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.
Thursday, February 21, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
chapter 15: "gotta get BACK in time..." (with apologies to huey lewis)
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!
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!
Friday, February 8, 2008
chapter 14: straight buggin', y'all!
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!
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!
Wednesday, January 16, 2008
chapter 13: hitting the halfway point on a high
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.
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.
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
chapter 12: mister big stuff...who do you think you are?!
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.
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.
Thursday, December 27, 2007
chapter 11: a ghanaian christmas: ode to mel(anie) gibson
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!
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!
Friday, December 14, 2007
chapter 10: “i wish i was doing that!”
what in the holy hell am i doing here?
it's dry-fest '07! i'm looking forlonly at the tap, wishing a wondeful, refreshing gush of water would come burbling out. i'm rewarded with only the sick whooshing sound of stale air, not a drop of H2O, and self-deprecating thoughts of how pathetic it is for a grown man to be depressed at the sight.
up until now, this blog has been filled with the wonderful, the odd, the adventurous and the new...some good, some bad, but overwhelmingly enjoyed. but right now i'm feeling a little less inclined to see the bright side, a melancholic mood likely brought about by lack of sleep and lately, constantly feeling sweaty, sticky and dirty.
yes, let's all feel sorry for poor, little ol' me.
so many people have commented on my radical departure with variations of “i wish i was doing that!” i'm not sorry i came for a second, but the reality of life here, and something that can't possibly be understood until you experience it, is that for someone used to the embarassment of riches canadians enjoy, it's hard. sometimes really hard. Obviously it's even harder for people here who can't spoil themselves with a nice dinner or a vacation.
i've lost track of how many days the taps at home have been dry. I think it's at least eight, but it might be more like ten. i know this: with every hopeful turn off the knob dashed, a little part of the hardy spirit in me dies. or at least shrivels up a little bit more. a few days isn't a problem. There are large buckets of water strategically positioned in the bathroom and kitchen. but after a week, we're down to the dregs, red clay-coloured water dashed with dust and dirt from the bottom of the old plastic receptacles. it means showers as i've known them no longer exist. i can wipe myself down with a few cups of the stuff, realizing i'm not getting clean and returning to my former condition only minutes later. refreshing! i idly wonder at various times during the day if i smell more like a dog, or some kind of tropical swamp beast. and i also wonder when i use my cell phone if the sweat from my head is going to short out the stupid thing and give me an electric shock.
add a broken fan and you have sleep dep for $500, alex!
but this isn't the only problem. when you get to know them, ghanaians are wonderful, and many of my interactions with strangers have been unbelievably friendly compared to the typical encounter with a stranger back home. but as fellow jhr trainer allison and i discussed when she came to visit last weekend, this can be a very uncomfortable place for foreigners, even though we are completely safe here. we are targets for people who have ideas about us. for ghanaian men, white women are thought of as an easy lay and a ticket to paradise.
if you're a white man, you can expect to be anointed the saviour of the financially downtrodden. once when i was buying a soft drink, i heard a curiously invisible voice say “buy me one.” i looked around for the source, and realized it came from a woman standing behind me. a complete stranger i'd never even laid eyes on before! no hello, no walking around into my field of vision. “buy me one,” was all she said. it took the shock a beat or two to register, followed quickly by anger. i was like a cash register. ring the bell and take the money. that's only the most dispiriting incident in a long line of them. i can count how many times i've been asked for money by kids with large, expectant eyes, or hustled by seemingly friendly strangers. it's happened so often that i begin to wonder if every meeting is going to end with me having to tell someone i won't give them some paltry some of money and feelings of anger and guilt.
it's not that i'm stingy. the amount of money requested on a case-by-case basis is practically meaningless to me. but because i'm living here, i know the problem is much bigger than the sums demanded. i think much of the scarcity since the end of formalized colonialism here can be blamed on the expectation that when africa suffers, they need only go to the network of charities masquerading as international organizations for a handout. i hate to sound conservative, but i can't lie to myself. it's not idelogical on my part, i just don't want to perpetuate a cycle of begging that i see destroying the ambition of a people who can do so much more. it creates dependency and an inferiority complex that feels like slavery all over again.
“yes, massa!”
the result is a sickening compulsion to kowtow to the oh-so-generous white man, who is NOT helping the situation. so i say to ghanaians: stop giving me your seat! stop serving me first when there are people ahead of me in line! respect yourselves, dammit!
i can't save the world. right now, all i can bring myself to do is escape into a book and wait for the dawn of a new day and renewed optimism. this is what i signed up for, and i know I'll be fine.
but i can't help but wonder if africa will be.
it's dry-fest '07! i'm looking forlonly at the tap, wishing a wondeful, refreshing gush of water would come burbling out. i'm rewarded with only the sick whooshing sound of stale air, not a drop of H2O, and self-deprecating thoughts of how pathetic it is for a grown man to be depressed at the sight.
up until now, this blog has been filled with the wonderful, the odd, the adventurous and the new...some good, some bad, but overwhelmingly enjoyed. but right now i'm feeling a little less inclined to see the bright side, a melancholic mood likely brought about by lack of sleep and lately, constantly feeling sweaty, sticky and dirty.
yes, let's all feel sorry for poor, little ol' me.
so many people have commented on my radical departure with variations of “i wish i was doing that!” i'm not sorry i came for a second, but the reality of life here, and something that can't possibly be understood until you experience it, is that for someone used to the embarassment of riches canadians enjoy, it's hard. sometimes really hard. Obviously it's even harder for people here who can't spoil themselves with a nice dinner or a vacation.
i've lost track of how many days the taps at home have been dry. I think it's at least eight, but it might be more like ten. i know this: with every hopeful turn off the knob dashed, a little part of the hardy spirit in me dies. or at least shrivels up a little bit more. a few days isn't a problem. There are large buckets of water strategically positioned in the bathroom and kitchen. but after a week, we're down to the dregs, red clay-coloured water dashed with dust and dirt from the bottom of the old plastic receptacles. it means showers as i've known them no longer exist. i can wipe myself down with a few cups of the stuff, realizing i'm not getting clean and returning to my former condition only minutes later. refreshing! i idly wonder at various times during the day if i smell more like a dog, or some kind of tropical swamp beast. and i also wonder when i use my cell phone if the sweat from my head is going to short out the stupid thing and give me an electric shock.
add a broken fan and you have sleep dep for $500, alex!
but this isn't the only problem. when you get to know them, ghanaians are wonderful, and many of my interactions with strangers have been unbelievably friendly compared to the typical encounter with a stranger back home. but as fellow jhr trainer allison and i discussed when she came to visit last weekend, this can be a very uncomfortable place for foreigners, even though we are completely safe here. we are targets for people who have ideas about us. for ghanaian men, white women are thought of as an easy lay and a ticket to paradise.
if you're a white man, you can expect to be anointed the saviour of the financially downtrodden. once when i was buying a soft drink, i heard a curiously invisible voice say “buy me one.” i looked around for the source, and realized it came from a woman standing behind me. a complete stranger i'd never even laid eyes on before! no hello, no walking around into my field of vision. “buy me one,” was all she said. it took the shock a beat or two to register, followed quickly by anger. i was like a cash register. ring the bell and take the money. that's only the most dispiriting incident in a long line of them. i can count how many times i've been asked for money by kids with large, expectant eyes, or hustled by seemingly friendly strangers. it's happened so often that i begin to wonder if every meeting is going to end with me having to tell someone i won't give them some paltry some of money and feelings of anger and guilt.
it's not that i'm stingy. the amount of money requested on a case-by-case basis is practically meaningless to me. but because i'm living here, i know the problem is much bigger than the sums demanded. i think much of the scarcity since the end of formalized colonialism here can be blamed on the expectation that when africa suffers, they need only go to the network of charities masquerading as international organizations for a handout. i hate to sound conservative, but i can't lie to myself. it's not idelogical on my part, i just don't want to perpetuate a cycle of begging that i see destroying the ambition of a people who can do so much more. it creates dependency and an inferiority complex that feels like slavery all over again.
“yes, massa!”
the result is a sickening compulsion to kowtow to the oh-so-generous white man, who is NOT helping the situation. so i say to ghanaians: stop giving me your seat! stop serving me first when there are people ahead of me in line! respect yourselves, dammit!
i can't save the world. right now, all i can bring myself to do is escape into a book and wait for the dawn of a new day and renewed optimism. this is what i signed up for, and i know I'll be fine.
but i can't help but wonder if africa will be.
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