Friday, March 30, 2007
Tokyo Night and Day
We took these from our hostel, which was waay up a concrete-and-glass tower. Neither of us was feeling too hot after a looong night of kereoke and an early morning departure time, so we didn't see a lot of Tokyo, but it seemed very hustle-bustle.
After Dinner and Drinks...
but before Kereoke. These are Big Bro's fellow English teachers in Iwakuni.
Hiroshima poem
I like this one. It reminded me of our friend John Filson, who will soon be an officially certified Master of Peace.
Hiroshima letters
Here is a bit of a closer view of two of those protest letters sent by the Mayor of Hiroshima after every nuclear test. These are to Bush and Kim Il Jong - which one do you think is more likely to start a nuclear war?
Last Day's Headline
Today was my last official day at the paper - had a nice departing conversation with Bossman, who said my impact on the paper had been stellar. He invited me to keep writing a monthly column from back in Canadia, which I would like to do if time permits. I'll have one more book review in Saturday's paper, but here is my last weekday story, and it's actual news at that:
Hawkers begrudge AMA's Pedestrians Shopping Mall...Where are the customers?
-Chris
ps. After our trip to Togo and our reportage on the Ewe issue, apparently sales have jumped in the Volta Region, where Ewe are the majority, and, furthermore, the paper is now considered 'pro-Ewe.' Now Bossman is happy, after initial reservations that we were "unnecessarily stirring a dangerously hot pot."
Hawkers begrudge AMA's Pedestrians Shopping Mall...Where are the customers?
-Chris
ps. After our trip to Togo and our reportage on the Ewe issue, apparently sales have jumped in the Volta Region, where Ewe are the majority, and, furthermore, the paper is now considered 'pro-Ewe.' Now Bossman is happy, after initial reservations that we were "unnecessarily stirring a dangerously hot pot."
Togo Stories
On the road to Togo we decided on a hunger-induced whim to stop back at Xofa, where M and I spent xmas. We flagged ourselves a taxi but before the driver could take us down the long rough road to Xofa he needed to fuel up, which involved driving through a checkpoint where they checked our passports. Only then did my colleague N realize that her visa required an extension, she had overstayed her two-month stamp even though the visa itself had several months remaining. She promised to attend to it as soon as possible, which suited the immigration officer just fine, but it gave us cause to worry about crossing the border the next day.
We put it out of our minds and made way to Xofa and ordered one of their notoriously slow-cooked meals, which was promised within an hour, and we took a long leisurely swim. 90 minutes later M went to check on it and the master chef had managed no more than the cutting of one tomato. Angry, perturbed, mostly disappointed we cancelled our order and a young man named Daniel took us over to the nearby town of Dodi, where we met an Ewe chief and interrogated him about his memories of 50 years ago, the infant independency celebration. We also spoke to a group of Akan women and later, another young Daniel, grandson of the chief with all the accompanying dignity, strength of character, and knowledge. He arranged for a giant bowl of banku and delicious okra stew for four intrepid reporters, made expertly (and quickly) by his sister. For this gigantic meal they would take only 10,000 cedies ($1.20 CNDN).
Early the next morning we found our way to a bus station in the town of Ho near the Togolese border. By noon our patience with waiting for the bus to fill had worn thin and we coughed up the extra 20 dollars (split three ways; the chief correspondent, who had organized this adventure, had decided to stay on the Ghana side to pursue some fresh leads) and commandeered the bus. We three Canadians, a woman from Niger, a 70-year old master boy scout from Togo, and a couple Ghanaians made way across the boarder in relative comfort.
On the Togo side we hopped on the back of some motorcycle taxis, found a hotel, interviewed some local mask sellers, and grabbed some baguette sandwiches. The restaurant purveyors knew the oldest chief in Togo, who happens to live in a border village we could interview. We hopped more motorbikes and watched the tropics fly by the rugged highway, spent the afternoon in conference with the blind chief and his entourage of (mostly) young men learning about what it means to be an oppressed majority in Togo. Then we met an old Togolese woman who had a mother from Ghana and crossed the border frequently. She paid for her journeys with small-small profits from crushing palm-oil, which she crushed topless in the hot sun, something a young woman would never do but at her age it’s quite acceptable here, unlike the more prudish (in many ways) world I come from. Afterward one of our new friends took us on a motorcycle ride to the nearby waterfall, which had been reduced to a trickle so that the water could feed the dam supplying energy to Kpalime.
We hiked back the road and hitched a ride, 7 of us piled into a little compact, back to Kpalime, where our friends asked us to pay 3,000 central African francs (CFAs – about $6) per hour of their time, an outrageous amount. We gave them a total of about 10 bucks and felt a little duped. But we got what we wanted, so you can’t call it a scam.
***************************
“You’re a man, you can take more drink,” the old stoolfather, elder supreme, told me as I sipped my morning shot. His son nodded sombrely because a man should be demonstrably strong and this was an opportunity for such demonstration. The stoolfather had just told us of his memories of Ghanaian independence, a glorious time. Whatever armed uprisings had occurred in his Volta Region escaped his memory, had nothing to do with him. He was an Nkrumist through and through, an acting member of the African independence hero’s political party, and he served loyally in that first government until the generals’ men came to arrest him. He spent a few months wondering in jail, was released, and went back to his life as a village royal. His eyes veritably twinkled with the memories, faded at the end of his story, when his son took over the conversation and spoke knowledgeably of the modern Ewe situation. The son was the true leader now, and prompted the old man’s speech with nudges and written reminders.
********************
On the Togo side of that colonial line, the blind chief of 6 decades also shared memories of his nation’s independence, but his milky eyes showed no signs of his vitality. Back then, his man was in power. When that man went down he inadvertently took the chief and his village with him. The chief got a humiliating spanking, and when recalling this part of the story his milky eyes shed salty tears and the surrounding young men hangers-on take over. Later they take us to meet a topless old lady who crushes palm to make oil to sell to help fund her frequent cross-border trips; she has so much family in Ghana and there are always weddings and funerals. “Family is important to us,” she explains. By way of family she is as Ghanaian as she is Togolese, and she is Ewe all the way through.
******************************
For supper we find a nice chop and order banku with tilapia fish, an Ewe specialty. The next table of drunks gets a little too raucous and a stout barrel-armed waitress gives them the boot. They fight her. She fights back. Local language shouting erupts; the waitress picks up a plastic chair, tries to throw it, has it taken from her hand by another staff member, so she steps to shoving the nemeses from the premises. They push back; she pushes more, they succumb and scram.
******************************
At night we watch the Latino soap opera ‘Secreto d’amour’ and the chief correspondent tells me that the former business manager was sleeping with both the editor and a sub-editor, who coincidently ended up as the best paid member of staff, while selling cosmetics online from his private office and all stories by-passed his almost illiterate eyes. Both her and Saturday editor are accustomed to fighting off advances from the editor, who is married with girlfriend and has a personal vision quest to sleep with every woman in the office. The tallies of who all is sleeping with who were too complicated for me to follow, so I kept my eyes on TV’s simplicity.
We put it out of our minds and made way to Xofa and ordered one of their notoriously slow-cooked meals, which was promised within an hour, and we took a long leisurely swim. 90 minutes later M went to check on it and the master chef had managed no more than the cutting of one tomato. Angry, perturbed, mostly disappointed we cancelled our order and a young man named Daniel took us over to the nearby town of Dodi, where we met an Ewe chief and interrogated him about his memories of 50 years ago, the infant independency celebration. We also spoke to a group of Akan women and later, another young Daniel, grandson of the chief with all the accompanying dignity, strength of character, and knowledge. He arranged for a giant bowl of banku and delicious okra stew for four intrepid reporters, made expertly (and quickly) by his sister. For this gigantic meal they would take only 10,000 cedies ($1.20 CNDN).
Early the next morning we found our way to a bus station in the town of Ho near the Togolese border. By noon our patience with waiting for the bus to fill had worn thin and we coughed up the extra 20 dollars (split three ways; the chief correspondent, who had organized this adventure, had decided to stay on the Ghana side to pursue some fresh leads) and commandeered the bus. We three Canadians, a woman from Niger, a 70-year old master boy scout from Togo, and a couple Ghanaians made way across the boarder in relative comfort.
On the Togo side we hopped on the back of some motorcycle taxis, found a hotel, interviewed some local mask sellers, and grabbed some baguette sandwiches. The restaurant purveyors knew the oldest chief in Togo, who happens to live in a border village we could interview. We hopped more motorbikes and watched the tropics fly by the rugged highway, spent the afternoon in conference with the blind chief and his entourage of (mostly) young men learning about what it means to be an oppressed majority in Togo. Then we met an old Togolese woman who had a mother from Ghana and crossed the border frequently. She paid for her journeys with small-small profits from crushing palm-oil, which she crushed topless in the hot sun, something a young woman would never do but at her age it’s quite acceptable here, unlike the more prudish (in many ways) world I come from. Afterward one of our new friends took us on a motorcycle ride to the nearby waterfall, which had been reduced to a trickle so that the water could feed the dam supplying energy to Kpalime.
We hiked back the road and hitched a ride, 7 of us piled into a little compact, back to Kpalime, where our friends asked us to pay 3,000 central African francs (CFAs – about $6) per hour of their time, an outrageous amount. We gave them a total of about 10 bucks and felt a little duped. But we got what we wanted, so you can’t call it a scam.
***************************
“You’re a man, you can take more drink,” the old stoolfather, elder supreme, told me as I sipped my morning shot. His son nodded sombrely because a man should be demonstrably strong and this was an opportunity for such demonstration. The stoolfather had just told us of his memories of Ghanaian independence, a glorious time. Whatever armed uprisings had occurred in his Volta Region escaped his memory, had nothing to do with him. He was an Nkrumist through and through, an acting member of the African independence hero’s political party, and he served loyally in that first government until the generals’ men came to arrest him. He spent a few months wondering in jail, was released, and went back to his life as a village royal. His eyes veritably twinkled with the memories, faded at the end of his story, when his son took over the conversation and spoke knowledgeably of the modern Ewe situation. The son was the true leader now, and prompted the old man’s speech with nudges and written reminders.
********************
On the Togo side of that colonial line, the blind chief of 6 decades also shared memories of his nation’s independence, but his milky eyes showed no signs of his vitality. Back then, his man was in power. When that man went down he inadvertently took the chief and his village with him. The chief got a humiliating spanking, and when recalling this part of the story his milky eyes shed salty tears and the surrounding young men hangers-on take over. Later they take us to meet a topless old lady who crushes palm to make oil to sell to help fund her frequent cross-border trips; she has so much family in Ghana and there are always weddings and funerals. “Family is important to us,” she explains. By way of family she is as Ghanaian as she is Togolese, and she is Ewe all the way through.
******************************
For supper we find a nice chop and order banku with tilapia fish, an Ewe specialty. The next table of drunks gets a little too raucous and a stout barrel-armed waitress gives them the boot. They fight her. She fights back. Local language shouting erupts; the waitress picks up a plastic chair, tries to throw it, has it taken from her hand by another staff member, so she steps to shoving the nemeses from the premises. They push back; she pushes more, they succumb and scram.
******************************
At night we watch the Latino soap opera ‘Secreto d’amour’ and the chief correspondent tells me that the former business manager was sleeping with both the editor and a sub-editor, who coincidently ended up as the best paid member of staff, while selling cosmetics online from his private office and all stories by-passed his almost illiterate eyes. Both her and Saturday editor are accustomed to fighting off advances from the editor, who is married with girlfriend and has a personal vision quest to sleep with every woman in the office. The tallies of who all is sleeping with who were too complicated for me to follow, so I kept my eyes on TV’s simplicity.
Thursday, March 29, 2007
V-Day
V-Day poem, written by Chris & Miia on Val’s Day, 2007, at the Alliance Francaise in Accra, Ghana, while listening to a live reggae band
When a stone is a cap
And your guide is a cop
You know you’re where
What’s down is up
Where the birds are bats
And the sidewalk’s a gutter
The editor’s a lawyer
And the stenographer stutters
It’s a bizzaro world
Of minority whites
Desperate for acceptance
Yet so damn uptight
We’re young but we’re old
For bad or for good
Sometimes it means wisdom
Or we don’t try all we could
Sometimes we’re lazy
Sometimes just tired
Sometimes restless
Confused and miss-wired
Sometimes we’re soaking in the world
With nothing to prove in it
Sometimes letting it happen
Sometimes we groove on it
Home haunts us
Calls us to her
But the road too is calling
With an undeniable lure
Neither here nor there
Nor in between even
Every arrival
A prelude to leavin’
So it might make you sick
To hear then this tale
What’s anchoring this ship
In fine winds and gale
It’s the look in his eye
When I share a bit of wit
The strength of his heart
And what he does with it
People come and go
If we’re lucky we make friends
The reggae and beer flow
You take me home when the party ends
You keep me laughin’
In the face of insanity
You keep me true
When I’m surrounded by vanity
People are strange
And that’s a fact
So much the same
But still never exact
Copies of one another
Some “cool” and others shy
Some full of loving
And the rest bone dry
What is it in me
That’ll put up walls
Instead of enjoying
The blokes and the dolls?
All my self-doubts
Come back in my face
But your face is pretty
Self-doubts have their place
In all this madness
What difference can one make?
Unless she is willing
To be first on the stake
To sing a new song
With a catchy tune to it
Like we’re queer and here
Get used to it
It’s hard to imagine
I’m a decade older
Than some of the kids here
More round in the shoulder
Maybe I should be home
With just months till I’m due
A stable old corner
A life more subdued
No way! Says my heart
I’ll never give in
Corrode the conformity
Fight the power to win!
Then again
Home is sweet
Kids are fun
As they discover their feet
It won’t be long
What’s our rush?
Tell my soul to be quiet
And my mind to hush
This is this day
There’ll be no other
Quite like this day
So we shouldn’t bother
With the countless alternatives
Or what might have been
Anyway, baby
This is the scene
These are the players
This is our life
It’s goddamn exquisite
To have such a wife
As John Filson said
What could be better
Than to marry your best friend
Travel the world together
How ‘bout this
As my V-day pledge
To ride the wave
Worry less ‘bout the edge
So my dear
Will you take the chance
And join me for
A sweet reggae dance?
Remember the days
It was we who would start
The party and go on
Till we’d exhausted the dark?
[the answer was yes to those last two questions.]
******************************************
Just before we wrote the above cheesy val’s day poem, we met a cop named Wisdom on the trotro. He insisted on escorting us all the way down a dark road to the Alliance Francaise. “I love you guys,” he proclaimed so boldly. “Do you love me?” Love you? I barely know you. He was so insistent that it was a bit frightening, given his position of authority, and his gun. But he was just being friendly, took our phone number and never even called. I feel so used.
When a stone is a cap
And your guide is a cop
You know you’re where
What’s down is up
Where the birds are bats
And the sidewalk’s a gutter
The editor’s a lawyer
And the stenographer stutters
It’s a bizzaro world
Of minority whites
Desperate for acceptance
Yet so damn uptight
We’re young but we’re old
For bad or for good
Sometimes it means wisdom
Or we don’t try all we could
Sometimes we’re lazy
Sometimes just tired
Sometimes restless
Confused and miss-wired
Sometimes we’re soaking in the world
With nothing to prove in it
Sometimes letting it happen
Sometimes we groove on it
Home haunts us
Calls us to her
But the road too is calling
With an undeniable lure
Neither here nor there
Nor in between even
Every arrival
A prelude to leavin’
So it might make you sick
To hear then this tale
What’s anchoring this ship
In fine winds and gale
It’s the look in his eye
When I share a bit of wit
The strength of his heart
And what he does with it
People come and go
If we’re lucky we make friends
The reggae and beer flow
You take me home when the party ends
You keep me laughin’
In the face of insanity
You keep me true
When I’m surrounded by vanity
People are strange
And that’s a fact
So much the same
But still never exact
Copies of one another
Some “cool” and others shy
Some full of loving
And the rest bone dry
What is it in me
That’ll put up walls
Instead of enjoying
The blokes and the dolls?
All my self-doubts
Come back in my face
But your face is pretty
Self-doubts have their place
In all this madness
What difference can one make?
Unless she is willing
To be first on the stake
To sing a new song
With a catchy tune to it
Like we’re queer and here
Get used to it
It’s hard to imagine
I’m a decade older
Than some of the kids here
More round in the shoulder
Maybe I should be home
With just months till I’m due
A stable old corner
A life more subdued
No way! Says my heart
I’ll never give in
Corrode the conformity
Fight the power to win!
Then again
Home is sweet
Kids are fun
As they discover their feet
It won’t be long
What’s our rush?
Tell my soul to be quiet
And my mind to hush
This is this day
There’ll be no other
Quite like this day
So we shouldn’t bother
With the countless alternatives
Or what might have been
Anyway, baby
This is the scene
These are the players
This is our life
It’s goddamn exquisite
To have such a wife
As John Filson said
What could be better
Than to marry your best friend
Travel the world together
How ‘bout this
As my V-day pledge
To ride the wave
Worry less ‘bout the edge
So my dear
Will you take the chance
And join me for
A sweet reggae dance?
Remember the days
It was we who would start
The party and go on
Till we’d exhausted the dark?
[the answer was yes to those last two questions.]
******************************************
Just before we wrote the above cheesy val’s day poem, we met a cop named Wisdom on the trotro. He insisted on escorting us all the way down a dark road to the Alliance Francaise. “I love you guys,” he proclaimed so boldly. “Do you love me?” Love you? I barely know you. He was so insistent that it was a bit frightening, given his position of authority, and his gun. But he was just being friendly, took our phone number and never even called. I feel so used.
Latest Pubs
Why Ghana Needs a Strong Left Wing
Guinea's 50-year leadership vacuum
Development in freedom; a new paradigm? (Editorial)
Light a candle or curse the darkness [note that this one is by my good friend Conor McCreery and our colleague Albert, but they tacked on a piece by me, which covers the last 9 paragraphs or so.]
Guinea's 50-year leadership vacuum
Development in freedom; a new paradigm? (Editorial)
Light a candle or curse the darkness [note that this one is by my good friend Conor McCreery and our colleague Albert, but they tacked on a piece by me, which covers the last 9 paragraphs or so.]
Cousins-in-Law Party
1. Cousins Taba, Bellema (looking a very young 50), Lara, and Great-Aunti; 2. The whole gang, including cousin Don beside me and Sam beside him.
Wednesday, March 28, 2007
Togo Scenic
These are taken by our friend Nikki at a dam we visited near a very small village in Togo. The dam was completed by Ewe nationalist engineers after their leader was assassinated. They were flown to sympathetic Yugoslavia and taught the dam engineering there.
Monday, March 26, 2007
Stoolfather's Son
This is the son of the town of Ho's most important male elder, relaxing for some post-interview libations. When we met him it seemed that he was very much running the show. He was a great interview, incredibly knowledgeable and articulate, yet also very cautious about not speaking too much on behalf of the elders or his people, who had not been consulted. We were asking him about the highly contentious issue of the Ewe separatist/nationalist movement.
Conor
Conor is doing really well here. He's far more thick-skinned about the constant attention than Miia or I, partially I think because he is a born entertainer, gregarious and loving of attention, the opposite of myself. He hams it up for the crowd, charms all comers. I myself can't do that, can't be anyone's monkey. That's not to put down his approach, which works so well, it's just to say we're different people. For me it's been great to see him thrive here in his own way, without too much help from us.
Renewal
On certain few days there is a miracle: a trip to work without a single call of "obruni!" and a generally low level of interest in me. It's like I'm temporarily local. On days such as these my head slowly lifts from my straightline stride, and I look at the world around me, notice new things, new shops chops and kiosks, new streets. I observe life around me without it swallowing me in unearned celebrity.
On such days as this I am more open to the world's inspiration and ideas. I read about an organization dedicated to "Africa's renewal" and I think, 'renewal, yes.' Renewal is a word I like better than 'development' with respect to how the later is used to describe poor countries' efforts to improve the lot of their people, because we are all developing so the effort to distinguish between rich and poor fails. But to say rich and poor is too simplistic and ignores how they got that way. Somehow 'renewal' ipplies that something that was good was destroyed by someone, hence the need to renew. It's development but, more speficically, it is an attempt to renew Africa to its former glory, while at the same time birthing something new and beautiful.
I propose we ditch the term 'international development' in lieu of 'international renewal.'
-Chris
On such days as this I am more open to the world's inspiration and ideas. I read about an organization dedicated to "Africa's renewal" and I think, 'renewal, yes.' Renewal is a word I like better than 'development' with respect to how the later is used to describe poor countries' efforts to improve the lot of their people, because we are all developing so the effort to distinguish between rich and poor fails. But to say rich and poor is too simplistic and ignores how they got that way. Somehow 'renewal' ipplies that something that was good was destroyed by someone, hence the need to renew. It's development but, more speficically, it is an attempt to renew Africa to its former glory, while at the same time birthing something new and beautiful.
I propose we ditch the term 'international development' in lieu of 'international renewal.'
-Chris
Mommy of the Bride
This is a long-time chief of a village in Dodi, who has ruled since before Ghana was its own country. I love the random messaging that we often see on Ghanaian shirts, likely sent over by Value Village type of donors then sold here very cheap. For me this is also one of the village's great advantages over the city: no fashion police.
Sunday, March 25, 2007
Mr Sewing Machine Head
Not so long ago, I saw a guy walking around with an old-school Singer sewing machine on his head, offering tailoring and repair services. It never fails to amaze me what people can carry on their head. Those things are HEAVY!
Ghana@50
1. Regional Chief going through the crowd, 2. marching bands, 3. tanks and marching bands, 4. rich people and white people section
Worlds Collided
I collided with my old life recently in the form of M, one of those amazing people who picked up his whole life and moved it over the sea, in this case to Japan and then again to Canada, where he spent seven long years struggling against cold viruses, weather, and people, like the immigration officer who singled him out of a large group of students returning from a study trip abroad and sent him off to the special inspection room, or the guy who hired him over the phone then with slight of hand slipped the job away when he saw his black face, or the juvenile dimwit who finished bottom of his class in Canada and found a job in her field on graduation while he cleaned toilets. These stories are hard for me to hear because of the obvious sorrow of the teller, and the fact that he is one of millions, and that he’s talking about my country and there is nothing I can say in its defence. It’s a national shame that most Canadians don’t even know to be ashamed of.
That said, it was actually great to see him. He’s in another tight spot because after 8 years in Japan and 7 in Canada he feels behind his Ghanaian colleagues, yet he encounters the usual demands for a share of all the billions he must have raked in abroad from people in his hometown. It’s the double-edged cross borne by the returnee to Ghana. Even harder is that his wife and children have stayed in Canada for the good schools [though they may come back this spring]. In a twist on the usual remittances from abroad, he sends them part of his salary every month.
He treated us to some banku and beer at a bar/chop called Duncan’s, which is next to the journalists for human rights office and a hub for local journalists, I’m told. We caught up with Mark and told him a bit about our travels and swapped updates on common acquaintances back in Toronto. He’s a kind, brilliant, and principled man; hopefully we will see him again before our departure.
************************************************************************
I find myself hardening here, maybe getting a little more attuned to my anger and frustration at certain things. Expressing anger, even being assertive, doesn’t come easily to me, especially with people I don’t know. But of course, the more one is pushed…
The other day three junior high school girls were walking along the dirt road near our house, maybe 20 yards behind me. Predictably, they starting shouting, “Obruni! O!bruni!” I ignored them, like I tend to. They tried again, “Obruni! Hey grandfather!” This had them in fits of laughter so she said it again, and they all started calling, “Hey grandfather! Hey obruni!” I didn’t really get the grandfather comment, but their devious laughter made clear that they were crossing boundaries.
Something kind of snapped in me. I turned on my heal and stared them down, snapped, “You should not be so rude! Respect your elders!” They kind of cringed, scattered a bit, and shut up.
It felt good to assert myself. Does it sound cruel or bullyish to take pleasure in chastising buoyant young girls? Like I said, I’m hardening. You get sick of the constant harassment, and children are the worst. They are also the most innocent and probably mean the least harm in it, and about 15 seconds later my self-satisfied smile faded and I felt bad for snapping at them.
A few hours after that I thought back to it. “Screw it,” I thought. “Those brats knew better than to be so rude.” It’s true. Any Ghanaian would have smacked them without hesitation, so a mini-lecture from an obruni certainly won’t hurt them.
At work I snapped at one of our reporters because she kept nagging me for the only internet connection in the room, while I was researching and writing the lead story. “Are you finished, Chris?” she barked as I walked out of the room so I could hear the person I was interviewing over the phone (it’s impossible in a room full of flirting laughing joking reporters).
“NO!!” I shouted, slamming the door. Luckily, because Ghanaians express their emotions quite strongly, I think I’d have to go to work with a sawed off shotgun and start blasting before anyone would notice I was in a bad mood. My interviewee gave me the info I needed so I returned to the room and told the woman she could take the internet. She smiled sweetly and thanked me as if I had saved her drowning puppy.
What I don’t understand is how immigrants to Canada, who face a far more negative form of prejudice, contain their anger so well. I think of all the immigrants I met through my job, and all the frustrations they had and continue to have, all their struggles just to be accepted and given a fair chance in Canadian society, particularly the workplace, and I am amazed at the dignity, strength, and perseverance with which most of them handle it. Many did express extreme sorrow or anger at their situation, and I’m surprised there weren’t more like that. I’m sure every immigrant feels it because of the intensity of the experience, and unlike me they have planned to come to the new place permanently. Backing out, going home, after picking up one’s entire life and saying permanent goodbyes is almost unthinkable, so even if they regret the decision most are stuck with it. Few return. It must be maddening. I suppose though it’s counter-productive, and immensely difficult, to express what one is really feeling to a professional who you hope will connect you to opportunities.
Back in Ghana, this intensive emotional expression is overwhelming at times, but sometimes it can be quite enjoyable, whether it’s witnessing one of Bossman’s patented rants, receiving a ‘God bless you’ from a grateful driver when you give him some water, or watching that same driver pull a U-turn to buy a dirty white purse with a shy smile and “My wife will love this” as an explanation.
Recently I looked back in awe as Miia gave hell to some young boys who had been tirelessly calling out obruni obruni obruni at us. They had also been playing a game some play, which is to shout out various Ghanaian day names, knowing that many whites adopt such a name (Ama for a Sat-born female like Miia and Kojo for a Monday-born male like me) and hoping to elicit a response.
“Imagine how exhausting it is for me to hear that 200 times a day!” she shouted at them as they giggled and apologized.
That said, it was actually great to see him. He’s in another tight spot because after 8 years in Japan and 7 in Canada he feels behind his Ghanaian colleagues, yet he encounters the usual demands for a share of all the billions he must have raked in abroad from people in his hometown. It’s the double-edged cross borne by the returnee to Ghana. Even harder is that his wife and children have stayed in Canada for the good schools [though they may come back this spring]. In a twist on the usual remittances from abroad, he sends them part of his salary every month.
He treated us to some banku and beer at a bar/chop called Duncan’s, which is next to the journalists for human rights office and a hub for local journalists, I’m told. We caught up with Mark and told him a bit about our travels and swapped updates on common acquaintances back in Toronto. He’s a kind, brilliant, and principled man; hopefully we will see him again before our departure.
************************************************************************
I find myself hardening here, maybe getting a little more attuned to my anger and frustration at certain things. Expressing anger, even being assertive, doesn’t come easily to me, especially with people I don’t know. But of course, the more one is pushed…
The other day three junior high school girls were walking along the dirt road near our house, maybe 20 yards behind me. Predictably, they starting shouting, “Obruni! O!bruni!” I ignored them, like I tend to. They tried again, “Obruni! Hey grandfather!” This had them in fits of laughter so she said it again, and they all started calling, “Hey grandfather! Hey obruni!” I didn’t really get the grandfather comment, but their devious laughter made clear that they were crossing boundaries.
Something kind of snapped in me. I turned on my heal and stared them down, snapped, “You should not be so rude! Respect your elders!” They kind of cringed, scattered a bit, and shut up.
It felt good to assert myself. Does it sound cruel or bullyish to take pleasure in chastising buoyant young girls? Like I said, I’m hardening. You get sick of the constant harassment, and children are the worst. They are also the most innocent and probably mean the least harm in it, and about 15 seconds later my self-satisfied smile faded and I felt bad for snapping at them.
A few hours after that I thought back to it. “Screw it,” I thought. “Those brats knew better than to be so rude.” It’s true. Any Ghanaian would have smacked them without hesitation, so a mini-lecture from an obruni certainly won’t hurt them.
At work I snapped at one of our reporters because she kept nagging me for the only internet connection in the room, while I was researching and writing the lead story. “Are you finished, Chris?” she barked as I walked out of the room so I could hear the person I was interviewing over the phone (it’s impossible in a room full of flirting laughing joking reporters).
“NO!!” I shouted, slamming the door. Luckily, because Ghanaians express their emotions quite strongly, I think I’d have to go to work with a sawed off shotgun and start blasting before anyone would notice I was in a bad mood. My interviewee gave me the info I needed so I returned to the room and told the woman she could take the internet. She smiled sweetly and thanked me as if I had saved her drowning puppy.
What I don’t understand is how immigrants to Canada, who face a far more negative form of prejudice, contain their anger so well. I think of all the immigrants I met through my job, and all the frustrations they had and continue to have, all their struggles just to be accepted and given a fair chance in Canadian society, particularly the workplace, and I am amazed at the dignity, strength, and perseverance with which most of them handle it. Many did express extreme sorrow or anger at their situation, and I’m surprised there weren’t more like that. I’m sure every immigrant feels it because of the intensity of the experience, and unlike me they have planned to come to the new place permanently. Backing out, going home, after picking up one’s entire life and saying permanent goodbyes is almost unthinkable, so even if they regret the decision most are stuck with it. Few return. It must be maddening. I suppose though it’s counter-productive, and immensely difficult, to express what one is really feeling to a professional who you hope will connect you to opportunities.
Back in Ghana, this intensive emotional expression is overwhelming at times, but sometimes it can be quite enjoyable, whether it’s witnessing one of Bossman’s patented rants, receiving a ‘God bless you’ from a grateful driver when you give him some water, or watching that same driver pull a U-turn to buy a dirty white purse with a shy smile and “My wife will love this” as an explanation.
Recently I looked back in awe as Miia gave hell to some young boys who had been tirelessly calling out obruni obruni obruni at us. They had also been playing a game some play, which is to shout out various Ghanaian day names, knowing that many whites adopt such a name (Ama for a Sat-born female like Miia and Kojo for a Monday-born male like me) and hoping to elicit a response.
“Imagine how exhausting it is for me to hear that 200 times a day!” she shouted at them as they giggled and apologized.
Togo Story
Ewe Cross the Line, the less controversial of the two stories that came out of our trip to Togo. The other one was initially cut, then printed while bossman was in the UK, but never put online.
Friday, March 23, 2007
The Adventures
We're back! Hopefully lots of pictures forthcoming, at some point. At some point I may go through and write detailed descriptions of the past couple weeks, but for now, highlights!:
On day one we bounded through up-highway one-lane traffic with two guides (Prosper and Stephen) and a driver (Gentle Ben). Less than an hour in Prosper shared with us an Ewe lullaby about a bouncing baby. In exchange I showed them my recent articles in the paper about the Ewe of Togo and Ghana, who were split by colonial borders back in the day. They seemed happy that someone had taken an interest in their oppression and added that the current government is Ashanti-dominated and didn't bother appointing anyone from their region (Volta) to government positions. They were two very knowledgeable men from the same village who shed light on everything we were to see, which for the first few days was a lot of road and trees dotted by roadside villages and hawkers as we headed city-to-city to the north, through Kumasi, Sunyani (a detour because of construction), Techiman, Kintampo, to Damango just south of beautiful Mole National Park, where we came within just a few metres of several herds of elephants and the little eglets milling abut their gigantic dirty remarkably silent feet, a warthog, bushback and kob antelopes, several baboon families, and one rare bird (the oriole warbler, which sounds like two common species to me).
In the afternoon we visited West Africa's oldest mosque, made of mud and sticks, possibly in the 13th century, in the village of Larabanga, where we were swarmed by sad-eyed children holding our hands and pushy teenagers demanding fees and tips. Conor nearly started a riot with his hockey cards, which he hands out to children in lieu of money, as a symbol of Canadian culture. "You have football, this is what we play in my country," he explains to jumping pushing screaming 10-year-old masses.
After a narrow escape we downed several large beers and played Oware, a board game using ebony seeds, and debate which I retroactively entitle: Literacy: the new Imperialism?
In the bleary-eyed misty morning we headed to Tamale then Bolgatanga, then to a village called Navrongo, known for a beautiful Catholic Cathedral built of clay and decorated by local women artisons with pictures of everymen and angels, with an adjacent craft museum filled with calabash drums and murals. In nearby Paga we were disappointed at Chief's crocodile pond, an 'ecotourism' project where crocs are drawn from the water with live chickens so tourists can sit on them and have pictures taken while locals beat them with sticks. For 60 cents you can take away a written explanation of why crocs are so sacred (they are considered ancestors). Thank god I'm not sacred. We took a quick peek at the Burkina Faso border and went south to the Pikworo slave camp, a fascinating stop for 19th century slaves on the slow southward march to eternal servitute. Such a sad and sombre place, except for the constant ch-ching of additional charges, including 12 cents for each photo you snap and a tip for a group of local men playing an old slave spiritual, and their sad-eyed dancing children. Their performance was quite powerful and the sight has been perfectly maintained, including carved out holes in the rocks that served as bowls, and 'punishment rock' for busted escapists, who were tied with their back down, shirtless in the merciless sun. They squirmed so much that their chains have left an obvious groove around the base of the rock.
We slept in Bolga and made haste back to Kintampo the next day, where slid down the waterfall on our bums and had waterfights with a visiting group of secondary school students. Conor and I celebrated his Irish heritage in a 'pub' called Ryans, surround by middle-aged Europeans and young Ghanaian prostitutes. Go Irish!
Whew, this is exhausting.
Which is exactly what Miia said when the Kumasi doctors diagnosed her with her second bout of malaria. [She's much better now.] So she joined us, sweaty and tired at Assin Manso, where the slaves were given their last bath before being sold. They have erected a wall where slave descendants can write their names for a hundred bucks to show that they have returned, against all odds. The names will stand amidst depictions of America's finest blacks, like Booker T. Washington, whose bio closes with "he taught blacks to be upright citizens who minded their own business." Outside is a mural of an evil looking fat greasy white slavemaster whipping the captured African men. The site of the bath itself is now quite beautiful despite its sinister past. It is surrounded by bamboo and greenery, and has an eerie calm to it.
Finally we came to GHana's creme de la resistance, Elmina, a small seaside fishing town founded by the Portuguese, that along with its sister Cape Coast became one of Africa's great slave exporting hubs, run out of two ominously clean white castles. We splurged and stayed at Hans Cottage Botel, played in the pool, had pingpong grand slams, and watched crocodiles (these ones were fed no chicken, just fish, and generally stayed in the water but were fun to watch, especially when they fought over a morsel). Next door was Kakum National Park, where we did a canopy walk over a 40 metre high, 700 metre long, rope bridge, from which you have a spectacular view of one of Africa's largest remaining stretches of rainforest, and all the insects and birds and lizards therein.
Then they took us to the castles...I think I'll write about that later; it was a provocative experience.
-Chris
On day one we bounded through up-highway one-lane traffic with two guides (Prosper and Stephen) and a driver (Gentle Ben). Less than an hour in Prosper shared with us an Ewe lullaby about a bouncing baby. In exchange I showed them my recent articles in the paper about the Ewe of Togo and Ghana, who were split by colonial borders back in the day. They seemed happy that someone had taken an interest in their oppression and added that the current government is Ashanti-dominated and didn't bother appointing anyone from their region (Volta) to government positions. They were two very knowledgeable men from the same village who shed light on everything we were to see, which for the first few days was a lot of road and trees dotted by roadside villages and hawkers as we headed city-to-city to the north, through Kumasi, Sunyani (a detour because of construction), Techiman, Kintampo, to Damango just south of beautiful Mole National Park, where we came within just a few metres of several herds of elephants and the little eglets milling abut their gigantic dirty remarkably silent feet, a warthog, bushback and kob antelopes, several baboon families, and one rare bird (the oriole warbler, which sounds like two common species to me).
In the afternoon we visited West Africa's oldest mosque, made of mud and sticks, possibly in the 13th century, in the village of Larabanga, where we were swarmed by sad-eyed children holding our hands and pushy teenagers demanding fees and tips. Conor nearly started a riot with his hockey cards, which he hands out to children in lieu of money, as a symbol of Canadian culture. "You have football, this is what we play in my country," he explains to jumping pushing screaming 10-year-old masses.
After a narrow escape we downed several large beers and played Oware, a board game using ebony seeds, and debate which I retroactively entitle: Literacy: the new Imperialism?
In the bleary-eyed misty morning we headed to Tamale then Bolgatanga, then to a village called Navrongo, known for a beautiful Catholic Cathedral built of clay and decorated by local women artisons with pictures of everymen and angels, with an adjacent craft museum filled with calabash drums and murals. In nearby Paga we were disappointed at Chief's crocodile pond, an 'ecotourism' project where crocs are drawn from the water with live chickens so tourists can sit on them and have pictures taken while locals beat them with sticks. For 60 cents you can take away a written explanation of why crocs are so sacred (they are considered ancestors). Thank god I'm not sacred. We took a quick peek at the Burkina Faso border and went south to the Pikworo slave camp, a fascinating stop for 19th century slaves on the slow southward march to eternal servitute. Such a sad and sombre place, except for the constant ch-ching of additional charges, including 12 cents for each photo you snap and a tip for a group of local men playing an old slave spiritual, and their sad-eyed dancing children. Their performance was quite powerful and the sight has been perfectly maintained, including carved out holes in the rocks that served as bowls, and 'punishment rock' for busted escapists, who were tied with their back down, shirtless in the merciless sun. They squirmed so much that their chains have left an obvious groove around the base of the rock.
We slept in Bolga and made haste back to Kintampo the next day, where slid down the waterfall on our bums and had waterfights with a visiting group of secondary school students. Conor and I celebrated his Irish heritage in a 'pub' called Ryans, surround by middle-aged Europeans and young Ghanaian prostitutes. Go Irish!
Whew, this is exhausting.
Which is exactly what Miia said when the Kumasi doctors diagnosed her with her second bout of malaria. [She's much better now.] So she joined us, sweaty and tired at Assin Manso, where the slaves were given their last bath before being sold. They have erected a wall where slave descendants can write their names for a hundred bucks to show that they have returned, against all odds. The names will stand amidst depictions of America's finest blacks, like Booker T. Washington, whose bio closes with "he taught blacks to be upright citizens who minded their own business." Outside is a mural of an evil looking fat greasy white slavemaster whipping the captured African men. The site of the bath itself is now quite beautiful despite its sinister past. It is surrounded by bamboo and greenery, and has an eerie calm to it.
Finally we came to GHana's creme de la resistance, Elmina, a small seaside fishing town founded by the Portuguese, that along with its sister Cape Coast became one of Africa's great slave exporting hubs, run out of two ominously clean white castles. We splurged and stayed at Hans Cottage Botel, played in the pool, had pingpong grand slams, and watched crocodiles (these ones were fed no chicken, just fish, and generally stayed in the water but were fun to watch, especially when they fought over a morsel). Next door was Kakum National Park, where we did a canopy walk over a 40 metre high, 700 metre long, rope bridge, from which you have a spectacular view of one of Africa's largest remaining stretches of rainforest, and all the insects and birds and lizards therein.
Then they took us to the castles...I think I'll write about that later; it was a provocative experience.
-Chris
Tuesday, March 13, 2007
Road Trip!!
we are now being accompanied by our mutual friend Conor, who is taking to life here quite well. it's not surprising, he has the right traits: easy-going, flexible, outgoing. that last one is where i find myself most lacking here - it's always tough when i find myself the centre of attention and i don't even know why. or, that is, the reasons why are nonsense.
challenges aside, we're all quite enjoying ourselves, and are about to embark on a 9-day excursion around the country, during which we have a good chance of seeing elephants, hippos, gators, and most definitely monkeys of different varieties. we've already seen mones, and also baboons, which are best seen from inside your vehicle. so, we're all quite excited.
miia and i are also excited about moving on, seeing where my grandmother grew up (glasgow) and the highlands, plus revisiting gay paris, and lounging briefly on spanish beaches, before returning to our friends, family, and cats (one of whom is now recovering from a serious gash to his belly).
i am also anxious to finish my novel, and on the job front i've had serious interest from a monthly activisty magizine in new brunswick, which would probably pay me in canadian tire money but be interesting work if M is willing to become my sugar mama (which she says she is, and in fact she is now making far more money than I thanks to short-term paid gigs with UN and the orphanage).
because of this road trip we won't likely be updating the blog for the next 10 days at least, so worry not! we shall have some good pictures and stories when we return to Accra.
-Chris
ps. Congratulations to my good friends Arben and Anida, who just became Canadian citizens!!
challenges aside, we're all quite enjoying ourselves, and are about to embark on a 9-day excursion around the country, during which we have a good chance of seeing elephants, hippos, gators, and most definitely monkeys of different varieties. we've already seen mones, and also baboons, which are best seen from inside your vehicle. so, we're all quite excited.
miia and i are also excited about moving on, seeing where my grandmother grew up (glasgow) and the highlands, plus revisiting gay paris, and lounging briefly on spanish beaches, before returning to our friends, family, and cats (one of whom is now recovering from a serious gash to his belly).
i am also anxious to finish my novel, and on the job front i've had serious interest from a monthly activisty magizine in new brunswick, which would probably pay me in canadian tire money but be interesting work if M is willing to become my sugar mama (which she says she is, and in fact she is now making far more money than I thanks to short-term paid gigs with UN and the orphanage).
because of this road trip we won't likely be updating the blog for the next 10 days at least, so worry not! we shall have some good pictures and stories when we return to Accra.
-Chris
ps. Congratulations to my good friends Arben and Anida, who just became Canadian citizens!!
Thursday, March 08, 2007
Monday, March 05, 2007
From last week
We realised just yesterday that we’ve been making a social faux pas here. L called us to see how things are going in the new place, and she admonished Miia a bit because we never call her or E. Earlier that day we had received a call from our friend WO, who is currently serving in the Congo and is bored out of his minds because he can’t leave the compound on weekends. Our friend Henry also ‘flashed’ us, which is where you call and let it ring just once then hang up – just a little hello that costs nothing to say.
What we’ve realised is that we’re supposed to keep in better touch with our Ghanaian friends. We sometimes wonder when they call us, what do they want? In Canada, unless it’s a long distance thing, we generally call to make arrangements and plans but not just to say hello I was thinking about you.
I think this is especially true now in E and L’s case because they’ve let us stay in their apartment, we’re supposed to check in periodically. Ahh the little cultural differences.
************************************************************************
Last night we went to a party at the senior correspondent’s house, which is in the shi-shi downtown core, called Osu, where all the foreign restaurants are also found. We decided to kick things off with some Indian food with our new friend Chantal, who is a friend of our good friend Marlene and recently arrived in Ghana for a stint with UNDP. We talked about things we have in common: travel and bikes. We worried about reverse culture shock on our return, pictured our bored friends saying things like “how long do you think Chris can go without saying the word ‘Ghana?’”
Then we danced. The senior correspondent has a pad in a compound with several other oborunis and a few Ghanaians, with an open patio in the middle. They had some serious speakers, I assume rented, and played great music including Shaggy, Sean Paul, and other butt wigglers. The crowd, like the makeup of the compound itself, was mostly foreigners and a few locals. There were some seriously sexy people swaying together most sexily, much flirtation and checking out, ahh the impetuous exuberance of youth.
We made a few attempts at conversation and I met a few of the Journalists for Human Rights gang from Canada, one of whom is a producer at CBC. He was a bit perplexed when Miia forbid him from asking the usual questions (i.e. how long you been in Ghana? What you doing here? When will you return home?), so he focused his attention on me. He was recovering from typhoid and had a rough start to his assignment at the Joy FM radio newsroom. When I see the experience of the JHR people I don’t feel bad about not having got that job.
The senior correspondent welcomed me with a hardy handshake and we bitched to each other a bit about work and colleagues, danced a little, and she was off. She was the consummate host, spending time with everyone in short ADD-like bursts.
And we all danced some more. “My one complaint about white people is they get together and don’t dance,” said the JHR reporter who works at the Statesman (she write for the Globe and Mail back home), but she was soon proven wrong as we were all busting a groove, white and black, and just letting loose. A much needed release for me as I had been feeling a bit depressed, both about staying two more months and about going home afterward. Crazy.
Alas, Miia was feeling a bit feverish again – we think she has a stomach parasite, which is a repeat of what she had her entire time in Nicaragua. On Monday she’ll go for tests to confirm or disprove those suspicions.
[editor’s note: Miia’s feverishness was malaria, but she’s all better now!]
What we’ve realised is that we’re supposed to keep in better touch with our Ghanaian friends. We sometimes wonder when they call us, what do they want? In Canada, unless it’s a long distance thing, we generally call to make arrangements and plans but not just to say hello I was thinking about you.
I think this is especially true now in E and L’s case because they’ve let us stay in their apartment, we’re supposed to check in periodically. Ahh the little cultural differences.
************************************************************************
Last night we went to a party at the senior correspondent’s house, which is in the shi-shi downtown core, called Osu, where all the foreign restaurants are also found. We decided to kick things off with some Indian food with our new friend Chantal, who is a friend of our good friend Marlene and recently arrived in Ghana for a stint with UNDP. We talked about things we have in common: travel and bikes. We worried about reverse culture shock on our return, pictured our bored friends saying things like “how long do you think Chris can go without saying the word ‘Ghana?’”
Then we danced. The senior correspondent has a pad in a compound with several other oborunis and a few Ghanaians, with an open patio in the middle. They had some serious speakers, I assume rented, and played great music including Shaggy, Sean Paul, and other butt wigglers. The crowd, like the makeup of the compound itself, was mostly foreigners and a few locals. There were some seriously sexy people swaying together most sexily, much flirtation and checking out, ahh the impetuous exuberance of youth.
We made a few attempts at conversation and I met a few of the Journalists for Human Rights gang from Canada, one of whom is a producer at CBC. He was a bit perplexed when Miia forbid him from asking the usual questions (i.e. how long you been in Ghana? What you doing here? When will you return home?), so he focused his attention on me. He was recovering from typhoid and had a rough start to his assignment at the Joy FM radio newsroom. When I see the experience of the JHR people I don’t feel bad about not having got that job.
The senior correspondent welcomed me with a hardy handshake and we bitched to each other a bit about work and colleagues, danced a little, and she was off. She was the consummate host, spending time with everyone in short ADD-like bursts.
And we all danced some more. “My one complaint about white people is they get together and don’t dance,” said the JHR reporter who works at the Statesman (she write for the Globe and Mail back home), but she was soon proven wrong as we were all busting a groove, white and black, and just letting loose. A much needed release for me as I had been feeling a bit depressed, both about staying two more months and about going home afterward. Crazy.
Alas, Miia was feeling a bit feverish again – we think she has a stomach parasite, which is a repeat of what she had her entire time in Nicaragua. On Monday she’ll go for tests to confirm or disprove those suspicions.
[editor’s note: Miia’s feverishness was malaria, but she’s all better now!]
Daniel
This is Daniel, the grandson of a chief in a town called Dodi, in the Volta Region of eastern Ghana. He is an Ewe, and claims that his people have been treated unfairly by Ghana. Some Ewes want full independence from Ghana; Daniel just wants more equitable distribution of development dollars so that he and his friends can all get a good education.
Orphanage Africa
This is where Miia volunteers a couple days a week; it's a beautiful transitional home for vulnerable children until they can find a permanent family (their own or adoptive) to belong to.
Chair of the Council of Tribal Chiefs
aka the Lion King, and how he roared! Within the settlement, he is the leader of the leaders of 16 different Liberian tribes, many of whom tried to kill each other back home. Here they meet regularly to talk about peace.
School for Liberian Refugees
Last weekend we paid a visit to the Liberian refugee settlement. This is part of a school set up by an NGO. It teaches about peace, and about both Liberia and Ghana.
Quilts
These are made by women in Ghana's Liberian refugee camp; they sell them to raise money for peace-building work within the camp.
Saturday, March 03, 2007
At Hiroshima Museum
Behind her are letters to the leaders of nuclear nations. Every time a country does a nuclear test, the Mayor writes that country a letter of protest, reminding them that the price is not worth the cost.
Hiroshima pic
this is a picture of a picture of Hiroshima soon after the bomb hit, which i took at the memorial museum.
Friday, March 02, 2007
Events
Every academic talk should be preceded with funky live music. Last week we saw a very boring lecture by a well-informed African Studies lecturer from America who refused to tell us anything we didn’t already know. There were two highlights of the night: the 7-piece band that played reggae, funk, soul, high-life, etc. on traditional West African instruments to kick things off, and the 70-something MP who closed the evening with a series of hilarious quips about Ghanaian politics. I wrote a bunch of them down but lost the notebook. The most memorable was the Twi saying “I beg to tell you that you are a fool.” He explained that if you fail to beg the recipient of the critique then you are being rude, but the critique itself is just plain honesty. He was folksy but beyond that he said far more with a few sayings than the big-worded American professor said in his entire rambling keynote address.
***********************************************************************
Last weekend we went to see a play at the Ghana National Theatre, a very beautiful modern theatre along the lines of a Rebecca Cohen or a Massey Hall. The play was called The Lost Fishermen. It was written in the 60s by a great Ghanaian play-write and sculptor, now in his 80s. It was a ‘folk opera’ musical, so much of the dialogue was in the form of folksy tunes sung in Ga or Twi that had the local parts of the audience in stitches. Some of the whites actually left the performance, but I loved it. It had its technical (lighting and audio) flaws, but the songs were gorgeous, usually sung by about 10 men and 10 women, each gender singing in unison. The spoken dialogue, which was in English, went back and forth between the men and women in a similarly rhythmic way. The story was of a boatload of men lost at sea who finally land on an island inhabited entirely by widows whose husbands had perished at sea. Naturally, much jubilant flirtation and courting ensues, with concomitant jealousy and deception, resulting even in murder. In the end, the wicked are left to suffer and all good people are either dead or redeemed.
**********************************************************************
Our friend Dacosta just found out that he will be posted in Cote d’Ivoire on his first peacekeeping mission. Apparently things have calmed down there, on the whole, since a few years ago, yet we still get a steady flow of violent news from there. He will be in the city but I’m not sure what exactly his role will be.
He told us this when he came over to our new place for some chilli we had made together, which he slowly sucked down with a sour look on his face – guess he wasn’t quite used to that combination of spices. As he ate he told us some crazy stories about his life in the military, particularly in basic training. He had been in the west coast town of Takoradi, and from their running exercises in the jungle, learning mostly about discipline and following orders. “If they catch you with your shoes unshined, you have to carry a log around, and nobody wants that to happen.” He said that they are intentionally fed disgusting food and made to eat it all (which is perhaps why he was able to finish all his chilli, if slowly), and sent on forced marches from town to town.
He also told us about how he had just gone back to Ayirebi and visited his sick girlfriend, and some old friends had given him a hard time about being in the military and he knocked one of the guy’s tooth out. The cops came and he showed his military card and they wanted to be his new friends. “I don’t want any police as my friends,” he said. “They are too corrupt.”
We both like Dacosta a lot, he is an honourable guy, incorruptible. He sends a large chunk of his small income to his parents every month; they are still raising some of his 9 siblings, who range in age from 11 to 35.
But our encounters with him are always a little strange because we can only understand about two-thirds of what he says and he probably understands about the same amount of what we say. He is intelligent but does not have a university education so he speaks English with a heavy Twi accent. After these 6 months in Cote d’Ivoire he wants to get married and go back to school. He knows that he will never advance in the military without post-secondary education, and though he is quite interested in going to Canada for school he nearly lost his jaw when we told him what university costs there. Still, we promised to email him links to the major schools there – he wants to do geography and I thought COGS in Nova Scotia would be a good choice because it gives a very practical education that I’m sure would be useful in the military, which I think remains his ambition.
***********************************************************************
Last weekend we went to see a play at the Ghana National Theatre, a very beautiful modern theatre along the lines of a Rebecca Cohen or a Massey Hall. The play was called The Lost Fishermen. It was written in the 60s by a great Ghanaian play-write and sculptor, now in his 80s. It was a ‘folk opera’ musical, so much of the dialogue was in the form of folksy tunes sung in Ga or Twi that had the local parts of the audience in stitches. Some of the whites actually left the performance, but I loved it. It had its technical (lighting and audio) flaws, but the songs were gorgeous, usually sung by about 10 men and 10 women, each gender singing in unison. The spoken dialogue, which was in English, went back and forth between the men and women in a similarly rhythmic way. The story was of a boatload of men lost at sea who finally land on an island inhabited entirely by widows whose husbands had perished at sea. Naturally, much jubilant flirtation and courting ensues, with concomitant jealousy and deception, resulting even in murder. In the end, the wicked are left to suffer and all good people are either dead or redeemed.
**********************************************************************
Our friend Dacosta just found out that he will be posted in Cote d’Ivoire on his first peacekeeping mission. Apparently things have calmed down there, on the whole, since a few years ago, yet we still get a steady flow of violent news from there. He will be in the city but I’m not sure what exactly his role will be.
He told us this when he came over to our new place for some chilli we had made together, which he slowly sucked down with a sour look on his face – guess he wasn’t quite used to that combination of spices. As he ate he told us some crazy stories about his life in the military, particularly in basic training. He had been in the west coast town of Takoradi, and from their running exercises in the jungle, learning mostly about discipline and following orders. “If they catch you with your shoes unshined, you have to carry a log around, and nobody wants that to happen.” He said that they are intentionally fed disgusting food and made to eat it all (which is perhaps why he was able to finish all his chilli, if slowly), and sent on forced marches from town to town.
He also told us about how he had just gone back to Ayirebi and visited his sick girlfriend, and some old friends had given him a hard time about being in the military and he knocked one of the guy’s tooth out. The cops came and he showed his military card and they wanted to be his new friends. “I don’t want any police as my friends,” he said. “They are too corrupt.”
We both like Dacosta a lot, he is an honourable guy, incorruptible. He sends a large chunk of his small income to his parents every month; they are still raising some of his 9 siblings, who range in age from 11 to 35.
But our encounters with him are always a little strange because we can only understand about two-thirds of what he says and he probably understands about the same amount of what we say. He is intelligent but does not have a university education so he speaks English with a heavy Twi accent. After these 6 months in Cote d’Ivoire he wants to get married and go back to school. He knows that he will never advance in the military without post-secondary education, and though he is quite interested in going to Canada for school he nearly lost his jaw when we told him what university costs there. Still, we promised to email him links to the major schools there – he wants to do geography and I thought COGS in Nova Scotia would be a good choice because it gives a very practical education that I’m sure would be useful in the military, which I think remains his ambition.
Water
Apologies, this one came out filled with errors that I could swear weren't there on submission:
Let it flow: The Tamale water supply expansion, rehabilitation, and
optimisation project
Thursday, March 01, 2007
the blind man saw it all
From last Thursday’s paper:
“Gangs of criminals have besieged the cemetery and are making life unbearable, not only for the living but also for the dead.”
Eveyone at the editorial meeting cracked up when I quoted that one.
“Gangs of criminals have besieged the cemetery and are making life unbearable, not only for the living but also for the dead.”
Eveyone at the editorial meeting cracked up when I quoted that one.
Europeans
Europeans. Born into the world’s greatest health advantages; recruit what medical talent they don’t have from Africa, suck on poison sticks, puff the bi-product into my atmosphere so that the one place in Accra where I can buy one of their delicious chocolate croissants becomes too polluted to enjoy it. Europeans.
Memories of Tamale
In Tamale traffic flows, but you could walk most places if you so desire.
Tamale has giant bike lanes, and veiled women wearing bright clothe from head to toe driving motorbikes with babies on their backs.
A short walk from the Catholic Guesthouse we found Swad Fast Food, owned by Indians and equipped with the largest menu in the land. Amazingly, they actually had what we ordered: our old favourite, Indian food, chana masala and all those delicious sauces, on lemon rice.
************************************************************************
We interviewed Theresa at her office and learned all about the Christian Council’s dirty bag of tricks, filled with pictures of mutated genitalia, a fake cock, condoms, and other sundries, all used to educate congregations and student bodies about what AIDS could do to you if you don’t take the proper precautions. Then she invited us to dinner.
She treated us to local specialties of the north: TZ (which is like fufu but made with millet I think, and it has a cream of wheat flavour, but it’s firmer) in stew and delicious guinea fowl. Theresa, like Miia, is not really a meat-eater so I, the so-called meat minimizer, and George, the country’s second best teacher, ate the better part of a bird between us. With red wine that thankfully they hadn’t had time to chill.
Miia and George carried most of the conversation; he told us about when he went to Toronto to see the pope, then to Holland to study for a year, back in 02. He enjoyed his 10 days in Canada, found the Dutch too cold.
The next morning Theresa picked us up and took us to the AIDS support group, where a fist-fight broke out between two women on opposite sides of the circle, one a recently-arrived francophone Togolese woman who felt that their recently acquired food donations should be shared equally among the group, the other a long-term resident of the hospice where they were meeting under the shade of a giant tree, who felt that some of the food should be shared outside of the group because there was so much of it. After wigs were readjusted (women here wear wigs like hats so you can never expect a woman’s hairstyle to stay the same from day to day) everyone had a good laugh and asked that I don’t include the fight in my newspaper article, which I didn’t. Miia quipped that it’s a true family that can fight and laugh about it a minute or two later.
I had been expecting a meeting with formalised dialogue among members (like “hello my name is Ama and I am HIV positive and living well thank-you” kind of thing) but instead there were presentations from visitors including an NGO, a wacked out preacher who promised a cure in faith, and us. I just said a thank you for having us and that their strength and pride was inspiring, all true. Miia added that she had witnessed similar groups in El Salvador, Canada and Europe, that they were part of a global solidarity network. In the end I asked some questions to the group and wrote down what they told me were their needs, hopes, challenges, etc. The exuberant Chair of the group showed us around the compound a bit we met some of the kids, some of whom are AIDS orphans and one little boy who is HIV positive, and some of them wanted us to pose with them in pictures on our camera. Despite the enormous stigma facing them, they insist on their dignity, and say that they aren’t afraid to be in the media to show Ghanaians that while the HIV/AIDS virus is to be feared the people living with it are not.
************************************************************************
Ghanaians of a certain age, maybe 3, are totally afraid of white people. They are just old enough to see that we are different, but not yet old enough to know how one deals with such difference. They usually cry and hide their eyes or run away and stay behind their mother’s legs. Just a little older and they are absolutely fascinated. One little girl at the trotro station saw us and started yanking vigorously on her mother’s skirt screaming “Mommy Mommy Mommy! O!boruni! O!boruni!” while her mother did her best to ignore the child.
************************************************************************
Right after the HIV/AIDS support group meeting E and L came and picked us up and took us to the guesthouse, literally a complete house, that is E’s Tamale home. L lives in Sunyani in the Western Region, where they bought a house when E was assigned there. Now he is in Tamale for 3 years completing a large water expansion that will give running water to everyone in the area (at the moment only 3 in 10 have it, and not every day). They also have the apartment rented for another 2 years in Accra, and it was that day we asked them if we could rent it from them for the rest of our time in Ghana. They said “no, but you can stay there for free. You are our friends now, so we can’t take money from you.” Their word on that was final, but they have since asked us to pay the power bill when they found out we were using their air conditioner.
I interviewed E for a story on water issues and he drove me around to meet his boss and co-worker; he wanted to make sure it wasn’t just his name in the paper in case anyone called his comments into question. I doubt they will because he was very careful to remain apolitical. We were shocked to see the 45 million Euro budget for the project because the conditions of the Dutch loan stipulate that 40 million of that must be spent ‘offshore’ i.e. back in Holland, so that’s where all the engineers and skilled labour will originate, as well as equipment and financial instruments. What a scam. In the end Tamale gets its water but Ghana will still be paying interest for years for something that was a double-booster to the Dutch economy. For E’s sake I didn’t get too much into that in the story, but I might do a future commentary on the scam of financial conditionality in foreign loans.
Anyhoo, E had another man bring us beer, then admonished him for opening Miia’s when she wasn’t present – she had gone to the kitchen to whip up some Cuban-style plantain. Both E and L studied and lived in Cuba for some time and speak fluent Spanish.
Just like T and G they wanted to treat us to local cuisine so they took us out for TZ and guinea fowl. We hopped into the backseat of the pickup and listened to E and L talk about how violent the people in the north are as the world’s strongest baby tried to grab the steering wheel. Our story of the two women at the AIDS group confirmed their worst suspicions. “You see, they jump into fights over simple things that reasonable people could talk out,” L told us.
We ate atop the roof of a popular local restaurant while Super-Baby made threatening gestures to jump off and take flight, with L holding him by the diaper. He eventually gave up and contented himself with roaming around the large rooftop meeting and greeting strangers while E shouted orders at the lackadaisical waitress.
As we awaited our meals 6 Cuban doctors sat at the next table over. Cuba sends its doctors to more than a hundred countries in the world; there are a few hundred of them in Ghana alone. Cuba, having been founded by a doctor, has one of the best medical education systems in the world. Ghana does not, and the best doctors tend to leave for snowier pastures, hence their great need for Cuba’s help. These six were all located in the countryside of northern Ghana, but once a month they all come together in Tamale for drinks.
E was ecstatic to see them and he invited them to join our table. Beers arrived and Spanish chatter ran rampant, with Miia translating some of it to my ears while my tongue got tangled with my ‘mucho gusto’ and they smiled politely. Of course they could speak English but this was a rare opportunity for E, L, and Miia to use their third language. I asked what they missed about Cuba and they glanced around nervously looking for spies. “Nada,” said one of the women. Another, who had just called his wife and children and was aglow from the sound of their voices, said that life is hard in Cuba and hard in Ghana, so it’s all about the same. They seemed careful to say as little as possible, to avoid being too negative or positive. They did say that the rumours of Fidel’s impending death had been greatly exaggerated by the Imperialist media.
As the night wore on and the beer flowed we noticed our friend E had a bit of a case of the old bigmanitis, and we wondered if the doctors had a Cuban cure for that. He wanted the waitress to run next door and buy him cigarettes but she refused. He insisted on picking up the tab with the usual bigman generosity. We yawned a few times and hinted our way back to the guesthouse, where the power and water had both stopped flowing. We climbed in for a night of dodging and slapping mosquitoes until 5 am beckoned us toward the bus-stop to wait for the inevitably delayed.
As predicted the bus arrived two hours late, but with air conditioning, which broke down along with the rest of the bus periodically through the 12-hour journey to an hour outside Accra, where the motor finally called it quits for good. There was general confusion about what if anything would be done about the 50 passengers sitting on the highway-side in the middle of the night. Eventually someone translated the rumour running around that a replacement bus was on its way from either Accra to the south or Kumasi to the north. It could be several hours. I argued with my stomach and Miia with her brain. We crossed the highway and bought some snacks at the gas station and we returned to join the other passengers trying to hail a taxi, trotro, or any driver with an occupancy. Eventually a guy in a big new van jammed about 7 of us in there and took us to the northern part of town for about 50 cents each. From there we split a cab with a very honest and kind man who would only take a dollar from us, a very fair price.
Tamale has giant bike lanes, and veiled women wearing bright clothe from head to toe driving motorbikes with babies on their backs.
A short walk from the Catholic Guesthouse we found Swad Fast Food, owned by Indians and equipped with the largest menu in the land. Amazingly, they actually had what we ordered: our old favourite, Indian food, chana masala and all those delicious sauces, on lemon rice.
************************************************************************
We interviewed Theresa at her office and learned all about the Christian Council’s dirty bag of tricks, filled with pictures of mutated genitalia, a fake cock, condoms, and other sundries, all used to educate congregations and student bodies about what AIDS could do to you if you don’t take the proper precautions. Then she invited us to dinner.
She treated us to local specialties of the north: TZ (which is like fufu but made with millet I think, and it has a cream of wheat flavour, but it’s firmer) in stew and delicious guinea fowl. Theresa, like Miia, is not really a meat-eater so I, the so-called meat minimizer, and George, the country’s second best teacher, ate the better part of a bird between us. With red wine that thankfully they hadn’t had time to chill.
Miia and George carried most of the conversation; he told us about when he went to Toronto to see the pope, then to Holland to study for a year, back in 02. He enjoyed his 10 days in Canada, found the Dutch too cold.
The next morning Theresa picked us up and took us to the AIDS support group, where a fist-fight broke out between two women on opposite sides of the circle, one a recently-arrived francophone Togolese woman who felt that their recently acquired food donations should be shared equally among the group, the other a long-term resident of the hospice where they were meeting under the shade of a giant tree, who felt that some of the food should be shared outside of the group because there was so much of it. After wigs were readjusted (women here wear wigs like hats so you can never expect a woman’s hairstyle to stay the same from day to day) everyone had a good laugh and asked that I don’t include the fight in my newspaper article, which I didn’t. Miia quipped that it’s a true family that can fight and laugh about it a minute or two later.
I had been expecting a meeting with formalised dialogue among members (like “hello my name is Ama and I am HIV positive and living well thank-you” kind of thing) but instead there were presentations from visitors including an NGO, a wacked out preacher who promised a cure in faith, and us. I just said a thank you for having us and that their strength and pride was inspiring, all true. Miia added that she had witnessed similar groups in El Salvador, Canada and Europe, that they were part of a global solidarity network. In the end I asked some questions to the group and wrote down what they told me were their needs, hopes, challenges, etc. The exuberant Chair of the group showed us around the compound a bit we met some of the kids, some of whom are AIDS orphans and one little boy who is HIV positive, and some of them wanted us to pose with them in pictures on our camera. Despite the enormous stigma facing them, they insist on their dignity, and say that they aren’t afraid to be in the media to show Ghanaians that while the HIV/AIDS virus is to be feared the people living with it are not.
************************************************************************
Ghanaians of a certain age, maybe 3, are totally afraid of white people. They are just old enough to see that we are different, but not yet old enough to know how one deals with such difference. They usually cry and hide their eyes or run away and stay behind their mother’s legs. Just a little older and they are absolutely fascinated. One little girl at the trotro station saw us and started yanking vigorously on her mother’s skirt screaming “Mommy Mommy Mommy! O!boruni! O!boruni!” while her mother did her best to ignore the child.
************************************************************************
Right after the HIV/AIDS support group meeting E and L came and picked us up and took us to the guesthouse, literally a complete house, that is E’s Tamale home. L lives in Sunyani in the Western Region, where they bought a house when E was assigned there. Now he is in Tamale for 3 years completing a large water expansion that will give running water to everyone in the area (at the moment only 3 in 10 have it, and not every day). They also have the apartment rented for another 2 years in Accra, and it was that day we asked them if we could rent it from them for the rest of our time in Ghana. They said “no, but you can stay there for free. You are our friends now, so we can’t take money from you.” Their word on that was final, but they have since asked us to pay the power bill when they found out we were using their air conditioner.
I interviewed E for a story on water issues and he drove me around to meet his boss and co-worker; he wanted to make sure it wasn’t just his name in the paper in case anyone called his comments into question. I doubt they will because he was very careful to remain apolitical. We were shocked to see the 45 million Euro budget for the project because the conditions of the Dutch loan stipulate that 40 million of that must be spent ‘offshore’ i.e. back in Holland, so that’s where all the engineers and skilled labour will originate, as well as equipment and financial instruments. What a scam. In the end Tamale gets its water but Ghana will still be paying interest for years for something that was a double-booster to the Dutch economy. For E’s sake I didn’t get too much into that in the story, but I might do a future commentary on the scam of financial conditionality in foreign loans.
Anyhoo, E had another man bring us beer, then admonished him for opening Miia’s when she wasn’t present – she had gone to the kitchen to whip up some Cuban-style plantain. Both E and L studied and lived in Cuba for some time and speak fluent Spanish.
Just like T and G they wanted to treat us to local cuisine so they took us out for TZ and guinea fowl. We hopped into the backseat of the pickup and listened to E and L talk about how violent the people in the north are as the world’s strongest baby tried to grab the steering wheel. Our story of the two women at the AIDS group confirmed their worst suspicions. “You see, they jump into fights over simple things that reasonable people could talk out,” L told us.
We ate atop the roof of a popular local restaurant while Super-Baby made threatening gestures to jump off and take flight, with L holding him by the diaper. He eventually gave up and contented himself with roaming around the large rooftop meeting and greeting strangers while E shouted orders at the lackadaisical waitress.
As we awaited our meals 6 Cuban doctors sat at the next table over. Cuba sends its doctors to more than a hundred countries in the world; there are a few hundred of them in Ghana alone. Cuba, having been founded by a doctor, has one of the best medical education systems in the world. Ghana does not, and the best doctors tend to leave for snowier pastures, hence their great need for Cuba’s help. These six were all located in the countryside of northern Ghana, but once a month they all come together in Tamale for drinks.
E was ecstatic to see them and he invited them to join our table. Beers arrived and Spanish chatter ran rampant, with Miia translating some of it to my ears while my tongue got tangled with my ‘mucho gusto’ and they smiled politely. Of course they could speak English but this was a rare opportunity for E, L, and Miia to use their third language. I asked what they missed about Cuba and they glanced around nervously looking for spies. “Nada,” said one of the women. Another, who had just called his wife and children and was aglow from the sound of their voices, said that life is hard in Cuba and hard in Ghana, so it’s all about the same. They seemed careful to say as little as possible, to avoid being too negative or positive. They did say that the rumours of Fidel’s impending death had been greatly exaggerated by the Imperialist media.
As the night wore on and the beer flowed we noticed our friend E had a bit of a case of the old bigmanitis, and we wondered if the doctors had a Cuban cure for that. He wanted the waitress to run next door and buy him cigarettes but she refused. He insisted on picking up the tab with the usual bigman generosity. We yawned a few times and hinted our way back to the guesthouse, where the power and water had both stopped flowing. We climbed in for a night of dodging and slapping mosquitoes until 5 am beckoned us toward the bus-stop to wait for the inevitably delayed.
As predicted the bus arrived two hours late, but with air conditioning, which broke down along with the rest of the bus periodically through the 12-hour journey to an hour outside Accra, where the motor finally called it quits for good. There was general confusion about what if anything would be done about the 50 passengers sitting on the highway-side in the middle of the night. Eventually someone translated the rumour running around that a replacement bus was on its way from either Accra to the south or Kumasi to the north. It could be several hours. I argued with my stomach and Miia with her brain. We crossed the highway and bought some snacks at the gas station and we returned to join the other passengers trying to hail a taxi, trotro, or any driver with an occupancy. Eventually a guy in a big new van jammed about 7 of us in there and took us to the northern part of town for about 50 cents each. From there we split a cab with a very honest and kind man who would only take a dollar from us, a very fair price.
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