminate population.

This is a perfect example of why we need concealed-carry handgun legislation in this country, so we can defend one another and deter horrible events such as this. But what are our politicians talking about? More government regulation and security.

Our thoughts and prayers are with the friends and family of Tim McLean during their time of pain."

it's not like the liberals (http://network.nationalpost.com/np/blogs/posted/archive/2008/09/11/liberal-candidate-a-no-show-to-explain-oka-remarks.aspx) and ndp haven't had their mis-steps, but we've come to expect that kind of disorganization and wackiness from those guys.

but the conservatives? not so much.

i wonder if they've been getting high with comrade jack?

chapter 40: personality please!

2008-09-16T12:15:00.000-07:00

watching saturday night live's adorable and hilarious tina fey do a dead-on impersonation of the "lipstick on a pitbull" republican vp-candidate sarah palin made me realize a sad thing about canadian politics.

we have no personality.

we're vanilla.

there's no barack, there's no palin, there's not even a war hero or a guy with a big mouth who rides the train to parliament hill every day. maybe canadians like their politicians bland. maybe we're just not enthusiastic enough. one thing's for sure: stephen, stephane, jack, gilles and elizabeth are putting the electorate to sleep.

here then, in an attempt to generate interest, a few suggestions to liven things up:

1 - make the politicians ballroom dance together to see how well they'd work together. who would lead, harper or layton? bonus points go to the green party's elizabeth may, who for the first time, would be in a position to reject the big four, instead of the other way around.

2 - danny williams. newfoundland's premier has the gift of diarrhea mouth that delights reporters from coast to coast. he's been haranguing stephen harper non-stop, with his so-called "ABC" (anybody but conservative) campaign, and has been calling the pm "a fraud". after the conservatives' idiotic bird poop ad that had an animated puffin crapping on stephane dion, williams actually hired a guy in a bird suit to get a laugh at a speaking engagement. williams has taken on other heavy hitters and come out on the winning end before, and harper would do well to stay away from him. that's why i'd love to see danny front and centre at every harper event.

3 - geri hall. canada's answer to fey, the hilarious "this hour has 22 minutes" correspondent that has commented, among other things, on stephen harper's "rock-hard abs" and asked him if he likes handcuffs. she should be the one asking questions at the leaders debate. now that would be a debate worth watching.

chapter 39: fishy situation

2008-08-22T10:25:00.000-07:00

Study finds fishy labelling at restaurants, markets

Sarah Schmidt , Canwest News ServicePublished: Thursday, August 21, 2008
OTTAWA - Fish lovers and sushi connoisseurs beware: Fillets marketed as Mediterranean red mullet could really be spotted goatfish, and a white tuna wrap may just be Mozambique tilapia.
A new Canadian study using DNA bar-coding technology found that one in four fish samples taken from Toronto and New York restaurants and stores were mislabelled.
In all cases, they were sold to unsuspecting consumers as higher-priced or more-desirable fish species.

full story here: http://www.canada.com/topics/news/national/story.html?id=4381b239-db40-47da-ae6b-b573bc5dc72c

this reminds me of hot friday and saturday nights in bantama in kumasi. we used to gather and party there, and we'd always have banku and tilapia. not the most appetizing thing if you're expecting red snapper, but a nice trip down memory lane nonetheless. here's a look at one of ghana's favourite dishes.

banku is a ‘dumpling’ made from a sour, fermented corn mash which is wrapped in plantain leaves and boiled. It is to be eaten with your hands (right hand only). here it was served with fried tilapia and an extremely spicy salsa-like fresh sauce.

great with beer!

chapter 38: a journey of a thousand miles...

2008-08-19T09:50:00.000-07:00

"a journey of a thousand miles begins with a single step."
-lao-tzu

when i went to ghana to try and build human rights reporting capacity in the media, i knew results would come slowly, if at all. i had a couple of successes, but many disappointments as well. the story of humu, a muslim girl who was being forced to quit school and get married, was one of the ones that got away. we got her back in school briefly, but all indications were that she would be forced to marry when the media and police pressure was off. (read the full story here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/view.php?aid=1137)

but recently, my colleague muftaw mohammed, who was instrumental in our coverage of that story told me humu had managed to complete school and is looking forward to continuing her education. it's a big victory for a muslim girl in ghana. muslims face bigger hurdles to education and career success, particularly the girls, who are often treated like chattel. humu's success can serve as an example to her community, and open up new possibilities for so many disenfranchised young people. it's also a great example for young reporters like muftaw that they really can help change things for the better. here is the email i got from him:

Dear Bro,
Today my heart is glad that I did not lose in my fight against the violation of Human Rights. So I say kudos and more greetings to your elbows. All the credits to you for your leadership and training and man, I must say am really missing big time the good times when we used to work, dine and share ideas together. More especially, your efforts in igniting up my spirit when I am down.

All theses citation are occasioned by the phone call I had this morning from Humu’s mother to the effect that Humu has graduated from her computer course in Accra and is currently in kumasi with the mother waiting for her JHS certificate to continue with her education.

Now the mother and other family members who thronged the DOVVSU offices and I believe you remember that day, they are all now looking for you and I to offer us their vote of thanks and to crown us as heroes but I told them you have gone back to your home land.

So I say gracias to you.

We never walk alone.

chapter 37: private insecurity

2008-08-09T13:05:00.000-07:00

this is the face of the latest canadian soldier killed in afghanistan, the 89th since the mission began. master corporal josh roberts was shot during an operation against insurgents in the dangerous zhari district. he was known as an all-round good guy, and was expecting his first child next month. but this is more than another tragic story from the front lines.

investigations are underway to determine whether roberts was shot by a private security team which was in the area at the time. private security companies in war zones have been a source of controversy for years, particularly in iraq and afghanistan. the stories about tragic massacres involving blackwater and other private security companies abound.

many afghans, not to mention ngo's and the united nations, don't trust private security firms, and who can blame them?(http://www.privateforces.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2081&Itemid=99999999)

not only are these security companies making billions of dollars, they also kill civilians, and get tangled up with state military forces.

canadian forces shot and killed a private security guard in april from the same company being investigated in master corporal roberts' death. the canadians apparently shot at security personnel after they failed to heed warnings to stop advancing towards a military checkpoint. these firms provide security for development projects and protect foreign dignitaries. that's work the military used to do, but private security forces now fill these roles without legal and ethical boundaries.

newspaper reports in afghanistan say they increase the likelihood that those in the country to fight the taliban will be confused with security forces that often seem to play by their own rules. (http://www.privateforces.com/index.php?option=com_content&task=view&id=2022&Itemid=99999999)

it's making afghans increasingly nervous and breeding paranoia. and given the thin line between local cooperation and radicalization, perhaps it's time to give them the boot.

chapter 36: back on the pommel horse

2008-08-07T13:08:00.000-07:00

so it's been a while. between seeing long lost friends, getting back to work, re-acclimatizing to life in canada and partying in pemberton, i haven't been thinking about the blog. but now it's time to get back on it.

work is crazy in the lead up to the beijing olympics. we're understaffed, and golobal national has asked me to pick up the slack by training to do practically everything on the show, from broadcast producing, research, story producing and web editing. oh yeah, and writing. by next week, i'll probably even be up on the desk! it's going to be a hellish next month or two, but at least i'll be making good cash.

speaking of the olympics, exactly what everyone knew would happen...has happened. china has completely ignored its bid promise to respect freedom of speech. it blocked journalists' access to websites critical of the regime, such as amnesty international and falun gong. it has arrested dissenters, destroyed people's homes with no compensation to make room for facilities, and cracked down hard on free speech.

as far as i'm concerned, the olympics, as a movement, is over. it's now just a big corporate gangbang. there are efforts afoot to backroom the whole deal to protect what's left of the olympic reputation as a uniting human force. and unfortunately, it's being spearheaded by canada's ioc member, dick pound. the torch relay is close to being eliminated because, counter to uniting people in the olympic spirit, the international portion united people in protest against tyranny, and we can't have the ever-so-shining olympic reputation tarnished, can we?

Pound said:

"The international leg of the Beijing Olympic torch relay was close to a disaster that was beyond the control of the IOC and the organising committee. My commission, which examined the issue, felt that there should not be an international relay, and my understanding is that the coordination commission was of the same view. The risks were obvious and should have been assessed more closely. The result was that there was a crisis.
"My view is that there should be an analysis of how this happened and a resolution to do away with the international portion of the torch relay ... the high risk and low reward of the international leg is now obvious."

the only thing that's obvious to me is that pound is not representing canada's values...he's representing the jackbooting thugs at the ioc who support the jackbooting thugs of beijing.

beijing has tried to change the focus, saying this will be the best olympics ever. but from where i sit, the only thing that can obscure this disgusting olympic farce is the even more disgusting blanket of pollution that 'doesn't' sit over the olympic city.

chapter 35: french head(ache)

2008-07-03T11:20:00.000-07:00

i hate toulouse.

i was only supposed to be there for one night. i'd planned to stop and see my friend natalie, who i hadn't seen since we met in oz seven years ago. i traveled the five hours by train on tuesday, reluctantly leaving behind the golden beaches of san sebastian, and a whole lot of t's, k's and x's which prevail in the language of spanish basque country.

the plan was to spend the evening waterskiing at a local lake with nat and her boyfriend mike, then knock back a few pints. but the evening was apparently born under a bad sign. almost from the time we got in mike's van, ambulances seemed to be stalking us, suddenly materializing from alleys, side streets, overpasses and underpasses. we were perplexed. later, it would make perfect sense.

i had a date with un medicin francais.

it started innocently enough. after waterskiing, i cracked the top of my head getting into mike's van. but i was fine. for a while.

abut twenty minutes later, i started to feel like i'd just gotten off the gravitron, the most vomitous ride at playland. as we exited the van to head for the pub, it came on strong, and suddenly i couldn't stand. another 15 minutes later, dizzy, headachy, glassy-eyed with one pupil disconcertingly larger than the other, i was in the belly of the beast itself, being tended to by french firemen, who apparently act as paramedics too. the ambulance prophesy had come true.

after that, there really isn't much more to tell. i was kept overnight and tended to by excellent medical personnel, then let go in the morning. in all, i ended up blowing an extra 120 euros on an extra night's hotel stay and a replacment plane ticket to paris, and i lost a day there while i recuperated. so i don't have a lot of positives to take home from toulouse.

but if there's one silver lining, i learned michael moore was right on the mark about french healthcare in "sicko". when i inquired about the bill, the gracious, smiling french nurse replied "monsieur, c'est gratuit."

so suck on that dubya...are you listening barack?

chapter 34: far from the equator daze

2008-06-30T11:04:00.000-07:00

i'm a night person. always have been. or so i thought. lately i've been thinking that in some ways, we're really not in control of our bodies at all. it seems like the rhythms of our bodies are funkadelically linked to the beat of this great big rotating dance club called planet earth.

for example: in ghana, the sun set between 6pm and 6:45 the entire time i was there. when it gets dark, it gets dark. and í'm not speaking metaphorically here. the lack of street lights and frequent blackouts meant after sunset, i often couldn't see things that were two feet in front of my face.

on cue, i'd be tired. sure, i worked long, mentally and physically exhausting days, scurrying around in the hot sun, often while trying to wring coherent answers out of self-important big men.

but still, this is brennan we're talking about!

the life of the party, the one who never fell asleep during movies, the "let's shoot some tequila!" at 2am guy. suddenly, i was losing the war between my mind, which wanted to rock and roll all night and party ev'ry day, and my body, which thought i should be sleeping like a log...at 7:30. i even slept through what was supposed to be my birthday at the club, much to the disappointment of my ghanaian friends.

i felt old.

but then, a mysterious thing happened. when i came back to 'the world', my stay-up-and-go...came back. yes friends, the brennan you know and love is back. long live the party. and long live the san sebastian sunsets...at 10:30pm!

ps - body, this is mind. let's never fight again.

chapter 33: "they're all hoodlums..."

2008-06-17T13:47:00.000-07:00

"they're all hoodlums. one side is green hoodlums and the other side is orange hoodlums."

-john hawthorne, belfast

northern ireland is an interesting place. a tiny place, with a huge reputation. the country claims as its own noted authors such as james joyce, oscar wilde, and cs lewis to name only a few. there's breathtaking architecture and stunning natural beauty.

but it's perhaps best known for the infamous "troubles", between unionists loyal to the british crown, and irish nationalists. it's a long running bloodbath that claimed many innocent lives, pitted neighbours against neighbours and was immortalized by u2 in their song "sunday bloody sunday" about the 1972 killing of 14 people by british troops.

these days, a fragile peace prevails. the people are trying to forget and start over. greg and i got a chance to see it all, and even today, the scars are visible. we stayed with his relatives john and brenda hawthorne in belfast for a few days this month. they've seen it all. and even though the troubles are officially over the peace, in brenda's words, is only "a thin veneer."

walking around the unionist/protestant shankill road and the nationalist/catholic falls road, you can sense the tension. all over the city you see murals.

how could people forget when the reminders of all that tragedy are staring at them in vivid, living colour day after day?

you get the feeling one incident is all it would take for erstwhile butchers, barmen and short order cooks to put down the cleaver, the pint glass and the skillet, and pick up the guns and petrol bombs. the protective wall that divides the two sides is, even now, being built higher and higher.

to put it simply, the wounds are still open, and the emotional scars are generations away from healing. walking through the area, blighted by violence and economic depression, it dawned on me that gawking and taking pictures of memorials to dead teenagers and twentysomethings would be just a wee bit tacky. the words are heartfelt, the plaques shined to a high gloss. phrases like "IRA terrorists" and "evil genocide" make my spine tingle.

maybe one day the scars will heal, and the memorials will be allowed to dull and fade into memory.

but not yet.

chapter 32: t.i.a vs t.i.e

2008-06-06T17:52:00.000-07:00

day one in london. it's weird. clean streets. clean buildings. quiet, orderly traffic. brisk walking. quiet people who keep to themselves.

here's a funny short story.

all through my stay in africa, annoyances, inconveniences and uncomfortable material circumstances were the norm. and whenever i'd come across them, someone (often me) would mutter "this is africa." (or in the french parts, "c'est l'afrique".)

no running water? take a bucket bath. t.i.a.

someone's three hours late? t.i.a.

bad customer service? t.i.a.

constant sweating? t.i.a.

but what about t.i.e.?

i decided to spoil myself my first day in london. four star hotel. towels, soap included. no ants, cockroaches, mosquitoes. nice, hot shower. comfortable bed.

so what happens? the air conditioner conks out. the room is stifling. i'm sweating. on a typically cool, overcast london day.

i phone the front desk. no answer.

i decide to take a shower. no soap.

finally, i get the front desk. the concierge fiddles with the air conditioner and gets it working. but i'm still really hot. he brings soap. i take a cold shower.

i step out, and the room is glacial. now i'm freezing.

t.i.i.

this is irony.

chapter 31: 'ghana' daddy gone (the epilogue)

2008-06-06T17:06:00.000-07:00

for the last month, i've been looking forward to seeing family and friends on my post ghana travels in europe, and then at home in canada.

i'd had enough of ghana. it was time to go home. but then, a funny thing happened. i spent my last day in ghana wishing for one more day, a week, a month, to see friends i'll dearly miss and places that were on the to do list, but never crossed off.

i'm excited for the next chapter, but i'm also kind of dreading it. will europe and canada seem cold and boring by comparison?

obviously, ghana has a galaxy of problems, most related to poverty. but on leaving, i prefer to remember the good things.

i'll miss feeling special wherever i go, and hearing "you are welcome", "you are invited", and people caring, really caring, if i'm enjoying their country.

i'll miss watching young men in filthy clothes joke and laugh while hauling balky old wooden hand carts through streets clogged with traffic.

i'll miss goats. stupid, endearingly dopey goats, wandering everywhere.

i'll miss the cheerful honking of fan ice vendors and the industrious way street hawkers seemingly take over every corner of the country. as i was coming into accra on my way to the airport yesterday, one of them had his wares hanging on the razor wire separating the six lanes of traffic entering the city. making the best of things. that''s ghana.

i'll miss the dancing. not mine, theirs.

i'll miss the way nobody, from the youngest kids to grown men, has a problem putting their arm around a friend for all to see. not a trace of self-consciousness.

i'll miss watching strangers run unbidden to help push a broken down old trotro through traffic in the blazing, stifling heat.

i'll miss how ghanaians call eachother brother or sister, regardless of which of the country's 100 or so ethnicities they belong to.

sunrise, sunset.

finally on my way out, on the plane at 30,000 feet, i'm glad, sad, and a little guilty. i've taken a lot more than i've given. i've seen things most people will never have a chance to see, both good and bad.

ghana has become precious to me, no longer simply an unknown part of an unknown continent, the hoary, cliched, "dark continent". i wonder if i'll ever see it again.

below, the land is shrouded in the blackest night. but i'm quickly leaving it behind, that much is sure. the land is receding outside my window, and in my mind. it already seems like i've just woken up from an incredibly vivd, ludicrous dream.

and like all dreams, the events of the past 8 months already seem unreal.

chapter 30: open letter to god

2008-06-04T06:09:00.000-07:00

dear god/allah,

i consider myself a pretty good guy. i generally adhere to the golden rule, which is the only one all religions seem to have in common. but i'm not a super religious guy. i don't go to church, never pray, and engage in a laundry list of behavious that are clearly sinful. that's kind of what this letter is all about.

anyway, i'm writing to tell you, the world you (supposedly?) created is out of whack. as i leave ghana, i'm reflecting on the last 8 months spent living with some of the world's unfortunates. they have a brutal natural environment to deal with, terrible health conditions, grinding poverty and pretty bleak expectations that the whole mess will ever improve.

but they believe in you.

they smile, help eachother, give of what little they have to visitors. and they thank you every day. i'm still trying to figure out what they're thanking you for. lack of running water? the insistent, sizzling heat? malaria mosquitoes? i'm not sure.

but here's the thing: they're a lot more thankful to you for their scant comforts than the western world is for its lavish lifestyle.

and as i head back into that world, i'm thinking on the contradictions. i'm looking forward to having religion in its proper perspective, as the people of ghana go a little nuts with it at times. i'm sure even you would prefer to leave zealotry out of the plan. but i'm not looking forward to hearing "god bless america/canada/god save the queen". why is it that poor people are thanking you for their paltry lot in life, while rich people keep asking you to bless them even more?

i'm still not sure about you, god. the world seems to spin faster and faster out of control, like a twisted merry go 'round, operated by a demented psycho. there seems to be a certain randomness to it, like nobody's actually in control at all. so here's the deal: change the balance. give the poor a break. send them rain, responsible leaders, brilliant doctors and scientists. send the west a little fear, drought, pestilence and fire.

have you seen how the west is living right now? we dropped out of your program a long time ago. the vast majority of africans are with you. it's about time you showed the world who's in control, cause lately, it seems like you're on a really long break.

give em a goddamned break, willya?

chapter 29: luvingly yours

2008-05-23T06:39:00.000-07:00

over the last 8 months, luv fm has been my home away from home. some of the human right issues i've examined include:

-the plight of the mentally ill
-forced marriage
-the sanitation nightmare
-efforts to neutralize the malaria menace
-the cost of education
-the muslim education gap
-unethical journalism
-water shortages

a few of the stories have had an impact. other times, i was simply helping my colleagues feed the beast, and trying to impart some advice about basic reporting skills at the same time. there's been a lot of ups and downs, but mostly, i feel proud of the job i've done, and grateful that i've survived!

but there's also been a lot of time where nothing was happening. ghanaians have a really relaxed attitude towards work, and some days, the agenda didn't extend much beyond lunch. i can't even begin to estimate how many hours i've spend in the yard just bs'ing with my colleagues. the slow pace of work used to really annoy me, but as i look back, those are some of the times i treasure most.

it's a lesson from university all over again. sometimes, you can learn more by about yourself and others over a beer! so, as all outgoing letters from luv end, here's a pictorial ode to some of the great times at work.

luvingly yours,

bren/kwaku

Luv/Nhyira FM reporter Ohemeng Tawiah (right) and his brother.

Luv afternoon talk show host David Akwetey.

Luv presenter and my housemate, Kofi DeAqua with students at his alma mater at the Old Skuuls Reunion.

Luv/Nhyira FM news editor Saeed Ali Yaqub.

Luv sports presenter Frank, often called Frank Riijkard or Senior Letchkov, after the footballers

Jack of all trades Nana Benyin (left) with Nhyira presenter Okukuseku, my first friend in Kumasi.
The techie known only as 'Captain'.

My young protege Muftaw Mohammed with Tris.
Luv sports presenter Della Atiase.

chapter 28: can't wait to miss ghana

2008-05-21T10:14:00.000-07:00

it's weird to be nostalgic for something you've not yet left, but that's the situation i find myself in. here then, a list of the good and the bad.

yay!
-cheap and delicious fried yams, roast plantain, pineapples and mangoes
boooooo!
-every kind of food pounded into unappetizing glutinous goo.

yay!
-friendly strangers who smile and welcome you at every turn.
boooooo!
-aforementioned strangers who become pests by calling you constantly.

yay!
-exotic animals, nice beaches, all very cheap.
boooooo!
-the difficulty of traveling to these locations, and mosquitoes.

yay!
-the heat.
boooooo!
the heat.

yay!
-hot beats and dancing for fun, as opposed to dancing to look cool.
boooooo!
-chicago, celine dion and other mindless pap constantly heard on radio stations.

yay!
-freedom and laissez fair attitude about just about everything.
boooooo!
-litterbugs, traffic, choking pollution, noise pollution.

yay!
-the soothing nightly symphony of crickets and frogs.
boooooo!
-idiot roosters who can't tell time.

yay!
-the acceptance of foreigners.
boooooo!
-routine discrimination against just about every visible or invisible minority.

yay!
the surprising prevalence of cell phones.
boooooo!
the absolutely painful crawl of the internet.

chapter 27: spiritual skulduggery

2008-05-21T09:45:00.000-07:00

i've posted often about the alternately bizarre and maddening world of ghanaian spirituality. my biggest pet peeve is so-called men of god who combine christianity with traditional beliefs.

is it a duck or a goose?

to me, combining religious world views always exposes these shysters as shameless opportunists who will turn people's sincere beliefs into a really sleazy religious flea market in order to attract the biggest congregations. this, of course, allows them to drive around in hummers and live in mansions while their 'customers' starve.

correct me if i'm wrong, religious folks, but doesn't it say in the bible that thou shalt not worship false idols? whaddya call invoking black spirits and enlisting the help of fetish priests?

anyway, long story short, a much-hyped battle of so-called religious powers fizzled last week in kumasi when christian pastors failed to show up for an encounter with the well-known fetish priest kwaku bonsam. they claimed they were just as powerful as bonsam, but they chickened out. today, the following pathetic excuses for that turtle show appeared in The Daily Guide. it pretty much sums up why i hate ghana's brand of christian con-artists:

Pastor Mad At Kwaku Bonsam

REV. EBENEZER ADARKWA Yiadom, Founder and Leader of the Ebenezer Miracle Worship Centre at Ahenema Kokoben in Kumasi caused a stir last week when he heaped curses upon curses on people who he claimed were making mockery of him.

He said: “In the name of the God that I serve faithfully, any woman who will tease me that Kwaku Bonsam has defeated me, she and her entire family including her children would suffer all the days of their lives.“Any girl who will tease me about this issue, I swear that poverty will be her portion all the days of her life.“And any boy who will make mockery of me about the Kwaku Bonsam issue will always be a slave and would beg before he gets his daily bread; that boy will never prosper in life,” he told Nkosuo FM.

Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom, had, after boasting on radio that he was more powerful than Kwaku Bonsam, the sensational fetish priest from Akomadan-Afrancho in the Ashanti Region, failed to show up for a spiritual contest between him and the latter.

Kwaku Bonsam, beaming with hopes, however stormed the Jackson Park, venue of the spiritual contest, to show some of his spiritual prowess to the delight of the elated crowd that jammed the place.

Kwaku Bonsam, before performing his wonders, bragged that he was battle-ready to shame Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom and that it was unfortunate that the Man of God could not show up for the contest.

Following this development residents of Kumasi, who phoned into various radio programmes, accused Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom of chickening out.Others went to the extent of openly teasing the Man of God of not wielding spiritual powers from the Omnipotent God as claimed, thus his decision not to meet Kwaku Bonsam face-to-face.

But in a sharp rebuttal, Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom, speaking on Nkosuo FM in Kumasi, emphatically stated that it was untrue that he ran away from Kwaku Bonsam for fear of being disgraced by the fetish priest.He wondered aloud why some people were making mockery of him, especially on radio networks across the city.

Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom who sounded irritated, surprisingly heaped numerous curses on people he claimed were teasing him, to the dismay of thousands of radio listeners in the Garden City.

Touching on events leading up to the no show spiritual contest, the pastor explained that the spiritual contest was originally scheduled for the forecourt of the Ghana Broadcasting Corporation (GBC) in Accra on Thursday, May 15, and not Jackson Park as claimed by Kwaku Bonsam.According to him he was in Kumasi on Thursday morning and went to the Jackson Park around 10:00 am and found the place empty, insisting that he was not afraid of Kwaku Bonsam as being speculated.He continued that he left Kumasi for Accra by air around 2:45 pm that day and that Kwaku Bonsam who monitored his movements for the day, stormed the Jackson Park when he was airborne.

“Immediately I left Kumasi to officially open a branch of my church in Accra, Kwaku Bonsam hurriedly stormed the Jackson Park to brag that he was more powerful than me, which is false.”

Rev. Adarkwa contended that he was more powerful than Kwaku Bonsam and was prepared to meet him anywhere, any time and at any place. “I am ready to face him squarely and I will bring his evil works to an end on that day.“I will command Kwaku Bonsam to fall from his horse; he cannot match me because I serve the living God,” Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom indicated, adding “if he defeats me, go and burn my church”.

Reacting to a question as to whether it was Biblical for a Man of God to engage a fetish priest in a spiritual contest, Rev. Adarkwa-Yiadom said “as David confronted Goliath who was making mockery of the Israelites, God’s chosen people, so I will defeat Kwaku Bonsam to give glory to God”.

From Fred J.A. Ibrahim Jnr., Kumasi

chapter 26: l'horreur d'afrique

2008-05-12T09:16:00.000-07:00

i've talked a little about the influence of traditional beliefs in africa, such as witches and wizards, fetish priests etc. i've seen a few bizarre fetish items in kumasi's huge central market like buzzard wings. but nothing approaching what's been happening in the congo. suddenly, i want to get the hell outta dodge: http://news.sky.com/skynews/article/0,,30200-1313926,00.html

chapter 25: freelance first

2008-05-12T09:11:00.000-07:00

just notched my first ever paid freelance gig. i wrote a short article for an online publication from holland. there's not a lot to it, but still, it's kind of exciting:

http://www.powerofculture.nl/en/current/2008/April/ICACD_culture_development_agenda_Africa+

chapter 24: mad about mugabe

2008-04-28T03:33:00.000-07:00

there's something of a dictatorial impulse in african politics.

news flash!

ok, i know that's nothing new, but it seems the list of african tragedies will never end. in addition to the well-known long running disputes, we have the recent violence in kenya.

the zimbabwe election saga looks increasingly likely to go from laughable to bloody. mugabe is holding on with both arthritic 80 year old claws and his decrepit false teeth. the opposition mdc says 15 of its supporters have been killed in post-election violence. and more than 200 of its activists were arrested during a police raid on its headquarters on friday.

the cartoon basically encapsulates mugabe's attitude towards competition.

and cameroon could be next. the country's 1996 constitution enshrined two seven year terms as the limit for presidents. but parliament recently adopted amendments that will allow the current president, who's been in power since 1982, to continue indefinitely. and even better, another amendment shields the president against prosecution for anything he does while in power! yay accountability!

so what the deal, yo? do african leaders tend more towards dictatorship, or do the societies as a whole?

interestingly, many people i speak to blame the lack of development in ghana on too much democracy...yeah, that's right, they would prefer a bit more of a dictatorial style from their leaders. it's not a scientific poll in any way, but it's interesting, given most ghanaians were alive during the bloody reign of flt lt jerry rawlings. and stranger still, rawlings still carries a lot of influence. i think he should be in jail myself...but maybe that's the difference between them and us?

chapter 23: the highs and the lows

2008-04-21T04:02:00.000-07:00

8:30 pm, and all is well. i'm sitting on the front stoop of the house, enjoying rare moments of peace and quiet. the air is heavy and fragrant with the greenery of kumasi's lush backcountry, away from the teeming humanity and choking pollution of the busy metropolis.

the lights have gone out again, and the stupefying heat has forced me out of the house. in ghana, sundown signals near perfect darkness, as most of the country is without street lights. tonight, with the lights out, the darkness is so thick that i literally can't see five feet in front of me. the black hole of the night is punctured only by the light of my headlamp, as i read and enjoy a gentle breeze. i greet people passing by, and speak with my housemates as they come and go. the light are out, but for the moment, it's not unpleasant.

inside however, is another story. it's like an oven, and when i finally go to bed, i toss and turn all night. there's no running water at the moment either. we're basically camping, but not by choice. this is unpleasant.

and this morning when i wake, there are red eyes and yawns all around. these are the highs and lows of life in west africa. pleasant and peaceful one moment, uncomfortable and primitive the next.

chapter 22: april fool's! the anatomy of the worst joke ever

2008-04-03T10:40:00.000-07:00

i've done it. i've managed to wash away six months worth of goodwill in one day. i am public enemy number one in the kumasi metropolis, all due to a made-up occasion which i've always thought was stupid.

reconstructing now for the record, the ignominious fall of luv fm's favourite (and only) obruni contribuor.

monday, march 31st, 8:47am: luv's producer/host/promotions guru extraordinaire nana benin pulls me aside and asks me to participate in a hilarious april fool's day hoax. i blindly agree.

8:49am: i am to appear on anita's show, the metro mix, to promote a fictional scholarship to an information technology school in chicago. the school is called christian centenary university. it doesn't exist.

11:27am: i head into the studios, and am handed a fake press release. apparently, i have arranged the scholarship through a friend of mine. aren't i great? she works for an ngo called microchip organizational development structures incorporated. which, also, exists neither in the present nor the past.

11:33am: rhianna's “umbrella” (the remix!) finishes playing for the gazillionth time. i'm given a glowing introduction. i give my shpiel. we both cover our microphones with our hands and titter like idiots.

11:35am: anita tells people they have to bring their resume to the station, and do it today! now! this was not discussed with me. then call a certain number for their code. i feel a twinge of guilt. but surely, nobody will rush over on such short notice!

11:45am: after a few more songs, probably akon, then rhianna, and rhianna again, i sign off.

11:46am: nana's phone rings. he answers and gives the info. gives out the code. luv-apfl/01. a. p. f. l. april fool's! now that's clever. surely people will catch on.

11:47am: nana's phone rings again.

11:48am: nana's phone rings again. getting the idea?

12:12pm: fresh off air, anita rushes over to me, breathless. “my phone keeps ringing! you were so good!”

12:17pm: my phone starts ringing. i am officially going to hell, i say. everyone around me laughs. nobody disagrees.

12:18pm: i busy myself with editing stories, catching up on writing, and hiding in the newsroom. the resumes have started arriving.

4:02pm: nana has taken 63 calls, has gotten seven text messages, and missed 44 calls. gulp.

6:12pm: i head home.

11:33pm: i fall asleep. nightmares of lynching ensue.

tuesday, april 1, 6:31am: i wake up. shower. brush teeth. begin preparing mental list of large friends who can serve as bodyguards.

9:11am: after morning editorial meeting, i poke my head in nana's office. he looks harried. his phone is stuck in his ear. i lift an eyebrow as he tells someone: “your code is l-u-v-dash-a-p-f-l-slash-one-one-one.”

9:13am: i lock myself in the bathroom. i retch. Rinse, repeat.

11:35am: i'm back with anita. akon finishes telling everyone “nobody wanna see us together...” and we're on. we have dozens of resumes. dozens. we read some. they're passionately written, and so sincere. we laugh off air. we're not only going to hell, but soon. after an extremely painful death.

11:45am: we take some calls. people tell us why they want the scholarship. there are computer professionals, other kinds of professionals, students, the unemployed.

11:49am: nana gives us the final tally: 127 codes given, 84 missed calls, ten text messages. in about a day. we have underestimated demand. severely.

11:56am: we break the news. it's a hoax. nobody has caught on. all were blinded by dumb hope. i suck.

11:58am: a young man who applied is dragged forlornly into the studio. he had no idea. he's disappointed. he looks like he's about to cry. i stab out my eyes.

12:05pm: i finalize my bodyguard list.

12:08pm: angry mob is forming at the gates.

12:11pm: i stride out bravely to meet them. they tear me apart.

or;

12:11pm: i stride out timidly in an upright fetus-like position. see the definition of supplication. i plead for mercy. i cry. the crowd disperses disgustedly.

6:06pm: in reality, i am carried out in a mail sack, placed surreptitiously in a car trunk and smuggled away.

6:12pm: clear of mob, i promise to confine myself to news and good deeds.

6:35pm: heading to local rice spot, i consume a rare weekday alcoholic beverage. restaurant attendant asks “why did you fool the people like that?”

6:36pm: sigh.

chapter 21: witchcraft, black magic and the law

2008-03-27T03:58:00.000-07:00

ghana is a very superstitious land. religions familiar to westerners abound, with a side order of zealotry here and there. but i've been consistently fascinated with the indigenous beliefs that hold tremendous influence here, like black magic, wizardry and witchcraft.

to me, it always seems like their version of the boogeyman. as a child i was told "go to bed, or the boogeyman will get you!" of course, i eventually realized it was just a scare story, designed to get kids to obey.

but ghanaians never seem to reach that stage.

most people still believe there are some people who can communicate with spirits, perform curses, perform voodoo or juju, even enlist spirits to exact revenge on those who have wronged them.

"you will see what will happen" is the ominous threat that spiritual payback is coming.

there was a hilarious example of how traditional beliefs can collide with modern life during a legal seminar at luv fm yesterday. a few shows on the local language station, nhyira fm, specialize in stories about the supernatural. the company lawyer was warning presenters not to use names when a guest is accusing someone of witchcraft or wizardry. in some parts, such an accusation can lead to serious consequences; ostracism, banishment to witch camps, or even deadly mob action. there have been lawsuits. said the exasperated lawman: "how can i prove she is a witch in court? she will deny it!"

i was the only one laughing. this is a weighty legal issue in ghana, and british common law is not equipped to deal with it.

Fetish Priest Nana Kwaku Bonsam.

fetish priests are sort of a catch-all for traditional spiritual beliefs. i've been wanting to see one in action for a long time, and yesterday i finally got the chance. i returned to the station after a story assignment to find a fetish priest giving a demonstration. he was clothed in traditional white cloth, muttering incantations, supposedly turning leaves into money. as far as i could tell, he was simply pulling money out of a covered basket. everyone was watching in amazement. i have to admit, i was underwhelmed.

but then he did something a little more dramatic. he took a knife, and started slashing his arms, stomach and even his eyes. no blood spewed, and not a mark appeared. then he took a tree branch and easily cut through it with the knife.

hmmmm...

later i saw his assistant putting the leaves-into-money basket away. the top slipped a bit, and not surprisingly, i saw both leaves and money inside. much to the annoyance of my colleagues, who expected me to abandon my stubbornly rational disbelief, i now believe these individuals are not practising black magic, but are simply accomplished illusionists.

but i'm warning you all right now: don't cross me!

"you will see what will happen!"

chapter 20: feelin' fine

2008-03-27T03:22:00.000-07:00

i have been slightly neglectful of the blog lately, n0t because i've been particularly busy, but because life has assumed a strange, unlooked-for peace.

six months in, with my time here now flying towards "the end", life almost seems normal.

not to say i've come to love bucket showers, water scarcity, burning garbage piles, poverty and all the other challenges here. it's just become a part of life. i'm more or less comfortable with the routine, having finally aquired the wherewithal to forge a normal routine in this environment that seemed chaotic at first.

i walk down the streets, hardly noticing the myriad and sometimes bizarre things being hawked by the roadside. i smile at those who greet my in the typical way, although most of them recognize me by now.

i stop by the european market to pick up mangoes, pineapples, oranges apples...all costing the equivalent of a few dollars! fruit guy is always happy to see me. those few dollars are important to him, and to me it's a ridiculous bargain. take that, safeway!

i eat rice at a food stand while talking to my friend who sells used clothing in the business district. i've never bought anything from him, but he's always happy to chat for a few minutes.

i feel like the king of kensington, minus the baldness, and replacing the cheesy soundtrack with a funky hip life beat.

there's gotta be a tv show in there somewhere.

chapter 19: sex and chocolate

2008-03-17T08:51:00.000-07:00

ghana is a strange place when it comes to sex and sexuality. people are embarassed to talk about it much, but they do it alot.

case in point, masturbation. i know, it sounds like the beginning of a joke, but it's not. a radio presenter at love asked me what i thought about masturbation. i said i figured everyone had done it at some point in their lives. so we asked some other people, and nobody would admit it in person. but almost everyone admitted it on the radio, having had the chance to conceal their identities.

there's also a huge variety of herbal potions to enhance sexual pleasure, often being sold by street hawkers who can't even read the labels. if they happen to be in english. i remember when tristin visited, someone tried to sell her a little bottle of 'sex juice'. it had a picture of a couple having sex. and that was really all the information to be gleaned from the bottle.

women are especially frowned upon if they admit to having had muliple sexual partners. it's gotten so bad that they've resorted to an herbal potion that changes their organ, and makes men think they're virgins. oh yeah...the potion causes cervical cancer and hiv.

it reminds me of bon jovi. "your love is like baaad medicine..." really, really bad medicine.

on a lighter, sex-related note, ghana chocolate is good. pure cocoa, very few chemicals. cadbury will never taste the same.

now that's orgasmic!

chapter 18: the paradox of being an obruni

2008-02-28T09:37:00.000-08:00

every day, i fight an ironic battle between choosing to enjoy the advantages of being a while man in ghana, and accepting the same drawbacks that come with being a regular kweku or amma.
ducking out of the office in mid-morning for some delicious fried yams with pepper sauce, i greet the man and wife who sell them on the street just outside the office. as usual, their adorable three year old son squeals in fear when he sees me, shouting “obruni” and ducking for cover behind his father. as always i laugh, and feign a snarling lunge at the boy, which never fails to send him into delirious fits of pleasure and horror.

the white man is scary! but he's paying attention to me! wheeee!

it's okay when kids call me obruni, and i don't even mind it when adult strangers do it, even though the cute factor goes way down when that cursed word emenates from between the jack o' lantern like teeth of a wizened old market woman. call me an asshole, but it seems downright undignified. nevertheless, i shrug it off.

what happens next, however, is a whole different ball of banku, and some days i can barely contain myself. i have told my luv colleagues repeatedly i don't want to be called obruni. “i have a name, use it!” my smile is friendly enough, but my eyes mean business. a few of them don't get the message. today, one of the more stubborn members of that tribe strolls in and calls me the dreaded “o” word. i look at him and say “why do you always say obruni, obruni...that's for children. you know my name, but every day you call me obruni!”

he appears to be hurt, explaining that it's not negative, i am white man, he is black man. i explain that i know that, but why should we separate eachother based on race? he says, “that is how we do. we separate you because the white man is up here, and we are down here. you are rich, we are poor. you are better.”

i feel mortified.

trying to be treated as an equal is a losing battle. just because i'm rich (compared to him) am i better? he says yes.

“was it hard for you to get a visa?” “no,” i admit.

“you saw how bush was treated on his visit? would people care that much about the president of
ghana?” “no,” i say again.

it's hard to argue that kind of logic, even though i'm living an working beside ghanaians precisely because i don't believe race matters when determining an individual's worth.
but the truth is, i often feel like a hypocrite.

every day, someone insists on carrying something for me, serving me first, and my protests are always futile. case in point: at the post office yesterday, i arrived at 3:45, and quickly waded into the disorganized mess of humanity, intent on picking up a so-called “instant money transfer” from accra. i'd been there twice before, but had to leave because i didn't have the required information once, and because i didn't have all day to wait the second time. after waiting and watching three giggling employees gossip among themselves for half an hour, we were informed the office was closed, and told to come back tomorrow.

uhh, no. no signage and lazy employees = angry brennan.

i start yelling.

yes, yelling.

“it says instant money transfer! we've been waiting half an hour and not one person has been served. i left work early to come, and i want my money now!” they took my slip and disappeared into the back. everyone else was told to come back. five minutes later, an agent taps me on the shoulder, and spirits me around the corner, taking covert glances over her shoulder to make sure none of the angry crowd has noticed. i get my money.

i'm mollified, but somewhat guilty.

i've gotten used to the lax customer service standards here, and have often seen employees sleeping on the job. but if things don't run properly, and i get served because i'm white, am i taking unfair advantage of my status? it doesn't seem unreasonable for operating hours to be posted, for employees to work while a crowd waits, or at least be conscious.

there goes my dream of equality. i guess i'll never be a real ghanaian.

chapter 17: a shitty situation

2008-02-28T04:15:00.000-08:00

a lot of ghana's health problems can be traced to unsanitary bathroom facilities, and the disposal of human waste. public bathrooms are hard to come by at times, and food sellers routinely set up right beside open sewers. yum.

but designating people as couriers of waste stinks, even by ghanaian standards. it's shocking that government would have to step in to end the practise. the following story is courtesy of the ghana news agency:

plan to phase out carrying of human excreta -sc

accra, feb. 26, gna - the supreme court on tuesday gave the accra metropolitan assembly (ama) three months to come out with a comprehensive plan that will serve as a guide in its desire to phase out the practice, whereby, human excreta is carried by some people in society.

the court's order followed an agreement reached between mr stanley amarteifio, counsel for ama and nana adjei ampofo, an accra legal practitioner, who instituted an action against the assembly for engaging the services of certain persons as carriers of human waste.

the five-member panel of the court, presided over by ms justice sophia akuffo ordered ama to ensure that the implementation plan, whose preparation should include unit committee members, is publicized. consequently, the court, whose other panel members were mr. justice steve brobbey, mr. justice richard twum aninakwa, mrs. sophia adinyira and mr justice samuel kwadwo asiamah, adjourned the matter to june 3. earlier, mr. amarteifio told the court that under the agreement, ama intends to phase out the practice completely, within the next five years.

in 2006, nana ampofo instituted the action at the supreme court against ama challenging its constitutional right to engage the services of certain people to carry human excreta.
nana ampofo sued the attorney-general (a-g) jointly with the ama, because the a-g is the government's legal officer and therefore as a government entity, the ama is to be represented or defended by the a-g. in his writ, nana ampofo sought a declaration from the supreme court that, the act or practice of ama engaging the services of certain ghanaians to carry faeces or toilet in pans on their heads was an affront to their dignity.

furthermore, he prayed the court to restrain ama to abolish the practice, since, in his view, it was not only cruel and inhuman, but also degrading to the carriers as human beings.
one other relief sought by nana ampofo was for the court to direct ama to abolish the practice, since it was inconsistent with, and contravened article 15 of the 1992 constitution.
article 15 states among others that, "the dignity of all persons shall be inviolable, and that no person shall, whether or not he is arrested restricted or detained, be subjected to torture or other cruel, inhuman or degrading treatments or punishment."

in his writ, counsel averred that as a citizen of ghana who alleges that a provision of the constitution has been breached by the ama, he does not need any special interest, and that it was enough for him as a ghanaian, to bring the action against ama under the constitution counsel averred further that, the public interest considerations required that the practice be immediately abolished, as it constituted, not only a health hazard to the carriers, but also promoted the spread of diseases.

nana ampofo said if ama made bye-laws banning the practice and ensured compliance, house owners would provide more hygienic places of convenience, adding that the assembly could also provide on site disposal systems or hygienic collection, treatment and off-site disposal systems.
he further said that the use of pan latrines ought to be abolished or banned in ghana, a nation aspiring to achieve a middle income status by the year 2015.

nana ampofo said the carriers often referred to as "latrine boys", "do not work out of choice", and that by carrying the pans on their heads, the human excreta, with its attendant stench, at times spilled over and drilled on to their shoulders. in his view, therefore, this practice needed to be abolished.

chapter 16: what is wrong with canadians?

2008-02-21T08:17:00.000-08:00

i live in a house of ghanaians. it's a house of laughter, music, happiness and poverty. those things don't go together, but that's ghana. they've got nothing, but they act like they've got everything.

one of housemates, ramzey, is one of the most amazing, unrelentingly positive people i have ever met. he simply refuses to be negative. at 28, he is the 'junior brother' to kofi, who also lives in the house. being the younger brother, he gets to do all the household chores, he gets to clean, and bring in the washing. he also fetches water when the taps aren't flowing, which is almost always. he flat refuses to let me help.

every night when he sees me, he greets me with a smile, and a “you are welcome”.

he makes 60 cedis a month, approximately equivalent to $60 cad, working at a textile shop near the airport, about 45 minutes to an hour from home. his public transportation bill eats up close to 40 cedis per month, leaving him about 20 cedis. he works six days a week, at least twelve hours a day. he has a wife and son. what he can't afford on his regular salary, he makes up by privately buying and selling things for small profits.

he has never asked me for anything.

he manages his life and takes care of his immediate and extended family. but he doesn't just get by. somehow, through iron discipline (something i know very little about) he has managed to save money. he has big dreams of opening a business importing used appliances from korea. he has all the details worked out. he even has a business license already.

he's got a long way to go, his earnings so meagre the dream must sometimes seem unreachable. but he keeps on going, with a million dollar smile, and not much else.

all of which begs the questions: what's wrong with us? why do we constantly bitch and moan about every little thing?

it's embarassing.

ramzey has dreams. and i'm making plans.

chapter 15: "gotta get BACK in time..." (with apologies to huey lewis)

2008-02-13T07:54:00.000-08:00

i've been fascinated with time travel ever since 1985, when i saw “back to the future” as a wide-eyed eight year old. the world was full of wonder, and it seemed possible to build a machine that could take me back to the time of the dinosaurs. as i got older, i realized time travel was a fanciful and unrealistic idea.

hello, mcfly!

but as i've progressed into my thirties, i've come to realize that we don't need the flux capacitor. we've had a time machine for decades. catch a flight to africa and you too can travel back in time, just like michael j. fox.

a recent trip to mole national park and a close encounter with a herd of massive african elephants sent me reeling into prehistoric times. we roamed the crusty savannah, sweating through the stultifying heat, and marveling at the humongous beasts. seeing them in person was one of the most surreal and amazing experience of my life.

(see pictures here: http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=6321&l=c2ac8&id=505014963)

but it isn't all sunshine and elephants.

getting to the park was an adventure, the kind universal studios could cash in on, big time. the trip was typical of what you might have experienced in the developed world...long before it was the developed world. the buses are often 50's or 60's-era hand me downs, prehistoric in their own right. the seats are uncomfortable, the shocks worn out. and the roads are rutted, full of holes, and often made of dirt, even on the major routes between large cities.

we started our journey to mole in kumasi, heading to the stc station for a 7am bus. stc is the only bus line in ghana that has regularly scheduled departures. we calculated that with any luck, we'd travel the 380 kilometers to tamale in seven hours or so, just in time to connect with local bus transport for another four hour ride to mole. unfortunately, though the stc has a regular schedule, it doesn't seem capable of actually following that schedule.

and the following is really the most important part of having a schedule.

anyway, we pulled out of the station at 8:15, already behind the proverbial 8 ball. after a stop or three along the way for gas, wee wee breaks, food breaks, we finally arrived in tamale, at about 3:30pm. luckily for us, african time was in our favour this time. the connecting bus, which was to have left an hour earlier, had still not arrived.

the next challenge was securing a ticket. the bus was full. we were out of luck. that is, until the young guy who had shown us where the bus would be leaving from started campaigning on our behalf. he managed to convince the driver to let us, and a number of other people sit on the floor, stand or wedge ourselves into any number of places a human shouldn't sit for a four hour trip over terrible roads.

i'm not sure how old the dirt roads from tamale to mole are, but they can't be much newer than the elephants roaming the park. they definitely predate road graders. the ancient bus rattled and rolled its way over holes and ridges, grinding bones and jostling internal organs. and the seating plan on the bus...well, let's be honest: there was no seating plan. i can't imagine this scene anywhere in canada. no escape routes uncluttered by bags or bodies in the event of an accident or fire. we were breaking about a dozen laws on the books in cities in modern countries. and as the sun set, we were plunged into darkness. terrifying darkness. no lights anywhere, not on the roads or in the occasional village.

but four hours later, we made it. we made it, but considering our sore butts, sweaty backs and pure exhaustion from the odyssey, i'm thinking next time, i might rent a car.

meanwhile, a word for the ghanaian government: the road to prosperity runs through infrastructure investment!

chapter 14: straight buggin', y'all!

2008-02-08T06:52:00.001-08:00

growing up in the comparatively ultra-clean, almost annoyingly disease-free great white north does little to prepare prospective residents of a place like ghana. at times, my journey into west africa has struck me with an acute case of fear and loathing. it's a whole new world of potential health hazards lurking around every corner; a breeding ground, if you will, for paranoia.

every day when i wake up, i assess my body for damages. is that itchy red mark a gift from a malaria-bearing mosquito? poisonous spider? bedbug? it's like christmas all year long. only in this version, i can truthfully say it's better to give than recieve and really mean it for the first time in my life. i like to imagine families gathered around the tree, giving eachother guinea worm wrapped in festive little packages, saying “i saw this and had to get it for you!”

painful welts, itchy bumps, unknown red scrapes, runny eyes and nose, searing blisters, abdominal pain...there's a million stories on the human body, and mine has heard them all. the lonely planet's “dangers and annoyances” section has become a virtual to do list. theoretically, you don't want to drink the water, eat certain unidentifiable foods, expose yourself to festering garbage piles or rivers of raw sewage.

but those are sooo yesterday. there are much more creative and exotic ways to test the ol' travel insurance!

bilharzia, for instance. i have no idea how to pronounce it, or even what it is. i do know i don't like the sound of it. i know it's present in many of ghana's lakes and rivers. when i ask the locals if it's safe to swim, the typically casual reply “it seems so,” doesn't fill me with confidence. better to steer clear than emerge from the water with a third arm, no?

it's a hypochondriac's wet dream. there's always some nasty virus or parasite lurking just around the corner.

and fellow refugees from the safe, luxurious embrace of the developed world don't help, either. everyone's got a story. from falling off a motorcycle, to serious malaria, and stumbling into a rain-filled gutter for a nice, relaxing sewage bath. That's sewage, not seaweed, for all you spa-goers. and the less said about the hospitals of horror, the better. that's one time you may be better off with a marathon waiting room experience.

but despite all the pitfalls, i remain relatively healthy. this despite eating questionable morsels of street meat, going weeks without taking my daily malaria meds and tro-tro rides like real-life amusement park attractions.

knock on wood.

maybe i should be a little more cautious. maybe i should pay more attention to the various scars, bumps and blemishes ravaging my alabaster skin.

but then again, i was never all that attractive anyway.

either way, i'm enjoying myself too much to care, and building up one hell of a lot of antibodies while i'm at it!

chapter 13: hitting the halfway point on a high

2008-01-16T02:43:00.000-08:00

moving somewhere as completely and bewilderingly different as ghana is one long roller coaster ride. there have been plenty of ups and downs, but the time has been flying by as of late. i recently celebrated my centennial in ghana - 100 days.

as i write this, i'm off on vacation for a couple weeks, and before i get back to work, i'll have hit the official halfway mark of this 248 day journey. to me, that sounds amazing, considering there have been days i thought would never end, that made me feel like packing it in and going home.

i'll be heading to accra to meet tristin today, who's visiting from home for a couple weeks. i can't wait. i can't wait for a familiar face that i can communicate with full bore. i won't have to use half-english phrases like "i'm coming" instead of "i'll be right back". explaining what you just said to someone who doesn't understand gets exhausting.

we'll celebrate tristin's birthday on saturday. on sunday, we'll cheer on the ghana black stars at the first game of the african cup of nations football championships. i've always wanted to be at a game among fans who live and breathe the sport, and they don't come much more passionate than ghanaians. on monday, we'll start a two week beach tour along the coast in the western region. then it's off to kakum national park for a night or two of camping on the treetops. then a few days in kumasi, where tristin will be besieged by my drooling male colleagues who have been driving me crazy asking when their new wife will be coming. it's making me laugh just imagining it.

as difficult as things have been at times, work has been really busy and really productive lately. and i'm starting to see real tangible signs of success.

my young intern/protege muftaw, who i've been working with a lot, completed his first feature story yesterday. (listen to it here: http://jhr.ca/fieldnotes/index.php?view=section&iid=9447&sid=72) he's a bright young guy from kumasi's muslim community. he literally comes from the most unfortunate, poorest upbringing i've ever seen. the literacy rate in his community is 10%. most people live on less than a dollar a day. both his parents are dead. he lives in a tiny room in a slum, which rents for about three dollars a month.

but despite that, he's gotten his education, he's articulate, ambitious and passionate about journalism. he has no formal training, but makes up for it with lots of ideas and energy, and he soaks up knowledge like a sponge. we've been doing human rights related stories every day. i've seen him grow by leaps and bounds, and it's been so gratifying. just the other day, the news editor asked him to put together a demo tape. which means he's considering hiring him and actually paying him.

back in september, when i met my fellow journalism trainers and the jhr head office people in toronto, they told us not to expect too much. we decided if we could do one really good story or open one reporter's eyes to the importance of human rights, we'd be satisfied. but theory is one thing, and dealing with reality another. as with most people, i am my own harshest critic, and there have been some dispiriting days.

but without beating my own drum too much, helping one young guy fight his way up from the bottom makes it all worthwhile.

chapter 12: mister big stuff...who do you think you are?!

2008-01-08T06:31:00.000-08:00

from the outside, ghana appears to have the foundation of a solid democracy. the constitution codifies individual rights, representative democratic institutions, independent judiciary, all the trimmings of what we in canada see as a good liberal democratic feast.

power to the people!

but if you examine that foundation a little closer, you'll notice a lot of it is built on uneven ground. there's a lot more to really putting power in kofi q. public's hands than meets the eye. and there's a lot going on at the unconscious level that takes me back to first year political science, and in essence, the whole reason for my being here.

are universal rights really universal?

i have no trouble arguing that freedoms like speech, religion, thought, assembly should be universal. but i've come to realize that for most people here, even if they pay lip service to those things, the reality is much different.

ghanaians excercise a kind of orwellian doublethink when it comes to their place in the pecking order. leaders at all levels constantly talk about serving the public, but they know that millenia of social conditioning will ensure that it's really the public serving them. respect the chief, respect your elder, respect authority.

such is the “BIG MAN” culture. it basically means that people who command a lower level of power in society will constantly be kept waiting, are not entitled to all the relevant information, and do not dare question or show disapproval. it's a way of showing your hierarchical inferiors who's boss.

the only person who can stop the big man is a bigger man.

a ghanaian friend recently had to pay a bribe to the police. he was promoting a movie he produced, getting one of his (28 year-old) 'boys' to put up posters around the city. the 'boy' was caught plastering some on a wall with a warning against posting bills, and subsequently taken into custody. my friend was called onto the carpet. we went to the cop shop. after sitting and exchanging pleasantries with the police, my friend eventually went inside, paid a bribe of thirty ghana cedis to get himself and his 'boy' out of trouble. once we were back inside the car, i asked him if it didn't make him angry.

“i am very angry,” he said. “thirty was too much.”

apparently, he didn't mind paying a bribe. It was the amount he was pissed off about.. i should mention that my friend is a radio presenter for a station with a large audience. it apparently never seriously crossed his mind to yank down the dirty cops' pants in public. instead, he phoned the district supervisor, who agreed the bribe was excessive, and chewed them out.
a couple weeks ago, me and a colleague had a meeting with the kumasi metropolitan assembly public relations officer. we showed up. she wasn't there. we hung around for a while, and she casually came ambling in as we were leaving. i asked her why we hadn't been notified that she wouldn't be there. if looks were flying daggers, i'd have been on my way to the morgue. she was angry and surprised, unused to being challenged in that way. i didn't back down. as a foreigner here for a limited time, i have that luxury. but i've seen this woman run roughshod over my young colleague before if he appeared to be critical.

i've also observed members of the army lazily lounging or sleeping on the job day after day, when they were supposed to be standing a post. did they not have enough to do, or were they exposing the people they were supposed to be guarding to danger? in almost any other country with liberal democratic institutions, this kind of disciplinary vacuum would be met with howls of anger from the taxpaying masses. but a suggestion that this is a story that should be told always elicits a helpless shrug of the shoulders from my ghanaian counterparts, meaning it wouldn't be worth the trouble it would cause.

i've tried to educate my colleagues, especially the young ones, that respect is fine, but as members of the media, they have a responsibility to occasionally challenge the big man, whether he (or she) likes it or not. part of a maturing democracy is citizens standing up to authorities who are overstepping their bounds, and it all starts with the journalists. this may result in disapproval or even ostracism. but can there be a cross cultural exception made in this case? not if ghana's journalists are to be truly independent.

"mister big stuff, who do you think you are?"

with apologies to jean knight, sometimes even the big man has to be cut down to size.

chapter 11: a ghanaian christmas: ode to mel(anie) gibson

2007-12-27T09:31:00.000-08:00

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!

chapter 10: “i wish i was doing that!”

2007-12-14T01:25:00.000-08:00

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.

chapter 9: love letters

2007-12-07T00:49:00.000-08:00

things i love about ghana:

*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

chapter 8: jesus christ!

2007-11-27T09:41:00.000-08:00

“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.

chapter 7: chop chop!

2007-11-14T04:09:00.000-08:00

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!

chapter 6: pure old skuul, baby!

2007-11-06T04:42:00.000-08:00

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.

chapter 5: am i really this sexy and influential?

2007-10-26T06:41:00.000-07:00

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

2007-10-19T06:56:00.000-07:00

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)

2007-10-13T14:58:00.000-07:00

“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!

2007-10-03T11:29:00.000-07:00

"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)

chapter 1: getting ready to get ready

2007-09-29T22:12:00.000-07:00

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.