Janet & Mark in Ghana

Airborne once again!

2007-09-07T10:31:00.000-07:00

Janet and I have both done interviews on CBC Radio since we've been back. Mine was yesterday morning; Janet did hers way back in July. For those of you who didn't get a chance to hear them, you can find both online at cbc.ca:

Mark (Sept. 6): http://www.cbc.ca/informationmorningsaintjohn/int_archives/2007_sep.html
Janet (July 19): http://www.cbc.ca/informationmorningsaintjohn/int_archives/2007_jul.html

You can also click on the links in the menu on the left side of the page. You need a program like Real Audio (available free online) to listen to them.

If you get a chance to listen to them, let us know what you think!

- Mark

Home

2007-09-02T20:54:00.000-07:00

I stayed overnight at the Liberian refugee camp on one of my last nights in Ghana, and watched “Refugee All Stars” on a big screen in an outdoor courtyard. “Refugee All Stars" is a documentary about refugees from war-torn Sierra Leone who formed a band on their camp in Guinea, which borders Sierra Leone and Liberia in West Africa.

It was an emotional experience watching this film with my friends from the camp. I see documentaries like this at home, but it’s usually with people like me who empathize but can’t personally relate to the subject matter. The Liberians connected on a very personal level to the experience of the “Refugee All Stars.” They felt the pain of exile from their homeland; they also felt that their newspaper “The Vision” inspired and entertained Liberian refugees in the same as the "Refugee All Stars" gave to a lift to people from Sierra Leone.

The “Refugee All Stars” have now gone home to Sierra Leone, however; “The Vision” and the people who publish it are still in Ghana, though they plan to take the paper to Liberia as early as December.

The Liberians are an articulate and passionate group, and they feel comfortable expressing themselves in front of a crowd. A few of them spoke to the group about their perceptions of the film once it was over. Joseph, an editor with the paper, addressed the question that’s on everyone’s mind: when do they return home to Liberia?

“We’ve have been in exile too long,” he said. “It’s time to go home.”

We tend to think of Africans as eager to immigrate to places like Canada, because life is so difficult in a lot of African countries. And in truth many people do long to get out, but many more want to stay home, or return home in the case of the Liberians.

A few months ago, I met a taxi driver who was very upset that Ghanaians had a hard time getting tourist visas to Canada. The Canadian government is very reluctant to issue visas, especially to young single men, because it suspects - and rightly so in many cases – that they will stay in Canada and not return home to Ghana.

This infuriated our driver because he wanted to visit Canada one day, and he was insulted by the suggestion that he would not want to return home to Ghana. “You can’t take me away from Ghana anymore than you can remove salt from the sea,” he said.

I agreed and told him it was the same for me, though I came from the other, colder side of the Atlantic.

I will miss Ghana because it has become a home of sorts to me, much like India, Halifax and Toronto, other places I have lived for short and long periods. But after seven months in a self-imposed exile, the Bay of Fundy beckons me. It’s time to go home.

- Mark

Liberians get much needed tools of the trade

2007-08-25T01:40:00.000-07:00

My time is quickly coming to an end, and one of my most rewarding experiences has been working with the "The Vision," the newspaper at the Liberian refugee camp outside Accra. They're great friends and journalists working under very difficult conditions.

They seldom have electricity, and just recently got a generator so they can power computers, lights, et cetera. They've had to operate with a short supply of basic things like paper and pens.

In addition, they've had to get by without easy access to things that Canadian journalists take for granted - cameras, tape recorders and up-to-date computer equipment.

To help them out, I asked some people back home to send much needed electronic equipment, and I want to thank them for their generous gifts. Judith Mackin, Peter Smit, and Patrick Sohy donated digital recorders so the reporters could tape interviews; Mike Tilley donated a camera because they've had to borrow one in the past to take pictures; and David Alston donated a laptop with a processor powerful enough to operate a page-buidling program so they could layout the paper themselves, rather than pay someone to do it for them.

In the picture above, a few of the guys are learning to build news pages on David's laptop, which we've attached to a monitor with a bigger screen size. If they learn this skill, it will help the paper save money and also make them more employable when they eventually return to Liberia.

The guys really appreciated these gifts. Thank you David, Mike, Judith, Peter and Patrick. Thank you, too, Katie Wallace, who brought the equipment with her when she visited Ghana in April.

- Mark

Recipe for success

2007-08-20T15:55:00.000-07:00

Victor got a job! I got this piece of good news when he called shortly after returning from a visit to his hometown; he was there to visit his family and pay the school fees for his daughter so she could finish the year and get her marks. Upon his return he learned that a guesthouse wanted him to be their cook.

I was especially eagre to report this news because so few stories like Victor's have happy endings here. I was also happy, of course, because now I would get a meal cooked by Victor, as he promised to do when I gave him the money for daughter's fees ("A friend in need," July 28).

On Saturday, I went to the guesthouse with my friend Doug, and Victor made us lunch. I had a spicy vegetable dish with rice; it was especially good because he made it with fresh mushrooms (a rarity here).

Victor was as good as he said he was, and luckily the guesthouse thought so too.

My enthusiasm about his new job was tempered a bit, though, when I discovered that he was working seven days a week and was still finding it difficult to make ends meet. His starting salary was 500,000 cedis a month (about $60 Canadian). Bus fare alone costs him about 450,000 cedis a month because he has to travel far to work. He’s trying to find a place closer to the guesthouse but the city’s vacancy rate is really low.

Ideally he’ll find a place closer for about 150,000 cedis a month, and get a raise after he’s proved himself for a while. Then, he said, he’ll be able to bring his family back to Accra.

Low pay, long hours, and his family still so far away. His situation still seemed so difficult to me. But that’s not how Victor saw it. “It’s better than being idle,” he said.

- Mark

The universal language of customer service

2007-08-14T07:19:00.000-07:00

Mercy laughs at me every time I say "ay-ta-sein" (how are you?) or "ay-ya" (I am fine). She sells me fruit every day on my way home from work, and she also tries to teach me a new word or phrase in "Twi," the local language. When I stumble over my words she laughs and begins to speak in English.

Another one of my local vendors has put me on a crash-course in Twi; they don't realize that I will be gone in two weeks and they will be amongst the people that I will miss the most.

Coming from a SuperStore world, I have grown to really love my early morning/late afternoon routine here. I buy some staples at the grocery store equivalent here (coffee, apple juice, et cetera), but I get most of my things at roadside stands or shacks. I get my fruit from Mercy, tomatoes and beans from a stand up the road from her.

There is one little shop near my place where I buy things like bottled water, toilet paper, dish soap, bread, et cetera. Across the road from them I buy imported shortbread cookies (my late-night indulgence). I can't get anything else from them because the woman at the first shop is very territorial, and she's let it be known I should only buy from her.

One day I handed her 6,500 cedis for a bottle of water; she eyed me warily and said, "They charge that price across the street. I only charge 6,000." It reminded of the time I was at Java Moose and handed one of the owners enough change for a medium-size coffee at Tim Hortons. Let's just say it didn't pass unnoticed.

Big companies buy our loyalty through expensive advertising and branding campaigns. Small ones - in Ghana and in Canada - earn it through personal, daily contact.

The language of loyalty is sincerity and warmth, and it can be understood by foreigners here even if we don't speak Twi.

- Mark

Slaves to no one

2007-08-06T10:13:00.000-07:00

I walked into the U.S. embassy in Accra this afternoon, and there was a large crowd gathered in the lobby. I was there to interview the public affairs director about a story I was working on; they were American visitors waiting for a guided tour. They were from a UCLA alumni group with ancestral ties to slaves brought to America in 1807 on one of the last ships before the slave trade was abolished.

One of them told me the trip was a pilgrimage of sorts to their ancestral home. Though they were descendants of Ghanaians, they couldn’t have been more “American” in the way they carried themselves. Ghanaians, in my limited experience here, are passive and respectful, much like Canadians. Americans seem more like Nigerians – very aggressive and demanding.

When I arrived, the group of Americans was very upset because the ambassador wasn’t back from a meeting yet, and she was going to lead the tour. They wanted to begin the tour before she got back, but the embassy staff told them they had to wait.

That wasn’t the answer they were looking for; as U.S. taxpayers they felt entitled to begin the tour when they were ready, not when the ambassador was ready. “We paid for this building,” one of them said.

The ambassador was late because she had been called away to a meeting with John Kufuor, the Ghanaian president. “You have to understand that you have to drop what you’re doing when the president calls for a meeting,” said an embassy staff person.

Then she began to say, “It’s like if you were in the U.S. and President Bush called…” but she was quickly interrupted.

“If Bush called us, we’d tell him to ‘stick it!’ ” said one of the Americans.

“Shhhh…” someone else whispered, as if to remind her she shouldn’t talk that way in an embassy.

I don’t mean to cast all of the Americans in one mould. (One of them was actually quite polite – very “Canadian,” you might say. He introduced himself to me, and asked what I was doing in Ghana.) Nonetheless, I was quite amused by how stereotypically “American” some of them were acting; I had a good chuckle at the Bush comment.

I also admired their brashness and confidence, especially when I considered how far African-Americans had come since the days of the slave trade.

The slaves left here in chains, thrown into the hulls of ships for lives of servitude. Two centuries later their descendants come to Ghana true “red, white and blue” Americans – slaves to nothing and no one, not even the U.S. ambassador’s schedule.

- Mark

A friend in need

2007-07-28T09:17:00.000-07:00

I got a call the other day from Victor, the unemployed man I wrote about in "Lost in the Crowd" (July 18).

"My daughter has been kicked out of school because we couldn't pay her school fees," he said. "Can you help me?"

"How much are the fees?" I asked.

"250,000 cedis," he said, which is about $30 Canadian.

I didn't know what to say to him. Giving money to people over here is a much-debated subject amongst foreign visitors. Some people believe that it's wrong; they think it encourages begging and discourages people from working for a living. Other people believe they should give; they think most people in need of help are trying hard to provide for themselves and their family, and should be helped out when they fall short.

For me, the truth lies somewhere in between. On the one hand, you'd go broke quickly here if you gave to everyone who asked you for money, and many of them don't actually need your help. (For example, I passed a well-dressed little boy with a cell phone on the street today, and all he said was, "Give me some money." Nothing ventured, nothing gained, I guess.) On the other hand, it feels wrong to turn away from people who appear to genuinely need help, and you have the means to do so.

The hard part is figuring out who "genuinely" needs your help.

Was Victor one of those people? I had only spoken to him for about a half an hour on a street corner. He had told me he'd fallen on hard times, that his wife and children had returned to their hometown to stay with family while he tried to find work in Accra. I had to trust that he was telling me the truth, and that his daughter would not finish the school year if I didn't give him money.

I thought back to our conversation on the street corner. I had immediately liked him. He was warm and thoughtful, and helpful as well. I had enjoyed our conversation so much that I gave him my phone number, without even being asked.

With this in mind, I said yes and told him to meet me downtown in front of the grocery store I often go to. He smiled and shook my hand warmly when I handed him the envelope with the money. He told me he would call when he got back from delivering the money to the school.

Remembering he was a cook, I told him all he had to do in exchange for the money was make me a meal upon his return. He readily agreed.

That was a fair trade, I thought, and it made my gift feel less like charity. After all, I often pay $30 or more for a meal in a Canadian restaurant. What's wrong with paying him the same amount of money for a home-cooked Ghanaian meal? And more importantly, a little girl gets to finish out the school year, and hopefully return again there in the fall.

- Mark

Fear factor

2007-07-22T10:45:00.000-07:00

We would have never come here if we had listened to the travel nurse in Saint John. She said we were going to the riskiest part of the world for picking up certain diseases: malaria, cholera, hepatitis, yellow fever, and dengue fever.

“Is it really the riskiest?" I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“But I’ve been to places like Central America, Thailand, India,” I said.

“This is worse than all of them,” she said.

“And whatever you do,” she said before she began to administer the first of many expensive shots that provided some – but not complete - protection against these diseases, “don’t wear sandals. Wear protective footwear at all times. You never know what you’ll step on over there.”

This is when the fear started to set in. “Should we be doing this?” I asked Janet as we left the clinic. “It’s a little late to ask that now,” she said.

I was told there was much to fear about Ghana: diseases, pollution, armed robberies and traffic accidents (the leading cause of death).

I was so worked up that, on the third day I was here, I went to the hospital thinking I was having an asthma attack because of air pollution (I wasn’t). I haven’t been really sick yet or been in an accident, but Janet and I were nearly mugged (turned out Janet was too tough for them).

Ghana turned out to be not so frightening after all. Then we decided to take a trip to Nigeria, the scariest place in all of West Africa – except for maybe Sierre Leone, Liberia and Cote D’Ivoire…

There was so much to fear about Nigeria: it had the same diseases, but was more polluted and the roads were more dangerous. And it was more violent, way more violent. The day before we arrived, seven foreign oil workers were kidnapped in the Niger Delta, and armed robbers had broken into the house of the people Janet was to work with. (We went to Nigeria because Janet was giving some presentations on behalf of UNB.)

The Nigerians didn’t dispel my fears. Don’t go out alone, they all told me. And if you do, take taxis, not public transport. The buses and okadas (motorcycle taxis) get in more accidents and get robbed more often.

On the first morning, Janet went to work and I took a taxi to The Punch, the most popular daily newspaper in Lagos. I wanted to get a tour of the paper and go out on assignment with a reporter (see “A Sunday drive through Lagos” in the May folder). In a meeting with a group of editors they told me that the West exaggerates the dangers in Nigeria. “Yes, foreign oil workers are often kidnapped in the Niger Delta,” said one editor. “But they never kill any of them. They always let them go eventually.” But whatever you do, they all said, don’t ride the buses or the okadas. I took a cab back to the hotel.

The next day, I stayed in the room watching movies until noon. I didn’t want to take any more taxis (they were very expensive) and I was a bit spooked by all the Nigerians telling me to stay away from other, cheaper forms of transit.

At noon, I decided to venture out into the city. The guys at the front desk begged me to take a taxi. When it was clear I planned to take the bus, they gave in and wrote out directions for the bus stops.

I was so proud of myself as I stood at the bus stop waiting for one to come along, but still a little scared. One finally came along and I hopped on board. I nearly had a full-blown panic attack after the first minute. The bus stalled in traffic, and the air was thick with diesel exhaust. What if I have an asthma attack? What if the traffic’s so bad I can’t get back to the hotel before dark?!

I had calmed down by the time we reached the first stop, and decided to take a second bus that would take me all the way downtown. But I freaked out almost immediately after it pulled away from the stop; I got off at the next stop and made my way back to the hotel. Nonetheless I was very proud of my grand adventure. The hotel staff was delighted to see me back alive, and I couldn’t wait to tell Janet when she got back from her day riding around in taxis.

The next day I made it all the way down to Lagos Island, which has many large outdoor markets. Wary of pickpockets, I had my hand in my pocket, clutching my cash. As I walked down the sidewalk of a very busy street, I heard someone call from across the street, “White, white!” I usually ignore people who call out to me, thinking they’re street vendors or people looking for money, but this time I turned toward the man. He was pointing to the ground behind me. “You dropped some money,” he said. There on the sidewalk was some crumpled-up naira (Nigerian currency). Guess I wasn’t holding on to it so tightly after all.

How in this city of thieves and cons, I thought, did I happen upon the one honest guy? And why didn’t the other people on the street pounce on the money after I had dropped it on the ground. The stereotypes about Big Bad Nigeria were being proved wrong, at least in my case. I wandered the markets, down back alleys and side streets and people largely left me alone, except for the occasional person calling out, “Hey white, where are you going?”

I walked around for a few hours and then got back on the bus. As we passed over a bridge that connected Lagos Island with the mainland, I saw a large slum in marshy land near the water. I asked a passenger if he’d been down there before, and the mate collecting fares spoke up. “I grew up there,” he said. “I was schooled there.”

I was surprised when he spoke to me, just as the man who let me know my money had fallen to the ground surprised me. There is so much bad press about large African cities, some coming from the residents themselves, that we forget there is much good in them as well. People talk to each other; people help each other, just as they do everywhere else.

I’m not saying there’s nothing to fear. Everywhere I saw signs and heard stories about a city under siege. Barbed wire fencing around homes and businesses. Armed guards at banks and bank machines. Stories about people being robbed in their homes and on buses.

But you have to let down your guard a bit, or you won’t see much of what’s good in places like this. The same goes for being obsessed about getting in accidents or sick with malaria or cholera.

On our last day in Nigeria, a police officer gave me advice that’s worth heeding anywhere in the world.

We were pulled over at a police checkpoint, and an officer approached the car. I closed my hand over money I was holding so she couldn’t see it (police officers are said to be corrupt here and always looking for bribes). She peered briefly into the car and waved us on.

She must have noticed that I looked tense. As the car pulled away I heard her laugh; I turned around and she was looking at me. “Relax,” she said.

- Mark

A vacation in Togo

2007-07-18T13:10:00.001-07:00

(Note: I wanted to write about our vacation in Togo, but didn't have time before returning to Canada. Here is the story with a few pictures)

We had hoped to go to Kenya or Mali for the last two weeks of June, which was also to be my last two weeks in West Africa, but due to the prohibitive cost of air travel to any place within Africa, we settled on Togo.

Togo is a country to the east of Ghana and is one of two slivers of land nestled between Ghana and Nigeria. It is French-speaking and has recently stabilized following a devastating civil war.

The border is only 3 hours from Accra, so it was easy for us to slip into the country, spend a few days touring around, and then head back to Ghana for a final few days at a beach resort.

We hit our first snag at the border where we were told our Ghanaian entry visas would have to be renewed before we could return to Ghana. We hadn’t expected this, and it would mean spending at least two days in Lomé, the capital, while we waited for the Ghanaian Embassy to process our visas to allow us to return across the border. Reports from the capital didn’t inspire a desire to spend more than an obligatory night there, but we had little alternative if we wanted to cross into Togo. We made the leap, and entered the country.

We spent our first night in a small hotel in a neighbourhood near the beach. The hotel bar and restaurant could have been plucked out of any small town in France. It had a beautiful outdoor patio, stone garden walls and a French Swiss owner. The room we stayed in was much less inspiring. It was musty had one dimly lit bulb hanging on a far wall and a toilet that didn’t flush. But, at $20 a night, we couldn’t really complain.

We dropped our things in our room, and went for a walk along the beach. Lomé spreads itself along one of West Africa’s most stunning beaches. The main road leaving Ghana and heading to Benin borders a sparkling sandy beach. Glistening blue water stretches out for miles from its edge. We watched Togolese families picnic in the shade of a few palm trees while children chased soccer balls along the hot sand. Couples strolled slowly along the edge of the water hand-in-hand.

Immediately we sensed a cultural difference between the people of Ghana and Togo. Even though Togolese look much the same as their Ghanaian neighbours, and some are from from the same tribes, they carried themselves differently. The people we watched seemed more leisurely. They held hands, sat under trees talking and laughing over food, and were well, more French. Obviously French colonization has had a lasting effect.

In the distance we heard music blasting. We followed the sound and were soon swallowed by a crowd. We pushed through the throngs of people and came across a stage on the beach where three women dressed in Coca Cola t-shirts were showing off their moves. The performance, we learned, was part of a summer dance competition sponsored by Coca Cola. The crowds voted for the best dancer by cheering loudly for their favourite. At the end of the summer, the final competitor would win a motor scooter.

By this time it was getting dark and we started to make our way back to the hotel. We took a side street called Avenue de la Presidence. I guess we should have realized from the name of the road and the unexpected silence that we were going in the wrong direction. A soldier approached us and demanded to know what we were doing. We told him we were heading back to our hotel. “Not this way,” he said. “You’re on the president’s property.”

Once we finally got back to the hotel, we lay down for a brief rest before dinner. We were excited about the menu selection which offered tempting French meals, but were tired from the bus ride and from crossing the border so decided to lay down our heads for a few minutes.

At 1 a.m. we woke up hungry.

The next morning our first activity was to go to the Ghanaian embassy to drop off our passports and apply for another visa. This was supposed to be an easy process, but an angry bureaucrat refused to simply allow us to fill out the application and pay our fee. After much convincing that we did indeed need another visa to cross back into Ghana and that he should take our money, he looked me and said sharply “Okay, but this is the last time I’m giving you a visa!”

We were told to return the next morning to pick up our visas. We paid our money and left.

Since we had to stick around Lomé until the next morning, we decided to go on a quick day trip to a place called Togoville, an hour’s drive from the city. Togoville is a small town on a lake where the locals practice voodoo. Most of the residents are also Catholic and in 2004 the pope visited the small town after the Virgin Mary was allegedly seen in a boat crossing the lake.

We also arrived at the village by boat thanks to a couple of local entrepreneurs who charged us $8 to sail a couple of kilometres across the lake. The boat was a carved out tree trunk, and the sail was a piece of plastic stuck to the top of a long wooden pole.

Once we arrived in Togoville we were met by Vincent, a man whose business card said he was a consultant and youth tourism trainer. For another small fee, he would guide us around the village and show us voodoo in the village.

I expected to see voodoo dolls and evidence of animal sacrifice, so was actually a bit disappointed by what seemed to be a series of neglected shrines. Mark reminded me that Hollywood had sensationalized voodoo and distorted it from its original conception.

Vincent told us that the locals believe that inanimate objects like trees, rocks and sculptures have living spirits. The villagers pay respects to these spirits with gifts of food and ask for guidance and protection.

After our brief tour, we returned to the dock where our boat was waiting to take us back across the lake. This time the wind direction made it impossible to use the sail, so our guide poled us across the water. It was a much more arduous trip and he definitely earned his $8.

Back at the hotel, we settled in at the restaurant anxious for a good meal. We didn’t dare lie down before dinner. The food was delicious. We had shrimp, couscous, and chocolate mousse for dessert.

At 3 a.m. we both regretted our meal. I was sick a couple of times, but Mark was so sick he hardly left the bathroom for the rest of the night.

In the morning, Mark was exhausted and didn’t think he could move on. I hated to pull him away from the comfort of the toilet, but also didn’t want to spend any more time in the musty room or in Lomé. I finally convinced him he could make it as far as Kpalime in the mountains an hour and a half drive away.

We waited for over an hour at the bus station for the bus to fill up. Twice Mark left in search of a toilet and returned looking sicker than before. I kept hoping the bus would fill up quickly, so we could move on, but it seemed to take forever, and we were still three people away from leaving.

Finally after his third or fourth trip to the terribly objectionable public bathroom, Mark told me he couldn’t make it. We would have to spend another day in Lomé. I was disappointed, but knew it was the right thing to do.

We quickly grabbed a taxi and found a guesthouse with a TV and DVD so that Mark could wait out the effects of the food poisoning while watching old Eddie Murphy movies.

The next 24 hours remain a blur. I read and Mark moved from the toilet to the bed.

We left for the mountains the next morning in a shared taxi with three people in the front and four squished into the back. Mark was tentatively feeling better, and we were keen to really start our vacation.

Thankfully Kpalime was a nice small town in a beautiful valley surrounded by lush green mountains. We found a quiet hotel on the outskirts of town with a pool and settled in.

A few minutes after we arrived, it started to pour. We were anxious to go hiking in the mountains, but waited out the rain at the hotel while eating conservatively. Mark had a cheese sandwich.

An hour or so later, the rain stopped and the sun came back out. We grabbed our day pack and made plans to visit an entomologist at the top of a nearby mountain.

“Will it rain again today?” I asked trying to decide whether or not to bring along a raincoat.

“No. It’s done for the day,” replied a staff person at the hotel. Another echoed his thoughts. “Don’t worry; there won’t be any more rain today.”

In Togo most people travel by motorcycle, and instead of taxis, the favourite way of getting around is by mototaxi. If we wanted to go to the top of the mountain, we would have to go this way. Our destination was 12 km and our driver’s name was Clement.

I had a little chat with Clement before we started. I reminded him that we didn’t need to drive quickly. “Doucement,” I said in French repeating what I’d heard someone say earlier. I liked the sound of this. Go softly. “Allez doucement,” I said again as we pushed off.

We climbed the mountain at an extremely slow pace. I smiled to myself as Clement inched up the road. He was being very careful, and for this I was thankful. It was actually quite breathtaking climbing up the mountain on a motorcycle. The air was fresh and cool following the rain storm and the view was spectacular.

At the top of the mountain we met Monsieur Prosper, an entomologist who makes a living taking tourists on guided hikes to see butterflies, and learn about native plants. He seemed surprised to see us, but was happy to take us on a tour. He warned us, however, that we wouldn’t see many butterflies because they don’t like the rain and were still in hiding.

“Why don’t butterflies come out in the rain?” Mark asked.

“For the same reason that you don’t like going out in the rain,” he replied.

We spent a wonderfully educational two hours with Monsieur Prosper as he guided us along the outskirts of his village. He is also a painter and uses only natural pigments for his colours. We saw a green leaf turn red and drip blood-like liquid when squeezed, and touched a sticky golden pigment the colour of the sun on the inside of a piece of bark.

He also showed us how a white powdery substance found on the back of a fern frond can leave a lasting mark on skin. It showed up much better on his skin than on mine.

After many interesting discoveries we looked to the east and saw huge black clouds storming towards us. It was going to rain hard and we hadn’t packed rain gear. We had a couple of minutes to quickly find shelter in a village school, and then it poured. The water came down in buckets, and left us stranded for 30 minutes or more. We had arranged for Clement to pick us up at 4 p.m. and worried that we wouldn’t get back in time to meet him. We also wondered if he’d be able to drive in the rain.

When the rain let up, we hurried back to Monsieur Prosper’s house and found Clement waiting for us. He had driven up the winding road in the pouring rain.

We hopped on the back of the motorcycle and started down the mountain. The rain pelted us we moved slowly but steadily down the road.

Back at the hotel, we changed, and then returned to the restaurant to order dinner. To our surprise Clement, our mototaxi driver was standing outside the kitchen. Not only was he a careful mototaxi driver, but he was also our chef.

Clement cooked us a great French meal – one of the best I’ve ever had – antelope marinated in red wine sauce. We enjoyed the meal, and slept soundly without any sign of food poisoning.

The next day we went on another hike to a waterfall where we saw huge fields of corn planted on the side of incredibly steep hills. I was amazed at the athletic strength required to plant and tend to these fields. We met a couple in their 50s who live halfway up the mountain and farm this land. An hour later we met the same woman returning from the village where she’d gone to get supplies. I was exhausted from the two hour walk. She looked refreshed and strong.

Togo is a beautiful country with a vibrant culture, good food (most of the time), and gentle people. Unfortunately we could only visit the country for a few days, and this was to be the end of our Togolese vacation. We bid goodbye to the green mountains and lush valley and Clement our multi-talented new friend. At the bus station we caught another shared taxi back to Ghana.

- Janet

Lost in the crowd

2007-07-18T07:51:00.000-07:00

I met Victor on a street corner in an Accra neighbourhood called Pig Farm; I was standing mesmerized by the chaos around me, trying not to be so oblivious that I got hit by a car that was (literally) cutting a corner.

“This place is a wreck,” he said, referring to the neighbourhood.
To me it wasn’t. Coming from a city that sleeps most of the day and night (I say that with affection), I’m always fascinated by bustling urban neighbourhoods. Pig Farm is consumed with activity even by Accra standards; it’s a haven for people watchers.

Victor said Pig Farm was named after obrunis who had come and gone. “Germans used to raise pigs here more than 100 years ago,” he said.

In the tro-tro station, I watched a fight develop between two women. One threw a handful of dirt at the other, who ran and hid behind a stand selling cell phones. The first woman then picked a really big rock and hid behind a tro-tro, waiting for the other to emerge. I then turned my attention to a woman across the street screaming to be heard over the traffic (you can see her in the picture below, wearing a white baseball cap). I crossed the street and saw that she had a Bible in her hands; she was a street preacher, the first woman I’d seen doing this.

Victor and I chatted as I scanned the street for more action. The two women who’d been fighting had disappeared. The tro-tros and taxis were racing in and out of the station, fighting with each other for passengers. On all four corner of the junction were food stalls, vendors selling cell phones, newspapers, water. Pedestrians were racing across the road trying to avoid vehicles that would not slow down to let them cross safely.

As it turned out, Victor had good reason not to like Pig Farm. He had lost his job as a cook at an area guesthouse a few months ago. His wife and two daughters had moved back to their hometown northeast of Accra while he tried to find work. He was going to have to give up soon, though, he said. “I’m planning to join my family in a month if nothing works out here.”

It was a run of bad luck after a lot of good luck, he said. For 25 years, he’d gotten steady work, and been able to travel too. He was the personal cook of an oil executive in Nigeria for 15 years, he said, and learned to cook a lot of European food; Greek is his favourite because he was able to travel to Athens as a chef on board an oil tanker.

The he moved back to Ghana and worked for 10 years with a construction company; when he was laid off from there he went to work for the guesthouse.

Now that job was done, and he was on the lookout for another. But you can’t stay in Accra for long without work because it’s so expensive, which is why it looks like he’s heading to his hometown to rejoin his wife and children.

The problem with neighbourhoods like this anywhere in the world is that, with so much going on, people like Victor can get lost in the crowd.

- Mark

Sermon on the bus

2007-07-11T14:21:00.000-07:00

He seemed like a mild-mannered fellow when I sat down beside him in the front seat of the tro-tro. I was on my way to the refugee camp where I do volunteer work. As we sat there waiting for the tro-tro to leave, I read the newspaper, and he the Bible.

When the tro-tro filled up and left the station, the man stood and turned to face the rest of the passengers. Hunched over because the ceiling of the bus was low, he began to preach – in a no-more-nice-guy kind of way.

“This vehicle is awash in the blood of Jesus!” he said, punching words like “blood” and “Jesus” as if he were a preacher from the southern U.S.

I knew he was making reference to Christ dying for our sins, but his analogy – albeit an apt one - was really freaking me out. I didn’t like the image of the tro-tro being awash in the blood of anyone. These rickety-old mini-buses terrify foreigners; we don’t like being reminded of how dangerous they are, especially when you’re in the front with no seat belt!

He preached non-stop all the way to the camp, which is 45 minutes outside Accra. This is a very common occurrence here. Sometimes a preacher will hop on for just a minute to bless the bus and the passengers, which he believes will give a reasonable assurance of a safe journey; other times he’ll (they’re always men) will ride the whole way, and give a 20-minute or three-hour sermon, depending on how far the bus is going.

Many foreigners are surprised - and often irritated - by this practice because they're so accustomed to secular public spaces in their home countries. In Canada, a “man of god” would not be welcome to preach to a captive audience on a bus, where he would be forcing people with different beliefs to listen to his message.

Here, though, people are reverent and attentive. They nod their heads and say "amen" throughout these impromptu public services.

Muslims and Christians alike are very dedicated here; expressions of faith are public and very much part of daily life.

Earlier this week, I was taking a bus to the south of the country from the north, where most Muslim Ghanaians live. At a rest stop, I sat down on a bench under a large tree. To my right sat a pair of chickens (farm animals are also very much a part of life here, even in the cities); to my left, many of my Muslim bus mates were laying down prayer mats on the ground. They pray five times a day, no matter where they happen to be. In cities and towns in the north and south, the Muslim call to prayer can heard over loud speakers as early as five in the morning.

The morning after my bus ride, I awoke to a sermon by a man who seemed to be right outside my window. “You will dominate your life with the word of Jesus,” he said.

“In the name of Jesus, we pray,” he said. Then I heard people mutter “Amen” and “God Bless.”

I lay in bed listening for a while, wondering where this was coming from. Eventually I got up to make some coffee. I stepped outside my door, and saw five pairs of sandals sitting outside my neighbour’s room. The sounds were coming from inside. They were holding a church service with five people, in a tiny one-room apartment at seven o’clock on a Tuesday morning! I hear people grumble about being woken up at 5 am by the call to prayer; would I be now be awoken by my neighbour who had apparently turned her apartment into a chapel?

I used to get annoyed by these public displays of faith (they were so loud I considered my neighbour’s private service to be a public one), but I’ve grown relaxed about it over the months, mostly out of respect for Ghana’s right to be different from the West in this respect.

I could do without the sermons on the bus, though. They put the fear of God into most of the passengers, but they put the fear of tro-tros into me, and I still have to ride them for the next month before I go home.

- Mark

Plotting for a Garden

2007-07-04T18:14:00.000-07:00

My new garden patch is 3 feet by 8 feet.

"Wide enough for a small casket," my mom said ruefully staring down at the soil.

I stood up straight to stretch my back and looked down at my pathetic little patch of dirt. It had taken me all morning just to tear up the grass and prepare the soil for planting. Four hours of work had given me enough space to bury a body.

I walked over to the cottage and looked at the plants I’d picked up from the market the day before. I counted 29 plants. Four tomato plants, four kinds of herbs, six bean plants, six broccoli plants, four lettuce plants, four corn plants and a cantaloupe vine. I smiled at my overzealousness. There was no way all the plants were going to fit into my little garden plot.

I returned from Ghana Friday night and after the enthusiastic welcome of friends and family, was anxious to get to the cottage to plant a garden. I’d been inspired by Filipina and her corn field in Accra and vowed that I would have my very own personal garden this summer.

Early Saturday morning, I went to the garden center in Hampton to check out their vegetable plants. To have a garden this summer, I would have to skip some corners – it was way too late to plant seeds so I’d have to jump right to the plant stage. I knew that all of Filipina’s plants had come from seed, but this was the only way my garden had a chance of succeeding.

I hungrily eyed the various plants, and selected those that I thought might save me some money at the end of the summer. I also selected corn because I wanted to reap my crop at the same time Filipina would harvest hers in Accra at the end of August.

Arriving at the cottage I surveyed the property for a good piece of land with lots of sun exposure. I settled on a patch behind the cottage. Armed with a pitch fork, a hoe and pair of gloves, I went to work.

Despite the unusually cold July 1st weekend, I started to sweat. It was hard work. My back ached, and the plot seemed to grow at an incredibly slow pace. I stopped to rest and enlisted the help of my 2-year-old niece. Her job was to pick the rocks out of the soil and put them in a basket. Eager to help, she was a diligent worker. Time marched on.

At noon time, I decided to quit. My garden patch was small, but I didn’t have the energy to tear up any more of the lawn. I stuffed all of the plants into my little garden. Even though the instructions on the packages said they needed more room to grow, I decided that they’d have to share the space. In went all of the plants.

Standing back and assessing my work I laughed out loud. This was definitely a pathetic middle class garden. It wouldn’t feed even one person let alone an entire family.

Filipina would have scoffed at my effort. Every day when I’d walk home from work I would notice that her garden had grown by a few meters, but I never stopped to think how much effort she must have put into preparing her beds. She had transformed an entire grassy field into a flourishing garden with over 200 corn plants. It must have taken her weeks to complete.

I have to admit that even though my garden is small, I’m quite intrigued by it. Over the next few weeks I will tend to it, carefully alert to any predators that might attempt to sabotage my plants.

At the end of the summer when Filipina is harvesting her corn, I also hope to have a small crop. Her labour will feed her family for a few months. I’m hoping mine will help me prepare a nice welcome home dinner for Mark. I sure hope he likes broccoli.

- Janet

A sweet deal

2007-07-04T08:49:00.000-07:00

I met Mohammed just after I’d walked through the front gate of my yard yesterday morning. He had a plastic blue container, which resembled my kitchen garbage can, perched on top of his head.

“Want to buy some honey?” he asked. “You can drink it with your tea, better for your health than sugar.”

“How much? I asked.

“40,000 cedis,” he said.

That was about $4.50 – way too much, I knew, but I agreed to pay it (A hopeless negotiator, I’m at a loss without Janet, a master of the art.)

He lifted the top off the container, grabbed an empty water bottle and began scooping out honey and pouring it into the bottle.

I peered into the blue container; it was full of dark, molasses-like liquid and floating chunks of honeycomb.

“Where does this honey come from?” I asked.

“In the north of the country, near the border of Burkina Faso,” he said.

He told me that his family was nomadic and had migrated to Ghana from Niger, a country northwest of Ghana. They herded cattle and goats, he said, and they also made honey. They had transported 400 litres of it by truck to Accra, where they it was sold in markets and on the streets by Mohammed.

There are a lot of small-time sellers like Mohammed in Ghana. People who peddle household products and food to car drivers in traffic jams. People who operate roadside stalls that sell as little as a few vegetables and cans of tomato paste. I always wonder if they sell enough to get by.
“Do you make good money?” I asked Mohammed.

“Small money,” he said, closing his thumb and finger together for emphasis, but enough money, he said, to make it worth the trip. - Mark

A Sunday stroll through Accra

2007-07-01T13:06:00.000-07:00

I really should have gotten up to run at 5:30 when the sun hadn’t risen yet and there were no cars on the road. I also should have thought to bring along some water, and a small towel to wipe the sweat off my face.

I didn’t hit the road until a few minutes after 8, and by 9 I found myself inhaling diesel on a busy four-lane road, and it was close to 30 degrees Celsius.

I slowed to a walk even though I had only finished about half my run. Dehydrated, discouraged, I could go no further. Where was I going to find my second wind?

As it happened, there was a marathon underway in conjunction with Ghana’s Republic Day celebrations (the same day we celebrate Canada Day). The lead runner happened to be coming toward me around the same time I was slowing down. It turned out I was doing my run on the same road; I was just going in the opposite direction.

I stopped to watch him as he ran by. He was way ahead of the field; he seemed focused, with a lot of remaining strength and energy. I’m not in any kind of shape to run a marathon today, I thought to myself, but surely I can run16 kilometres, my original goal for today.

I just need some water, and maybe something to wipe the sweat off my face. Since I’d slowed down, I'd started to sweat profusely. It stung my eyes as it streamed down my face from my forehead.

At a roadside stand I asked for a bottle of water. The clerk wanted 12,000 cedis for it, which is about a $1 Canadian and three times the regular price. I didn’t care. I would have given her twice that if she had asked.

I drank half of it and used the other half to wash my face. Then I started to run again, and as I did I began to encounter the rest of the field. That I was running in the opposite direction was very confusing for the runners and the bystanders.

One of the runners called out as he passed by, “Are you finished already?!” A spectator shouted, “Obruni, you’re going the wrong way!”

The obstacles were many for me as I made my way up the road – oncoming cars, clusters of runners. Even a pack of goats crossed the road in front of me! One of them made it to the centre of the street and realized he wasn’t going to make it, so he turned around and was quickly followed by his buddies.

At the next water station I stopped and had a cup of water and a cup of Milo, a popular Ghanaian chocolate milk drink (Milo was the corporate sponsor). I grabbed an extra bag of water and headed off back up the road. A group of bystanders laughed as I ran by and asked for my bag of water. I tossed it back over my shoulder and smiled at them as they dove for it before it hit the road and broke open.

Something to consider for runners back home who pay a lot of money for the “right” shoe: I passed two people at the 29-kilometre mark who were running in bare feet! One was running in flip-flops! (Don’t try this at home kids.)

Amused and re-energized I was able to run all the way home. I may feel good enough to do my next run in bare feet, or in flip-flops at least.

- Mark

A corny goodbye

2007-06-29T07:27:00.000-07:00

Ghana’s tear ducts opened wide this morning, the day after Janet got on a plane and went back to Canada. Please forgive me for being so sappy (though I don’t know if Janet will when she reads this) but it’s been raining steadily since dawn, and I miss her already!

And I think a lot of other people here do too. Janet can touch people in a way I’ve seen rivaled only by her mother and my mother, and that ability was on display yesterday when I went on a bit of a farewell tour with her before she left.

Janet has written much about the women of Dade Link. They had become good friends of hers, and by extension mine, so we took one last walk there before we caught a cab to the airport.

We went to Filipina’s place first. She lives in a partly constructed building that resembles a parking garage. Construction was halted at some point and squatters like Filipina and her grandchildren now occupy it. She has planted a field of corn and groundnut plants that are now flourishing in the rainy season.

We passed through the cornfield and went up to the second floor of the building. Filipina was sitting on a mat spread on the concrete floor, but she sprung to her feet when she saw Janet. She hugged her and pointed at her heart when she pulled away, indicating that it was difficult to see Janet go. Filipina always chatters away whenever you see her. She doesn’t speak much English ,but she’s very emotional and gestures a lot so it’s not hard to understand what she’s trying to say.

When we left, Filipina waved and cried out goodbyes until we were out of sight.

Janet had already said goodbye to Elizabeth, Giftina and Deliza, but we were going by there anyway so, much to their surprise, there was a second round of goodbyes. When Deliza saw Janet come down the road, she smiled broadly and her eyes opened wide. She ran and told her mother and sister that Janet was here and they all came running out of their shack. The girls ran up and embraced her. They were so excited they hugged me too, which surprised me because they’ve always been friendly toward me but a little shy and standoff-ish.

Janet and I weren’t going to see each other for a couple of months, so I had been hoping to spend the last few moments at the airport alone with her. Alas, it wasn’t meant to be! A trio of women from Janet’s volunteer placement had planned to come and say goodbye – Esther, Rebecca and Momma Lou. They were all very excited to see Janet off; Rebecca and Esther even got dressed up for the occasion.

We sat around a table on the outdoor patio of the airport restaurant. Playing the part of the gloomy writer, I looked around and saw the foreboding signs of Janet’s departure – to my right the tail of the plane that would carry Janet to Canada, to my left gathering rain clouds! Janet and her friends chatted away, seemingly oblivious that she would be gone soon and might never see each other again.

This somehow didn’t matter to them, perhaps because – as Janet said to Filipina earlier that afternoon – we all leave pieces of ourselves behind with people when we go away. Those pieces of ourselves – or memories – feed and sustain us.

The same is true of the rain drops, which weren’t really tears at all of course, but nourishment for the corn that will feed Filipina and her granddaughters a couple of months after Janet has returned home.

I should still be here when it's ready, though, and Filipina has invited me to come eat some with her when it’s ready. I’ll let you know when I do.

- Mark

A Prayer for Deliza and Giftina

2007-06-27T10:00:00.000-07:00

I was struck by a picture my mom sent me of my two-year-old niece, Ahree, taken at the zoo last week. I hadn’t seen her in almost six months and she looked older. When I left she was a toddler. Now she looks like a little girl. Six months isn’t a long time, but for a two-year-old, it’s one-third of a life time.

In Accra, I have made friends with a two-year-old who reminds me of my little niece. Her name is Deliza and I meet her every day as I walk to work. She lives in a small shack on a narrow dirt lane not far from our apartment that links two main roads. She lives with her mother Elizabeth and her five-year-old sister, Giftina, who is the same age as my other niece Meelahn.

Deliza has an incredible smile. We don’t speak the same language, but every time I see her, her face lights up. Together with her sister who’s in kindergarten, we recite the alphabet. She has no idea what we’re saying, but she listens carefully and utters sounds that closely resemble the sounds of the letters. Her mother, who neither reads nor writes, listens in eagerly, occasionally bursting with glee at her daughter’s academic prowess.

A few weeks ago, Mark and I returned from a week in Nigeria. I hadn’t told Elizabeth and the children that we’d be away, and they were obviously distressed by our unannounced absence. The day we returned, I went to visit. The girls came running over, and Elizabeth stood behind them looking relieved, her arms turned upwards towards the sky.

“Oh we pray for you,” she said urgently as I approached. I learned through an interpreter that she thought we’d returned to Canada. She’d spent the week praying that we’d come back.

As I approached their home she walked over to Deliza and told me that they’d all been praying for our safe return. Even Deliza. “She pray for you,” Elizabeth said pointing to her youngest daughter. “Every day she pray.”

She then tapped her daughter on the back of her head to get her attention.

“Pray,” she said.

Deliza squinted her eyes together and scrunched up her little face to show she was praying. She opened her eyes and looked for approval and I smiled. Her mother tapped her on the head again.

“Show them you pray,” she repeated.

Deliza obeyed again. She closed her eyes and her face tightened. This time she held the position for a few seconds. When she opened her eyes, she looked at me and a smile grew across her face.
At my birthday party a couple of weeks ago, Elizabeth and her children came as my guests. They were late for the grand event, and I was worried that they’d forgotten it was Saturday, the day of the party. Mark said he’d go and find them.

When Mark approached their home, he found the two girls all dressed up in beautiful little dresses. Inside their one room home they’d found the resources to outfit themselves for a party. Elizabeth was bathing and was not yet ready to go.

A while later, they arrived, and the girls filled themselves with platefuls of food and bottles of coke. After dinner we all hit the dance floor and both Giftina and Deliza moved to the music. A couple of hours later, I couldn’t find Deliza. I saw Elizabeth dancing and went over to learn the whereabouts of our little friend. As I approached her, I saw Deliza snuggled in a wrap tied to Elizabeth’s back. She was sleeping. The excitement of the day had tired her out and now in her sleep she moved to the rhythm of the music.

As I get ready to leave, I wonder about the lives of these two little girls. At 2 and 5 they are full of anticipation for their future and ready to learn. They don’t yet know the full harshness of the lives they have been born into. Without running water, a stable home and financial resources, their academic lives will likely end when they’re forced to pay school fees at the age of 10. With a mother who’s never been to school, and a father who shows up once every few months to drop off a couple of dollars to help raise the children, their future is terribly uncertain.

My active role in these two girls lives will end when I leave Accra on Thursday. I have two little girls back in Canada who are anxiously awaiting my return and are ready for me to return to my role as their Aunt. As time passes, it will be Deliza and Giftina who I will no longer recognize as they grow older. I can only hope that their lives are different than the ones I envision. Now it is my turn to pray.

- Janet

Take the Money and Run

2007-06-16T15:27:00.000-07:00

Cecelia stood beside me frantically pointing at the sky. “It’s going to rain,” she said anxiously. “I am leaving now.”

I looked behind me and saw thick black clouds racing across the sky towards us. She was right, it was definitely going to rain.

“Just wait a few more minutes Cecelia,” I said with mild amusement at her obvious alarm. “Your money will be ready very soon. There are only a few people left to receive their loans.”

“No, I have to go,” she said. “You collect the money and I’ll get it from you tomorrow.”

I was amazed at her anxiousness to leave. She had waited for weeks for this loan, but when faced with the choice of getting the loan that day, or escaping the impending rain, she was clearly prepared to leave the money behind.

I told her I could not collect her loan on her behalf; that if she wanted the money, she would have to wait.

Cecelia started pacing underneath the almond tree, a huge beautiful tree located in the front garden of the West Africa AIDS Foundation. Her faced was filled with worry and impatience. Finally the loan officer called her name.

“Cecelia Amaboe,” she called out. Cecelia almost tripped over herself in her hurry to reach the table. She grabbed the bag of money and quickly pressed her ink-covered finger on the page of the loan agreement. The first raindrops began to fall.

Without a backwards look, Cecelia stuffed her money in her purse and took off running. She gave a half wave over her shoulder and left the compound. Two minutes later, as she was running up the street to catch a bus, the skies opened.

After an eight-week delay, the income generating participants were finally going to receive their loans. Early in the afternoon on June 13th, we were all seated in a circle underneath the almond tree waiting for the microfinance institution to arrive. They were an hour late but this time had promised to come with money.

Because of the many weeks delay, many of the participants had all but given up on ever receiving the loans. As people living with HIV, they are used to being disappointed and rejected, and to them, this was another example.

The micro-credit institution’s excuse for the delay was complicated and difficult to accept. They told us they’d had to open a new account at a new bank and that this took weeks to complete. Then they explained that once the account was set up, the money for the loan, which had been given by a special government department, had mistakenly been sent back. Retrieving the money from the Ghanaian government was another long, bureaucratic task.

When the loan officers finally reached The West Africa AIDS Foundation, everyone breathed a sigh of relief. What mattered to everyone was that the money had finally arrived.

The loan officers sat at the top of the circle behind a wooden table with a stack of papers and bags of cash. One by one, the participants were called to the table. If they could read and write, they signed their name. If not, their thumbprint showed their identity.

The loan officers reminded them of the importance of paying back the loan.

“If you don’t pay back your loan on time,” one loan officer said, “You will start paying interest at 1.5% a day,” he said sternly. “And if you still don’t pay, we will come to your homes to find you. If that doesn’t work, we have the right to broadcast your name on the radio.”

I looked at the faces around the circle. All eyes were on the loan officer. They listened to every word. Their expressions told me that having their names broadcast on the radio for not repaying the loan would be the ultimate shame.

The loans were broken up into two types - working capital loans for business materials and supplies, and equity loans for equipment. The participants were allowed to take the working capital loans with them as none of them were larger that $400. The loan officers would hold on to the equity loans and go with the participants to buy the equipment directly.

I offered to take the equity loans for the bakery group and two other business owners to speed up the process. I could go with them to buy their equipment. With eight businesses and two loan officers, I was worried about how long it would take to buy all of the equipment.

The loan officer handed me the money. He gave me 25 million cedis in 10,000 denominations. I did a quick conversion and realized I was carrying about $3,000 in $1 bills. I filled half a small garbage bag with the cash.

As the final few received their working capital loans and the downpour began, everyone ran for cover. There was no power in the main office building, so we all sat with our bags of money in the dark waiting for the rain to let up.

We looked around for a taxi, but none could be found. Once the rain hit, I knew the taxis would be in high demand. I worried about carrying this much cash with me on the bus, but also couldn’t wait around all night for a taxi to appear.

The downpour slowly turned to a light rain, and I gathered my things to go. A few other participants covered their hair with plastic bags and we all headed for the door.

Within minutes we were soaked. The bag of money was so heavy I kept shifting it from one arm to the other. Finally I gave up, and put the bag on my head. We ran up the street towards the bus stop. Esther wore a green plastic bag on her head, Rebecca had a black bag covering her hair, and mine was covered with a bag of money.

Thankfully a bus came by just as we approached the bus stop, and we jumped in. We had our money, but were completely soaked. Cecelia was likely home by then. She was probably right to take the money and run.

- Janet

Citizen's arrest

2007-06-15T07:05:00.000-07:00

Traffic jams are dispiriting enough back home, especially in bigger cities. In Ghana, there are added problems, like suffocating heat and diesel exhaust; there are also few traffic lights, and the ones that do exist are often not working because of power outages.

Ghanaians have come up with a novel solution to the problem, though: self-appointed citizen traffic cops!

I was traveling in a tro-tro late one afternoon when it got caught in a traffic jam caused by two streams of cars trying to merge onto one road. There was no right-of-way and no lights to manage the flow.

A guy on crutches and in tattered clothes had taken it upon himself to direct the traffic. He stood there at the intersection of the two roads and held up his crutch as a signal for one lane of cars to stop so the cars in the other lane could merge onto the main road. After a few minutes he would halt the other lane of traffic, and continue to alternate in this fashion.

He wasn’t doing this out of the goodness of his heart, of course. He was a poor man without a job trying to make a buck however he could. Many of the people in the cars, appreciative of his efforts, would hand him money as they passed onto the main road. (Many jobless people Ghana make money in creative ways like this. You will often see young men filling potholes on the highways. Many of them will halt traffic and ask for payment)

Not all people play by these makeshift rules of the road, though. On this day, our tro-tro driver grew impatient waiting for our turn to merge onto the main road. He left our lane and drove down the middle of the road; at the intersection he raced ahead of the oncoming cars and onto the main road. Our self-appointed traffic cop was furious! He waved a crutch in the air, and actually banged the side of the tro-tro with it as it passed by.

But he didn’t stop there. At a major intersection a half a mile up the road, an army officer was directing traffic because the lights had gone out in a power outage. The man began hobbling up the road on his crutches to tell the officer that the tro-tro driver had defied his attempts to maintain order at the intersection we had just passed through.

Of course, we found ourselves in another traffic jam right away, so the man on crutches was making his away to the next intersection faster than we were! We were all paying closing attention to the “foot race” between the tro-tro and the man. Who would reach the army officer first?

Man beat machine.

When the tro-tro arrived the man was raving at the army officer and waving a crutch in the direction of the tro-tro. After a minute or two of listening to the man’s complaints the officer approached our tro-tro driver. I was expecting the driver to pay a bribe to get himself out of the situation, but the officer merely said a few words to him and ambled back into the middle of the road to resume directing traffic. We passed through the intersection and went on our way.

I was a little disappointed with the outcome; a citizen’s arrest was in order, I thought. The government does not have – or will not spend – the money to install more lights or hire more traffic cops. This man was more than happy to fill the void in government services, much like the guys who fill potholes for cash on the country’s highways.

- Mark

Keeping it Stitched Together

2007-06-01T00:43:00.000-07:00

I poked my head in the Almond Tree showroom and found Esther doing a little dance of joy. As she danced, she squealed excitedly. I had just told her she’d sold thirteen more hand bags and that they were en route to Canada.

Esther is one of the Almond Tree group members living with HIV. She is in the sewing group and has been working day and night for the last two months to produce and sell. Yesterday she came to work exhausted. I could see black lines under her eyes. I asked her if she was feeling well. She told me she’d been working.

“I worked until 1 a.m.” she said “And then I got up at 4 a.m. and worked again.”

Esther and her business partner Rebecca are driven to make their business succeed. They have dreams for their future – Esther wants to have a child with her partner, Ahmed, and Rebecca wants to send her five year old twins to a good school.

More immediately though, they both have rent to pay - two years worth upfront.

In Ghana landlords ask for rent months in advance. For many people living on $2/day, the sum is a small fortune. Rebecca has to pay about $300 and Esther’s payment will be close to $250. They’re both worried they won’t be able to come up with this money.

“Rebecca was in tears yesterday,” Esther told me quietly. “She has no idea how she’ll pay. She’s worried the landlord will tell her to leave.”

Esther’s landlord is a bit more understanding and has given her an extension. But his goodwill will only last so long. Her rent was due at the end of March.

In a life of uncertainty, the one thing Esther and Rebecca can control is how much they produce every day. And watching their work ethic, I think they’re constantly trying to beat their own record.

Fortunately one of their products, hand-made batik bags, are selling well. They’ve sold close to 50 bags in two months. Early on in May, a group of American Mormons arrived at the West Africa AIDS Foundation for a tour which ended at the Almond Tree Showroom. They swooped in and bought every bag the women had produced.

Other sales come from local volunteers heading back to Europe, the US or Canada and from visitors like my mom who bought clothing for my niece’s entire kindergarten class. The 13 bags sent to Canada were shipped for mom to sell at a church function on June 3rd, providing they arrive on time.

Yesterday I helped Esther and Rebecca figure out their profits for the month. They had sold just over $300 worth of products, and their material expenses came to $200. This left $100 to split between the two for June wages. Their profit will go along way to covering food and transportation, but is still far off the amount they need to pay their advanced rent.

Despite their challenges, I am confident that, with support, these strong, determined women will find a way to succeed.

I’m also sure, that as I write this, somewhere in the dark, Esther’s steady hand is turning a wheel on a manual sewing machine. And as the wheel turns, another bag is stitched together.

I just hope we can keep her dancing.

- Janet

Meeting Jihad

2007-05-29T01:13:00.000-07:00

His name was Jihad. “It’s a rather unfortunate name right now,” he told me with a small grin. “I’m a Christian, but my name is Arabic. It doesn’t have the same meaning as the other Jihad.”

We were spending the weekend at a beach camp in Ada, a small town about 2 hours away from Accra, when we met Jihad. He had dark brown leathery skin, black tousled curls and wore bright yellow trunks. His skin was so deeply tanned that I thought he might be half black. His features, however, were entirely Middle Eastern. On weekends, he said, he lived across the river. The rest of the time he lived between Accra and a mining town in the north.

“How long have you lived in Ghana?” I asked assuming business had brought him to Ghana.

“I’m Ghanaian,” he replied.

“Really?” I asked showing my surprise.

He laughed warmly. I could tell he was used to explaining his exotic lineage. He told me to have a seat; that he would be over shortly to tell us his story.

In 1880 Jihad’s great grandfather landed on Ghanaian soil. He had no idea where he’d arrived until he disembarked from the ship.

“He just knew he was going to the new world,” Jihad said.

Jihad lit the first of a steady flow of cigarettes and leaned forward in his chair. He explained that his great grandfather had grown up in Lebanon.

“Around that time – it was during the Ottoman Empire -” he said, “the Turks invaded Lebanon and forced the Christians into the mountains. The Christians resisted but eventually settled there peacefully. Once the Muslims took over power, the Christians were told all boys would have to perform military service when they turned 14. Families didn’t want their children joining the army so sent them off a year before they reached this age.”

It was when Jihad’s great grandfather was 13 that he, like many other young boys, set off for the new world. His brother had left three years earlier, so Jihad’s great grandfather left to join him.

“Once he got on the ship,” Jihad said “he told the captain he wanted to go to the New World.”

He never specified the exact location of “The New World”, and no one ever asked him exactly where he intended to go.

When he arrived in the New World, Jihad’s great grandfather found himself surrounded by black people. Much to his surprise he had arrived in Ghana.

“Where had his brother gone?” I asked curiously.

“Brazil,” he said laughing.

“What did your great grandfather do?” I asked.

“What could he do? It’s not like today when you just jump on another plane and head to a different country. He’d spent all of his money to get there. He had to stay.”

Other Lebanese migrants had arrived earlier in Ghana and they welcomed Jihad’s great grandfather into their newly established community.

“My great grandfather was a merchant,” Jihad said. “He built a life for himself in Ghana. It was here that he met my great grandmother who was also Lebanese. I’m a fourth generation Ghanaian.”

As Jihad paused to light his third cigarette I tried to think of him as Ghanaian. Being Ghanaian was clearly his birthright, but his attitude, personality, and character traits were strikingly Lebanese.

Ghana is not a multicultural country so it is extremely rare to meet a non-black Ghanaian. Yet here was Jihad identifying himself as a Ghanaian, and proud of his nationality.

There is a strong Lebanese community in Accra. They are astute business people and operate most of the successful grocery stores, restaurants and hotels. If a business has good customer service, and a nice atmosphere, it’s likely Lebanese. Before meeting Jihad, I had never wondered if these business owners were themselves Ghanaian.

Recently there’s been an influx of another group of people to Ghana. Chinese are flooding into the country; a new wave of immigrants looking to build their fortunes overseas.

“This has all happened within the last 3 or 4 years,” Jihad explained. “The Chinese government has built things for Ghana, and the country is welcoming their business. They built the national theatre, they built the Tema motorway, and they are helping to build a new rail system. Because of their gifts, the government doesn’t tax Chinese imports. So now they’re flooding the local markets with cheap products. The Ghanaian vendors are upset, but what can they do? The government won’t stop them from selling their products.”

Jihad talked about Ghanaian politics and corruption. He has found a way to live well amongst the chaos he told us.

“It’s the wild wild west,” he said.

In the north he owns a small gold mining operation. After a number of years in the business he has learned how to keep it operating.

“Each Christmas I fill envelopes for the police officers in my area,” he said.

We raised our eyebrows. Jihad was admitting to playing a role in the corruption that plagues this country, especially amongst the police force.

He sensed our judgment and responded directly

“I need them,” he said

We asked him if he’d made money from mining for gold.

He laughed and took a long drag on his fifth cigarette. “I’ve made fortunes and lost fortunes,” he said. “But I can’t stop. Once you’ve got gold fever there’s no going back. Nothing else will satisfy you.”

“Would you ever go back to Lebanon?” Mark asked.

“No, I can only go there for vacation,” he said. “The business men would eat me alive. And they have sharks.”

- Janet

A head start

2007-05-28T14:08:00.000-07:00

Janet and I were heading out to dinner one night last week, and she had kindly bought a plant as a gift for our hosts. Can you carry it, she asked. Sure, I said, and she pointed to a pot on a ledge outside our apartment. Because it was dark, I couldn’t see that the pot was made of cement. It must have weighed about 50 pounds. I hoisted it over my right shoulder; my knees buckled, but being the man that I am I insisted on carrying it anyway – whining about it all the way of course.

I walked from our front door to the main street and announced that we would take a cab the rest of the way. It’s too heavy, I said. It’s just down the street, Janet said, and she offered to carry it for me. I was too much of a man for that, though. I waved off the cab and hoisted the cement planter back over my shoulder. Halfway down the street, my bony little shoulder was hurting.

Janet suggested balancing it on top of my head, much like Ghanaians carry baskets of food and pails of water. A friend who was coming with us to dinner rolled up a piece of cloth, and set it on top of my head as a holder. We set the planter on my head and off we went down the street.

The rolled cloth didn’t provide much support; the crown of my head started to hurt no more than 50 feet down the road. I lifted the planter off my head and hoisted it once again over my shoulder. I wobbled off down the road, whimpering the whole way to our friends’ place.

At home, I feel like the classic 98-pound weakling. I’m not strong or fast. An ex-girlfriend used to delight in telling me that I wouldn’t last five minutes in a forest full of predators. Here in Ghana, my physical inadequacies are even more pronounced. Every day, men, women and children carry pails of water and other supplies that are at least as heavy as the cement planter – for miles, in some cases!

Physical work is part of everyday life for many Ghanaians and Canadians; I’m one of the Canadians that has to exercise, though, because physical work isn’t part of my daily routine. I mention this because I started to jog again last week. I hadn’t been running up to this point because it’s so hot here, even early in the morning. But I’ve committed myself to running a marathon with my sister in the fall so I had to start training now.

I started with a five-kilometre run one morning a little after 6. I had run about a kilometer when a young guy overtook me on his way to work or school. This is very dispiriting for most runners; in this case, it was made worse by the fact that he was wearing flip flops, tight jeans and had a pack on his back. I picked up my pace but still couldn’t catch him.

It’s about the journey, I reminded myself, not the destination; and it’s certainly not about how fast you get there.

Maybe next I’ll trying running with a cement pot on my head.

- Mark

Family law

2007-05-27T14:30:00.001-07:00

She was only eight years old when her family decided that she was a witch, and banished her to the goat pen in the back yard. She lived there, tied to a post, until she was rescued by an NGO 10 years later. She is in the care of the NGO now and the parents have not been prosecuted for what they did to her.

Most Ghanaians believe in witchcraft, that women and girls are capable of casting spells that do harm to others. And even though the Ghanaian constitution guarantees children a right to a healthy and happy life - shelter, education, et cetera - there are traditional beliefs and practices that are still considered OK here. In the little girl's case, people may be sympathetic for her situation and be happy to see her safely in the hands of an NGO, but they would also sympathize with the parents' fear that she may be a witch capable of doing harm.

The same is true of child labour, the subject of some of our blogs in the past few months. More than 20 children who had been sold into slavery by their families were recently rescued by the International Migration organization, and returned home. Even though the parents broke the law they will not be prosecuted either.

We discussed both of these cases at a workshop in Cape Coast, which is ironically the site of one of the former slave castles (see "Door of No Return," March 13).

Renee and I told our Ghanaian colleagues we were puzzled that parents were allowed to get away with treating their kids this way. There are laws against what they're doing. Why is the country so reluctant to punish them, we wondered.

Most of the reporters in the room confirmed the widespread belief that people sympathized with the parents and did not want to see them go to jail for what they did. People believe witches exist, so while the parents behaviour seems cruel to outsiders it fits with country's traditional belief system. There is a witch camp up north where women are sent to live if they are deemed to be witches. It's difficult to find people here who don't believe in them, even in urban centres like Accra.

As hard as I try to see things from their point of view, I'm very disturbed by what happened to the little girl, and by the mere existence of the witch camp.

I find it difficult, though, to outright condemn child labour. I don't like it, of course, but there don't seem to be any real solutions. The problem is rooted in poverty, not the parents' irresponsibility or lack of love for their children. They sell their kids to work on farms, in the fishery, or as servants because they are poor. They can't afford to feed them or send them to school, and though the government has banned child trafficking they aren't doing anything to help lift the families out of poverty. In many cases, children rescued and returned home ending up being sold again.

- Mark

A Squatter's Field

2007-05-22T11:45:00.000-07:00

Bent over with a scarf wrapped around her head, she hacks away at the ground in front of her. There’s a special exuberance in her movement. It rained last night – the first time in about six weeks – and this means her seeds might grow.

I approach her from behind. She doesn’t see me coming. As I near her, I call out.

“Filipina,” I yell. “Your plants have grown.”

Filipina whips around to face me, a huge grin spreading across her face.

“Yeeeessss!” she squeals. “The rain has come.”

Filipina a grandmother of four teenage girls, strides over with a pick axe swinging alongside her. She and her clan live near our apartment and I see them every morning when I walk to work. They live in an abandoned building next to a main road. The building looks like an empty car park but is a hive of activity. At least four family groups live in the building. Freshly washed clothes hang over the railings of the unfinished walls, and smoke billows out of the ground floor when food is cooking. Filipina is the head of her household and raises her grandchildren by herself.

In between the abandoned building and the path that takes me to work is a piece of land. During the dry season it was filled with a mix of grass and rocks. Recently Filipina and the other squatters have claimed it for food. Squatters turned urban farmers they’ve worked for the past month to prepare the field for planting. On many hot sunny afternoons, I’ve come home to Filipina bent over the ground hacking away at the soil. She planted seeds a few weeks ago but because there was no rain most of them failed to germinate and some plants that did grow rotted. A few were spared, but most of the field is still bare.

Filipina is a lively, spirited woman who cries out to us every time we pass. Sometimes I’ll hear my name from across the field. I’ll often look in the direction of the call and see Filipina waving her arms frantically from the top floor of the building. I often wonder how she reaches the floor as the stairs were never completed.

Today, she’s up early tilling the field ready to plant more seeds and admire the ones that grew overnight because the rain had come.

I inspect the small corn seedling poking its head out of the ground near my feet.

“I’m so glad it rained,” I say.

“Oh thank God,” she cries. “Now my plants will grow.”

She pauses thoughtfully and then asks “When do you go to Canada?”

I have told her my departure date many times, but remind her again that I leave at the end of June.

“Oh but we have to eat corn together,” she says wistfully.

Filipina stops for a minute and does some mental calculations. The frown on her face tells me the crop is not going to be ready before I leave for home.

Quickly the smile returns. “So you are off to work,” she says gleefully. “Well go and come.”

I turn to leave and then see Filipina’s grandchildren gathered at the railing of the abandoned building watching us from above. I wave.

I glance back at Filipina but can see that she’s already returned to her work.

Solemana the Teacher

2007-05-16T08:23:00.000-07:00

She was wearing a neck brace so I assumed she’d been in a car accident. I was wrong, she is a teacher. Solemana, a stout woman with sharp eyes and a gentle smile teaches primary school. She has a sore neck because of all the writing and marking she does. I always have my head down, she told me.

Solemana may have her head down preparing for class and marking students work, but during the day she must keep her head up to keep track of all of her students. She teaches in the public school system and has 41 students in her class. Her students range in age from 10 to 16 even though they’re all in the same grade.

“The government is now giving school for free,” she said. “So the older students want to learn. Many of them missed out when they had to pay.”

It’s hard to discourage students in their teens from starting school, but I could only imagine how having such an age span in the classroom would make it difficult to teach. I asked Solemana how she coped.

“The older ones bully the younger ones,” she said. “It is hard for them. I told them [the government] that they shouldn’t put the older students in the same class as the younger ones, but there’s no place for them to go.”

I commented on the large class size and how tough it must be to teach that many students.

“Some of the other teachers have 50 or 51,” she said “I only have 41. Yes it’s very difficult, but most people don’t think so.”

I learned about Solemana’s life as a teacher as we bumped along in a Tro Tro on my way home from work. She had the demeanor of a good teacher who’d been in the system a long time. She was confident, and determined - a great communicator – but also seemed very tired.

Then she turned to me. “What are you doing here?” she asked.

“I’m working with people living with HIV to help them start businesses,” I said.

After saying this I looked for her reaction. There’s much stigma around HIV/AIDS in Ghana and I get mixed reactions when I tell people I’m working with people living with HIV. One woman a few weeks ago stuck out her tongue in disgust. One man asked me violently “Why would you want to work with them?” Another woman backed slowly away from me as I told her.

Solemana just looked forward thoughtfully. She hesitated for a brief moment and then spoke.

“They want us to teach about HIV in school,” she said. “They sent us for three days of training. They want us to tell the children how you can get it, where you can get it, and to beware of HIV.”

I was pleased to hear Solemana talk openly about HIV. As a teacher I hoped she would be enlightened enough to accept people living with HIV, but she actually seemed happy that I’d brought up the subject.

“Their brains are so young,” she said continuing the discussion. “They’re not ready to talk about sex. We tell them they can get it at the barber from razors, and that it’s something that happens between a man and a woman. That’s as far as we go. We tell them they can’t get it from touching someone.”

I told Solemana that I worked with 15 people living with HIV and some of them hadn’t even told their families they’re HIV positive.

“Oh you can’t,” she said adamantly. “They might expose you.”

“It’s very difficult” I said. “If you don’t tell anyone, then you live with your secret all alone, but if you tell people you run the risk of being hurt by your family. We need more people to understand about HIV so that people living with the virus won’t have to be afraid to tell others.”

Solemana nodded adding, “Many people are rejected.”

I smiled at her and wondered how many people she knew were infected with HIV. Perhaps she was even infected herself. 1 in 20 people are infected in Ghana, so there was a 5% chance she was HIV positive. Out of her entire family – extended families are very large in Ghana and can include up to 150 people if you include men with multiple wives – there were likely a handful living with the virus. Most people know someone who has died from HIV, but talking about it is still frightening. If you talk about it people might think you have it.

We descended from the Tro Tro as we’d reached the bus station. Solemana chugged along behind me as we wove in and around buses searching out the one to our next destination. I was going in one direction; she was going in another.

“How long have you been teaching,” I asked.

“37 years,” she said emphasizing the number. “I started in 1970.”

“That was before I was born,” I said laughing.

She chuckled and looked at me smiling, then grew serious.

“I have three years left, but I think I’m going to stop after this one.”

Her eyes flashed before me and I imagined her picturing the 41 students waiting for her every morning. After nearly four decades teaching she’d put in her time.

I had reached my bus. I thanked her for the chat, and left her to continue her shuffle down the street.

- Janet

A Sunday drive through Lagos

2007-05-14T12:43:00.000-07:00

We stood amidst an empty lot in a busy but tranquil downtown Lagos neighbourhood. There were heaps of crumbled plaster, tattered clothing, old shoes and sneakers, empty water bottles and plastic bags, and the crumpled remains of small kitchen appliances. The lot was surrounded by a moat of sorts; actually it was a sewer full of garbage, and bubbling black liquid. A chicken and her chicks pecked away at garbage by the sewer's edge. Right beside the lot was a primary school; on this day they were doing English grammar lessons on benches outside. It was drizzling but the students were protected by an overhanging tin roof.

It was hard to believe that on a July evening last year, a four-storey apartment building collapsed on this site, killing 45 residents. It was not brought down by a fire or an earthquake. It collapsed because it was poorly constructed, though nobody new that until the day it simply gave way. The developer skipped town in the wake of the disaster and has not yet been found. The survivors have found new places to live, either on their own or with family and friends.

I was there with Sunday Aborisade, a reporter from a daily paper called The Punch. He was working on follow-up stories to last year's accident. The government had promised to do a number of things in response to the tragedy: erect a new building and provide compensation to the survivors, strengthen and enforce building codes, and knock down other buildings in the area that might also be unsafe. Sunday was checking with area residents to see what progress had been made on these promises.

We spoke with a man who lived beside one of the buildings that had been deemed unsafe. He ended up knocking it down himself because the owner had disappeared and the government was dragging its feet. He decided to do it himself to protect his family and his tenants. The government didn't plan to cover the costs of the demolition, though an official commended the man's initiative when we visited the planning and urban development department later in the day. He also told us that a committee had been formed to tackle the various issues related to the tragedy. Some had been acted on (stricter building codes had been adopted, 200 new enforcement officials had been hired) and some had not (work on the new building had not begun).

Working with reporters like Sunday always strengthens my faith in the power of journalism, whether it’s in Nigeria or Canada.

I met him at the Sheraton Hotel in an upscale part of the city. He was in a suit and tie, pressed and sweat-free, a difficult feat in a grimy, hot city like Lagos. I thought maybe we were going to a government press conference or maybe the courts, something that suited his dressy attire. No, he told me, we’re going to visit this building that had collapsed, killing nearly 50 people. The government had promised to help the survivors and prevent this happening again, and he said it was his job to check and see if they were keeping their promises.

He was full of enthusiasm for telling stories that impact the lives of ordinary people, something taught in journalism schools around the world but rare in the real world of journalism. We got caught in a traffic jam on the way to the site of the fallen building, so we had plenty of time to talk about the human interest stories he covered.

In traffic we were surrounded by hawkers trying to sell anything and everything to stalled motorists – toenail clippers, soft drinks, flashlights, meat pies, you name it. Sunday said he wrote a feature about them last year. He said the hawkers said it was a growing market; as the city grew more affluent and more populated people were trapped in longer and longer traffic jams. They had less time to shop and were a captive market. It was often more profitable than paying to rent a storefront in a crowded marketplace.

Further down the road we could see the waterfront of the Lagos Island in the distance. He said he had once gone down there to visit the small fishing villages. He wanted to learn more about their lives, to see if they were able to earn enough to support their families. As good reporters often do, he found another story while he was there. It turns that many people down on their luck in this very poor city try to kill themselves by jumping off a bridge into the water. Nearby fishermen are often there to pull them out before they die. Sunday found out the fishermen often took them to the hospital or nursed them back to health. The fishermen recorded the rescues in a log but did not report them to police because suicide is illegal and they didn’t want the survivors to be punished. Sunday was told that they saved up to 20 people a year. He said this story was important because it showed the generosity of the impoverished fishermen; he said it also showed that life was very hard for people here, and that they needed help. He said the politicians, giddy and optimistic from the country’s oil wealth, can forget that ordinary people are not all benefiting from the boom.

We drove across a bridge on the way to the department of planning and urban development. Sunday told me that last fall he began to feel a heavy vibration whenever he passed over the bridge. He called some structural engineers and asked them if there might be anything wrong. It was discovered that the bridge was indeed damaged and Sunday did a series of stories that led to structural repairs and a ban on heavy trucks.

Sunday is one of a rare breed of reporters. He is someone who has the ability to spot the interesting and important stories in everyday life, and the ability to make a difference by telling them.

He helped get a bridge repaired that, had it collapsed, could have killed a lot of people. I have no doubt that one day he'll be one of the reasons why the survivors of the collapsed building get a new place live, and other people in derelict buildings are moved before something tragic happens.

- Mark

Passage to Nigeria

2007-05-11T14:01:00.000-07:00

This is a story about a quest for a Nigerian visa. It’s a story about bribes, corruption and lies. It’s a story about motorcycle adventures, armed robbery and a mysterious Nigerian woman called Ophelia.

I was travelling to Nigeria because UNB had asked me if I would be interested in helping them with their recruitment efforts. I was happy to help out and had arranged meetings for the second week of May with prospective students in Lagos. Mark planned to tag along as a tourist.

We were told getting a Nigerian visa was an easy, one-day proposition. We learned otherwise.

We gave ourselves a week to get the visa. Ideally we would have applied for the visa earlier, but due to some strange Ghanaian bureaucracy a 6-month visa runs out after only two months. This is thanks to a stamp immigration officials give at the airport that changes the visa status. This means that after two months anyone wishing to stay in the country longer has to submit their passports to Ghana Immigration, and pay for an extension they’ve already paid for. For three weeks in April, this is where our passports lay awaiting a new stamp.

Last week, with our newly legitimized Ghanaian visitor status, and passport in hand we set out for the Nigerian High Commission in Accra to apply for our visa. We planned to drop off our passports in the morning, and pick them up with the freshly pasted Nigerian visas in the afternoon.

When we arrived at the High Commission, we signed in with security and walked through a spacious courtyard. We entered a hallway and walked into a small side room with the sign “reception” hanging on the door. As we entered we were greeted by the voice of the receptionist speaking slowly and purposely to an American at the welcome window.

“Yes, I’m sorry,” I heard her say. “No, there’s nothing we can do…Yes, we are out of visa stickers…No I don’t know when we will get more…You could try going to Togo.”

The man’s voice at the window trailed in and out and I could make out only part of the conversation. He said something about having to get to Lagos for business. The woman smiled and slowly shook her head. “Let’s be positive,” she said. “Maybe they’ll be here tomorrow.”

I looked at Mark wearily. This wasn’t a good start to our visa negotiations.

The woman uttered the same hopeful words to us when we approached the window.

“Let’s be positive,” she said when I asked if she thought there would be visas the next day.

When I asked her what would happen if they didn’t arrive, she repeated the same words. “Let’s be positive.”

I knew we needed reinforcements so called on my Ghanaian friends to help me. Someone knew a Nigerian with good connections at the High Commission. We called him and he agreed to meet us the next morning.

Kaij, a big lumbering Nigerian arrived in a red jeep that looked like it had logged a lot of kilometers. I found out he is a professional driver and has a fleet of 4 x 4s to ferry people between Accra and Lagos. This jeep had evidently made a lot of trips overland between the two countries.

Mark and I jumped in to the truck and we were off. I was full of hope. He was a confident, no-nonsense kind of guy. I was sure he could help us get the visa.

At the High Commission Mark and I were told to sit in the reception room. Out of the corner of my eye I could see the receptionist talking to Kaij. He barely listened to her chatter about the visa stickers. He asked to speak to one of his contacts.

Soon Kaij left the room. We were obviously not important to the discussion. Two minutes later he came back and asked for our documents. We handed them to him; we sat quietly, anxiously waiting for his return.

A few minutes later he poked his head back in the room, and motioned for us to follow. “This is it,” I thought. “We’re going to get the visas.”

Instead he ushered us out of the building. I stopped at the door like a stubborn child. “What about the visas?” I said a bit bewildered.

“They don’t have any stickers,” he said.

“So there’s nothing they can do?” I asked. I couldn’t believe it. Kaij was walking away from the task. And he’d been unsuccessful. He was supposed to help us. This wasn’t possible. I’d had so much faith.

“We should come back tomorrow,” he said walking swiftly towards the exit. “Maybe they’ll have stickers then.”

This made no sense. I was sure that if they didn’t have stickers by the afternoon they would come up with an alternative. How could they just not have stickers and not make any concessions to people looking for visas. I felt completely powerless and immediately stressed.

“So what if they don’t have stickers tomorrow?” I asked. “Will they write us a letter to take to the airport?”

“They only write letters for Nigerians,” he said. “Hopefully they’ll have stickers. The woman I met with told me to call her tonight. They’ve sent someone to Togo today to get stickers. They should have them tomorrow.”

I was cautiously optimistic. Togo was only 3 hours away, so surely they could make it back that day. And, since they were responsible for not having stickers, they would expedite the processing time and we would get the visa tomorrow.

The next morning I called Kaij to find out what he had learned from his contact at the High Commission.

“They’ve sent someone early this morning to Togo,” he said. “They should be back by noon.”

“I thought they sent someone to Togo yesterday,” I said.

“I guess he didn’t go. But he went this morning,” Kaij replied. “They said they would call me around noon.”

This was Friday and our flight left on Sunday. There was nothing I could do but wait for Kaij’s call at noon. I couldn’t focus on anything else while waiting. We had to get the visas today.

At 12:30 I still hadn’t heard from Kaij. I dialed his number and he mumbled something into the phone about not yet hearing form the High Commission. He would call again and phone me back.

At 1:00 Kaij hadn’t called back so I called him again. I hated pestering him, but had no other option. I knew they stopped issuing visas at 2 p.m. which only gave us an hour. Kaij picked up right away.

“Let’s just go over there,” he said. “I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I was thankful for some action. We’d go to the High Commission and demand the visa. I felt sure this time we’d get the visas.

At the guarded entrance, Kaij smiled at the guards and they nodded him in. He obviously had influence as everyone else had to officially sign in when they arrived. Kaij just waved and kept walking.

We returned to reception and were told to wait. Kaij’s contact wasn’t in the building. We waited 30 minutes and she still hadn’t arrived. I was getting visibly agitated and anxious. Finally Kaij got up and left the room. A few minutes later he came back and asked for the documents again. My hopes rose. Finally, they were going to do something.

Two minutes later he was back. “Let’s go,” he said.

I followed him silently out the door. Once we’d stepped outside, he said “They still don’t have visa stickers. I’m sorry but there’s nothing they can do.”

I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach. Our flights left Sunday morning and I had presentations starting Monday morning for UNB. I had to get to Nigeria.

“What are our options?” I asked. “Can we go overland?”

“I could take you by car,” he said hesitantly, “But I might have trouble getting you across the Nigerian border. If you were black there’d be no problem. We could pay and you’d just walk across. But you’re white.” He paused as he said the word “white” indicating the clear problem with my skin colour.

I thought quickly. “How much do you think it would cost to get us across?” I said.

I imagined Mark and me slipping across the Nigerian border without visas. It all sounded quite adventurous and spy like, but a bit unrealistic. How would we get back out? What would we do about the plane tickets?

Kaij said he would make a few phone calls to his ‘friends’ at the border. He’d call me at 5.

My next task was to high tail it to Virgin Nigeria airlines to postpone our flight. I also needed to contact our host in Lagos to let them know we wouldn’t be coming on Sunday.

The airline agent at Virgin Nigeria shook her head as I described our visa sticker quest. She smiled sympathetically and agreed to change the dates. I explained we still didn’t know when we would get our visas.

“I’ll put a note on your file,” she said. “You can make as many changes as you need to free of charge.”

I’d never interacted with an airline so flexible before. I was thoroughly impressed with the service.

I thanked the woman – Sandra was her name – and on my way out asked “Have you ever heard of anything like this happening before?”

“Anything’s possible in Nigeria,” she said. The woman beside her gave a half smile and nodded in agreement.

Before Kaij called me back I knew we weren’t going to Nigeria overland. It was way too risky. I spoke with him briefly, explained I’d moved the flight time to Tuesday, and we agreed to try again Monday morning.

Monday morning I felt a renewed nervousness. I’d managed to relax over the weekend but as soon as I woke up the feeling of anxiousness returned. Surely the High Commission had brought the visa stickers back from Togo by now. We had to get the visa today.

At 8:00 I called the High Commission for an update. A young man answered. I asked him if there were visa stickers this morning. “Yes please,” he replied.

I felt cautiously optimistic. Perhaps it would all work out and we’d fly to Nigeria tomorrow.

When I got to work I asked someone from the office to call and confirm they had visa stickers. I thought that perhaps the man hadn’t understood my accent. I wanted to be sure there were stickers before calling Kaij.

“Hello ma’am,” my colleague said into the phone. “I’m calling to see if you have visa stickers this morning.”

There was a pause and then I heard “Oh, I see. Well when will you be getting visa stickers?”

My heart sank. My colleague continued.

“Well what do I do if I need to go to Nigeria? Oh I see. So there’s nothing else I can do? Oh I see. Okay. Thank you.”

I could no longer sit and wait around for the visa stickers to arrive. Obviously no one had gone to Togo to get visa stickers. And if no one was going to Togo, we’d have to go. We’d apply for a Nigerian visa in Togo.

My focus quickly shifted from getting a Nigerian visa to getting a Togo one. I left the office en route to the Togo embassy. I needed three photos, so while on the bus searched the sides of the road for a passport photo vendor.

I finally found one at a busy bus station. I followed the hand painted sign until I reached a wall where a red piece of material hung clumsily from a couple of nails. The backdrop was stuck between an apple seller and a vendor selling flip flops. I sat down on the chair and smiled for the camera.

Photos in hand, I walked into the Togo Embassy. I was fully charged and used my best French to charm the guy at reception into letting me see an official about getting my visa in a couple of hours.

It worked, and I was ushered into a small dark office on the main floor. “No lights” said a guy named Jean. He shrugged unapologetically.

We talked about Canada – he’d been to Moncton for La Francophonie in the late 90s and we both hummed the famous Quebec “Gens du pays” song. I could tell he liked me, and I felt pretty confident he’d get me a visa by the end of the day.

He told me to come back at 3 p.m. but emphasized that I should bring him back a present.

“What would you like?” I asked hoping it wasn’t money.

“You decide,” he said. “But it should be memorable.”

I went in search of a gift. I wandered around the western grocery store looking for something Canadian. There was nothing. Finally I settled on a bag of Cadbury chocolate mini eggs. I figured he’d probably never had them before. Also, the candy covering means they don’t melt in the heat – I thought it would be okay for his non air-conditioned office.

Jean was impressed with the gift and nodded approvingly after popping one of the mini eggs into his mouth. I told him to share it with his friends. “I’ll tell them it came from une gentille Canadienne.” he said

I skipped out of the office with my visa. We were off to Togo in the morning.

The bus to Togo left at 5:30 a.m. We woke up to our alarm at 4 a.m. and were picked up by taxi at 4:30.

At 6:25 we were still sitting in the parking lot of the bus station. We were hot and frustrated that the bus wasn’t moving. As is the Ghanaian custom it waited until all the seats were full. At 6:40 the last person climbed on and we were off.

Three hours later we arrived in the midst of chaos. The Togo/Ghanaian border is a sea of traders, hawkers, money changers, and people moving from one country to the next. We joined a wave heading in the direction of Togo.

We got through the Ghanaian/Togo checkpoints remarkably quickly, hopped in a cab and sped off to the Nigerian Embassy.

Our taxi driver insisted on accompanying us into the embassy. We had explained our situation and he said he knew people inside. He thought he could help.

We approached the receptionist who was a lady in her 70s who spoke Togolese French with a strong accent. I was happy to have the taxi driver with us. He described our situation to the woman.

“They can’t get a visa here if they live in Accra,” she said back in French. “They have to get it there.”

I stepped in and spoke English very slowly. I wanted to make sure she understood me completely. “We are here because they don’t have visa stickers in Accra,” I said. “We were told by the High Commission that we could get visa stickers here. Please, we really need your help. We’ve already missed one flight, and we have rescheduled it until tomorrow. We need the visa today.”

The woman shuffled around in the office and then reported back that we had to have all the proper paperwork. I could tell she thought this would make us go away. Thankfully we had everything she asked for.

She then said it would take 3 days.

Our taxi driver stepped in and pleaded our case. The woman hesitated again, and then said she’d have to talk to her supervisor. A few minutes later she reported back that they would process the visa that day.

Then she asked for payment.

We learned that a visa in Togo is almost double the price of a visa in Accra. We hadn’t brought enough money.

It was around this point that we met Ophelia. Ophelia was a 6 ft tall striking Nigerian woman. She wore a bright orange tank top, matching huge round dangly earrings, and high heels. Her black African hair was hidden below a short-hair stylized wig. She had an air of confidence that was almost intimidating.

Ophelia had been sent to Togo from Accra by her boss to get him a visa. He needed to go to Lagos, she said, because a colleague had been shot in Lagos during an armed robbery the day before. He was in a coma and they didn’t know if he would live. Her boss was flying out that night and needed the visa immediately.

Ophelia did not have enough money to cover the increased cost either. She leaned over to me and whispered in my ear. “The lady is pocketing the extra money,” she said. “I know it. She’s a crook.”

We had enough Ghana cedis to cover the difference in price but needed to find someone willing to change it for us. Ophelia told us to follow her to a market where we could change money.

We walked out of the Embassy trailing Ophelia. She stood confidently at the side of the road and called over three motorcycle drivers. She glanced back at us. “Hop on. It will be faster to go on moto-taxis,” she said.

Ophelia threw her leg over the back of the seat and the bike sped off. She’d clearly done this many times before. I stared at my driver. I had no option but to follow. I awkwardly pulled myself on to the bike. I hate to admit this, but it was the first time I’d ever been on a motorcycle. Mark climbed on the back of his bike, thrilled about the impending ride.

The three bikes wove in and out of traffic, raced around corners, and bumped over potholes. I wanted to wrap my arms around my driver to hold on, but knew I had to be cool and relax.

Ophelia took the lead. It was easy to see her out in front with her bright orange shirt. She was our marker and we only lost sight of her and the driver for a few brief moments before catching up. I felt like we were in a James Bond film and Ophelia was the leading lady. At any moment I was sure we’d start dodging bullets.

At the market we did our deal and returned along the same path. I was almost sad to say goodbye to my motorcycle driver.

Back at the Embassy we sat and waited for our visas. We chatted with Ophelia. She had an interesting past and had recently become a born again Christian. “I used to party a lot,” she said nonchalantly. “And then I became a believer.”

It was hard to imagine this motorcycle woman as a born again Christian, but she seemed serious about it. She explained that she gets up at 5 every morning to read her morning “devotional.”

Finally the moment arrived. The receptionist gave us our visas. They both bore bright green Nigerian visa stickers. I stared at the visa sticker. It was really quite stunning. It would be almost impossible to copy. We were now legitimate.

The final leg of our adventure was getting back to Accra. Ophelia also had to go back to Accra so we agreed to go together.

We rushed back to the border to catch a bus so Ophelia could get the visa to her boss. His plane was supposed to leave late afternoon.

At the border I looked behind me and saw Ophelia in a kneeling position beside a private car. It looked like she was praying. An older woman standing by the passenger door looked quite bewildered as Ophelia gestured wildly. I could tell she was telling the woman about the co-worker who’d been shot and her need to get back to Accra in a hurry.

I watched in fascination as Ophelia convinced this woman to take us back to Accra in her private car. The woman wearily relented and Ophelia called us over. She told us to hop into the car. We were a bit dumbstruck but decided to climb in.

We sailed back to Accra in our private Audi with a woman from Togo and her driver. We never did learn their names as we sat as quietly in the back seat. The woman also said very little. We listened to classical church music and sat hungrily as she ate a full course lunch in the front seat. We also read books; Ophelia studied her daily devotional intently.

Just before reaching Accra, we met up with Ophelia’s boss. He had been waiting for us on the side of the road. She handed him his visa and we continued on. As we pulled away she told us he’d decided to take a flight the next morning.

* * *

The next morning we were standing in line ready to board our flight when I noticed Ophelia’s boss standing nearby. I recognized him from the day before. I moved towards him and smiled.

“Hi, I recognize you from yesterday. I was in the car with Ophelia when we gave you your visa. We were also getting our visa in Togo. I’m really sorry to hear about your colleague.”

The man looked confused, “What colleague?” he asked.

“The one that was shot in Lagos,” I said

“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said clearly confused.

“Oh, I thought someone in your company was shot?” My voice trailed off.

The man looked startled. “Did Ophelia tell you that?” he asked a bit sharply.

“Yes”. The words were out of my mouth before I realized I had revealed a lie. Ophelia had made up the story!

Mark figured out the situation much faster than me, and jumped in.

“Oh no, it must have been someone else,” he said trying to cover for our new friend.

I clued in and added “Yes. You’re right. I must be confused.”

“Are you going to Lagos for business?” I asked.

“Yes, I’m moving there,” he said

“For how long?” I asked.

“Six months,” he said

“We’ve been trying to get a visa since last week.” I commented.

“Yes. Me too. I’ve been trying since last Thursday.”

We boarded the plane, and sat in our seats. I heard my phone ring but couldn’t reach it in time. I looked at the missed call. It was from Ophelia. Maybe her boss had called her looking for an explanation of the mystery employee who’d been shot.

The plane took off and we were en route to Nigeria.

- Janet

Child labour at the Liberian refugee camp

2007-05-10T11:40:00.000-07:00

As I mentioned in an earlier post, once a week I go to the Liberian refugee camp outside Accra to work with reporters that publish a paper called The Vision. I recently had the privilege of helping a man named Abednego David publish his first-ever newspaper story. He was a quick study, researching and writing a draft of a story a week after our first meeting. It was on child labour at the Buduburam refugee camp and printed in the April edition of the paper. I've re-printed the story here for you to read. I hope to post some of the pictures in the next week. - Mark

"Children push wheelbarrows to survive in Buduburam"
By Abednego David

Samuel David, 14, a refugee child at Buduburam, doesn't go to school with other children. He goes to the Buduburam market at 6 am with a wheelbarrow, which was bought for him by his sister Mamie David.

David’s routine includes transporting heavy loads of vegetables and other goods to and from the market. He also makes deliveries to people’s homes in the camp.

He starts work very early in the morning and finishes at 6 pm. He said he can’t afford to go to school.

“I am not attending school because there’s no money for fees,” he said. “I give the money that I earn to my sister for food,” he said.

David is one of many boys who push wheelbarrows at Buduburam camp. Most of them do this work to survive and do not go to school. Many of them are also homeless or living with other children and no adults.

Aruna R. Kamara, 41, a Sierra Leonian refugee and Chairman of the United Wheelbarrow Association (UWBA), said his association has a membership of 50 persons. He said they pay 20,000 cedis (Ghanaian currency) to be part of the association.

He said 25 of them are children aged between 12 and 16 years. They are mostly Liberian and Sierra Leonian refugees, but there are also some Nigerians and Ghanaians.

Most children don’t have their own wheelbarrow, and rent on a daily basis for 12,000 cedis from business people on the camp.

“The children come to appeal to work for themselves,” said Kamara. “I cannot deny them, because they have to hustle for their living.”

Kamara said they have two types of child wheelbarrow pushers - the “regular and after-school pushers.”

The regulars are those children who work from 6am - 6pm daily. The after-school pushers report to work at the end of the school day.

Alhassan Adam, a 13-year-old Ghanaian who lives with his grandparents at Buduburam Village next to the refugee camp, said after the death of his biological parents, he needed to do something to survive.

“I started pushing wheelbarrow for the past five months, just to support my grandparents and myself,” said Adam.

Liberian refugee Jonathan Taryouway, 15, also said he does this work to survive. “I have to rent a wheelbarrow to eat, wash and pay my school fees,” he said.

Madam Jenneh Sandra Blay, Coordinator for Women’s and Children’s Affairs at the Liberia Refugee Welfare Council (LRWC), isn’t just concerned about the youth pushing wheelbarrows. She said they are doing other types of jobs as well.

She plans to meet with the children very soon, but she isn’t sure what can be done for them.

“For now the LRWC do not have any funds [to help] the children pushing wheelbarrows, washing pots and dishes for owners [of small restaurants] on the camp,” she said.

Blay said they have tried to help in the past by giving the children tickets for food at the UNHCR monthly food distribution centers.

She also said that many of the children don’t have families and that many of them live on the streets. She said it’s often difficult to integrate them into a new family.

“I believe they feel more comfortable on the street,” she said. “I have learned that some of them are going to Accra and other big cities begging for money.”

Madam Dorothy Kumah, a Social Welfare officer at the camp, said they have had some success, though. She said they rescued about 700 street children, and reintegrated them into a home where they enjoy parental care.

She said they’re conducting a study to find out how many children are still living on their own and in the streets at the camp.

The hills are alive with the sound of music...

2007-05-07T13:11:00.000-07:00

On a hike last weekend in a forested area north of Accra, we climbed to the top of hill with a view of the valley below. It was mostly trees and other hilltops as far as the eye could see. About a kilometer away, though, we saw a cluster of red-sand colored roofs. We could hear people singing; it was Sunday so they were probably at church. We asked our guide if we could go check it out. He led us down footpath into the village.

“Can we go watch the black people dance and sing?”

We didn’t actually put it that way, but it was kind of what we meant. When we travel, we want to observe local customs and culture. Our intentions are fine; we just want to learn about how the local people – where they live, what they eat, how they entertain themselves, how they worship. But where do you draw the line between observing them and objectifying them? And how do you get a glimpse of their lives without invading their privacy?

We were a bit squeamish about crashing a church service, but as I said, we really wanted to see them dance and sing. So our guide led us into the church, and we sat down in a row near the altar. The service was in Twi (the local language) so we really didn’t know what was being said. After about 10 minutes our guide ushered us to front of the church where we were to present a small offering. We stood facing the congregation while he introduced us; then he told them we were interested in the singing and dancing.

Then the white people got exactly what they deserved.

The congregation would sing and dance, we were told, but only after we danced ourselves. So we were led down the centre aisle of the church like we were in a conga line. I did my best Elaine Benice impression – swinging my arms and kicking my feet as I followed Janet down the aisle. They clapped and sang as we made our way around the church; then we made our way back to the front and received an ovation. We put our donation in the basket and marched back down the centre aisle and on out of the church.

We could still hear them laughing, clapping and singing as we wandered off down the wooded trail.

- Mark

G'day mate!

2007-05-02T09:27:00.000-07:00

A friend asked me the other day what I would want to do if I stayed in Ghana. "I want to be a tro-tro driver," I said. I couldn't be a "mate" - the guy who collects the fares - because I could never keep count of the people or the money. I just want to zoom around all day; dodging cars and sewers seems like a real-life video game to me.

It's odd, though, that I aspire to be a driver because they seem like such aloof, distant figures. You have some contact with the mate, at least, when you pay your fare or when you're trying to figure out where you're going. The driver, however, sits grim-faced upfront, weaving in and out of traffic; they rarely seem to talk with anyone at all.

Earlier this afternoon, I caught a tro-tro at a stop near my apartment. I was the first one on, so I hopped onto the seat beside the driver. We were alone for a few minutets, waiting for the mate to come back from a break so we could leave. I stared straight ahead, not even saying as much as "hello."

When we were a couple of minutes down the road, the driver turned to me and said, "You didn't even greet me when you got on. You said nothing." I said I was sorry, smiled, and shook his hand. It had felt wrong when I didn't even acknowledged him, and he confirmed that feeling. "That wasn't nice. I should have greeted you," I said.

"If I walked into your office, I would have greeted you. This is my office," he said, waving his hand and casting his eyes around the tro-tro. I turned around and the mate was nodding in agreement.

Accra is a big city. It can be easy to behave as you would in Canada, where it's nice but not necessary to be friendly toward people you come in contact with throughout the day. But the Ghanaian way is greet everyone warmly, even the guy who drives the tro-tro that gets you to work. After all, he's your mate too.

A night on the town

2007-04-28T05:11:00.000-07:00

People here generally don’t go out at night. They’re on the streets at dawn, but back inside by dusk. Janet and I are very Ghanaian in that way. At home most nights by sundown, we prepare dinner, chat about our day, and then read before bed.

So I was surprised (and amused) Monday night to find myself in a car with a police escort speeding through the streets of Accra, chatting with a jet-setting soprano.

It all began a week ago when a friend of mine told me that New Brunswicker Measha Brueggergosman was coming to Accra to perform with an Italian chorus and orchestra, Teatro alla Scala.

I’m not a classical music fan, but thought it would be a good opportunity to see her perform (the only time I had heard her sing was at the wedding of a childhood friend). I also thought CBC might air an interview with her.

I e-mailed an interview request to her management company. Her husband wrote back, saying she’d be pleased to do an interview, but I didn’t receive it until a couple of hours before the show. He had asked that I contact her at her hotel but it was too late for that now. Janet and I decided to go to the show, hoping I’d be able to conduct a brief interview after the performance.

This performance was a big deal here. It was part of the events celebrating the country’s 50th anniversary of independence. The tickets were very expensive by Ghanaian standards ($30 - $50); most of the people who attended were foreigners and the country’s rich and powerful, including the president, John Kufuor.

We arrived late and the main doors were locked. The side entrance was manned by armed police officers (by armed, I mean they had semi-automatic rifles, not handguns). They said the president had already arrived and was seated for the performance. This meant that no one else could get in now, which greatly angered several Ghanaians who had arrived late but had tickets.

They left the door that was guarded by police and went back to the main entrance; they banged on the locked doors, and demanded to get in. Eventually, someone opened the door and let them into the lobby. Janet and I, who didn’t have tickets, snuck in behind them.

A staff member told them they had to wait in the lobby until intermission; otherwise they would disrupt the performance. They all began shouting at him, demanding to be let in. One guy made an angry gesture at a police officer, so a security guard kicked him out.

It was only when the theatre staff realized that there would be no intermission that they decided to let us in. Janet and I walked upstairs to the balcony and took our seats.

What we saw of the performance (Beethoven’s Symphony No. 9) was lovely, though I’m no judge of classical music. They got a standing ovation at the end, and Measha took centre stage when they bowed to the audience. I noticed she had a digital camera in her hand, and watched her turn to take a picture of the crowd just before she left the stage for her dressing room.

I hurried downstairs because her husband Markus had said that she would be catching a plane to Israel right after the performance. An orchestra member led me back stage, though he warned me that it would difficult to do an interview because she was changing and her car was waiting to take her to the airport. When she emerged from her dressing room, she smiled and said, “We’ll have to do the interview in the car on the way to the airport. Is that ok?” I ran to the lobby to tell Janet where I was going, and then ran out to the parking lot; Measha was already waiting in the car.

It wasn’t until we left the lot that I realized we had a police escort. The police motorcycle led us through the streets of Accra, the red light flashing and siren occasionally blaring when we had to cut through lanes of traffic.

Both of us were distracted, though amused, by the police escort, but we managed to get the interview done. We spoke about her performance and thoughts on her short stay in Accra. It turns she went to a popular market in the city core; she said that wherever she travels she tries to get the pulse of a place by going to marketplaces.

The interview ended when we reached the airport. At this point, the reporter became a porter. I helped carry her bags into a VIP lounge. At this point we were turned away; airport staff said she had to go through normal security first. We loaded her bags back into the car and drove to the regular departure gate. As we stepped out of the car, Measha said, “Can you get me a luggage cart?” I found one nearby and wheeled it over to the trunk of the car. We lifted her bags onto the cart and said goodbye. She stepped through the entrance to catch a plane to Tel Aviv. I stepped off the curb and walked to a nearby tro-tro stop to get a ride back to my apartment.

I sent the interview over the Internet to CBC the next day; it arrived two minutes before the show went to air.

- Mark

P.S. The interview aired on shift April 24. I’m going to try and post it on the blog. I don’t know how to do that yet so it could take a few days

Heat of the night

2007-04-28T04:47:00.000-07:00

Earlier this week I met with a representative of a microfinance organization in her office. Our meeting was at 2 p.m. and when we arrived, the lights were flickering in the reception area. We were ushered right into her spacious office where she was hunkered over her desk. She lifted her eyes to greet us, but didn’t move. I looked up at the air conditioner hanging over her desk. It was barely squeaking. The room was hot, and I could immediately feel the dense humidity.

She sat up in her chair and motioned to the air conditioner. “Lights out,” she said. “Our generator isn’t working well. I haven’t been able to print anything for our meeting.” No further explanation was needed. The West Africa AIDS Foundation (WAAF) a fledgling NGO where I volunteer doesn’t have a generator. Most people don’t even bother coming to work on lights out days.

We chatted for a couple of minutes about the perpetual ‘lights out’ affecting the country. Every neighbourhood loses power for 12 hours every two days either during the day or at night on an alternating basis. This is the government’s way to conserve energy.

Ironically, two days ago I logged on to CBC radio’s morning show and heard Elizabeth Weir talking about the wait time for home energy audits. It can apparently take up to 8 weeks to get an audit in Saint John. Refitting a home to conserve energy takes money and commitment. Obviously with wait times as they are, people are taking the issue seriously. I wonder if the province would ever just consider shutting off residential and commercial power for a few days a week. This would certainly help people save money on their electrical bills and would have the additional benefit of lowering greenhouse gases. Hmmm…

In Ghana, people with enough money to purchase a generator are not thinking about conserving power. They’re thinking about comfort. The cost of generating power, however, triples while operating the machine.

In the neighbourhood where Mark and I live, most people around us have generators. We don’t have a generator. Not having a generator means that by 6:30 p.m. our world is dark. We have two candles in our room that we burn all evening. During this time, the room gets so hot, that we have to leave our door open to create a cross breeze. Keeping the door open lets the mosquitoes in and makes the candles burn faster.

We also have one basic rule on ‘lights out’ nights. No touching. Thankfully we have a king size bed so the rule is easy to enforce.

Going to bed with pajamas is optional but not recommended. The only problem with the no pajamas option is that without them you’ve got to really deal with the mosquitoes. Last week I woke up with 10 bites on my legs and feet. Thankfully we faithfully take our malaria pills.

Our refrigerator loses power so we have to keep it cold with frozen water bottles. We also freeze an extra couple of water bottles to take to bed with us. We cuddle with them to keep us cool. We’ve learned it’s important to wrap the water bottle in a towel before curling up with it. Not wrapping the water bottle means waking up in a pool of water some time around 2 a.m.

We live in an apartment complex but most houses around us are single family dwellings. They are occupied primarily by international workers and wealthy Ghanaians, all of whom have generators. To lessen the noise of the generator heard inside, the house immediately behind us has parked their generator at the back of their property right by our shared wall. The shared wall is about a foot away from our window, and the window is about 8 inches from our bed. When the lights go out, their generator turns on, and it sounds like it’s in bed with us. We can decrease the noise a bit by closing the window, but, well, as you can imagine, we don’t really want to close the window.

Thankfully tonight is not a lights out night. I can type away on my computer, see my food, and will probably get a full 7 hours of sleep. And, I might even get to cuddle with something other than my frozen water bottle.

- Janet

Snapshots

2007-04-17T14:35:00.000-07:00

Last week mom and her friend Marcia came to visit. We were thrilled to have visitors from home and to show off the Ghana we’ve come to know. We also looked forward to touring around the country during our Easter break to experience some new aspects of Ghanaian life.

After spending a few days in Accra, we set out into the countryside and headed west.

Here are some snapshots from our trip.

On our way to El Mina, we stopped at the Buduburum Liberian refugee camp. This is a picture of the market at the entrance to the camp. Used clothing from Canada and the US is sold here for more than double the price it’s sold at home. I have seen t-shirts selling for $5 with the Salvation Army Thrift Store price tag of $1.50 still attached.

Checkers is a popular past time of young boys and men in Ghana. Some times a large group forms around the players cheering on their favourite as if it’s a baseball game.

The Buduburum refugee camp is home to 23,000 Liberian refugees. It once housed 43,000 people but many have returned home or moved on to a host country. The camp has no running water and no sewage system.

Fishing is a major industry in El Mina. This coastal town has been trading internationally for 500 years. It was first settled by the Portuguese as a trading post exporting Gold back to Europe. The Africans traded gold for weapons. The name of the town comes from the words “The Mine” signifying its importance as a location for mining gold. Because of the extensive history trading with Europeans (the Dutch, and British followed), many Ghanaians in this area have lighter skin and European last names.

The largest slave castle in West Africa is in El Mina. More than 2 million West Africans left for destinations abroad through the doors of the castle while the governor entertained in rooms above.

Just north of El Mina, Kakum National Park has a special canopy walk that carries visitors through hundred year old rain forest. At 100 ft above the ground, the sway of the walkway is not for those inclined to be timid or afraid of heights. Mark nervously set off in mom’s footsteps. Looking down is not recommended.

Further north of El Mina we spent two days on Lake Bosomtwi, a lake created by a large meteor strike millions of years ago. It is 25 square kilometers and inhabited by hundreds of people living in small villages dotted around the lake.

Upon entering one of the villages, I was greeted by a young woman on laundry duty who recruited my help. I don’t think I had the right technique because she let me go a few minutes later.

The dirt road into the lake was bumpy and almost inaccessible by anything with less agility than a 4 x 4. Thankfully we made it to a guesthouse run by a Ghanaian Austrian couple who had transformed a small piece of land into a garden paradise. The property was spectacular with its careful placement of flowers, shrubs, fruit trees and winding walkways. During the day, two young men made their way across the grass cutting it with machetes.

This is a picture of the traditional hut where we stayed overlooking the lake.

We met these boys walking along the road to one of the villages. They have met enough tourists that they know the instant gratification of digital cameras. Getting them to pose meant we had to let them see the image immediately following the click of the camera. Looking at the tiny screen they laughed hysterically and then quickly set up a pose for the next picture.

Nakedness is nothing to shy away from on Lake Bosomtwi. Young boys led us down to the lake shore to show us their boats. As we reached the edge of the water, they shed their clothes and ran into the lake. Here you can see them leaping off their boat.

The boats are simply wide boards. The villagers sit in the middle of the board and paddle with their hands. Apparently the people believe the lake is sacred so won’t allow traditional fishing boats on the lake waters. All fishermen use these boards to check their nets each morning.

The town of Okasombo was created to build the dam at the mouth of Lake Volta. The dam powers 80% of Ghana. This year the water levels are the lowest they’ve ever been so the country has been forced to conserve power. Right now all of Ghana loses electricity every 48 hours for 12 hours at a time. Productivity around the country is at an all time low, and there are many grumpy people who are unable to sleep at night without fans or air conditioners. Wealthy people and companies have generators, but in many cases people just don’t show up for work because there’s little they can do without power.

On the road out of Akosombo we nearly ran over this chameleon on the side of the road. Thankfully he hadn’t tried to camouflage himself.

In Amedzofe, a tiny town in the Avatime Hills, we spent two days hiking, and learning about life at 1800 feet. The town doesn’t have its own water source, so children as young as 5 get up at dawn to fetch water from nearby streams. The rainy season has yet to start in earnest so we met one woman scooping water out of a tiny pool one cup at a time.

About 4 kilometres away from Amedzofe through a steep bush path, the town of Biakpa has its own well. A young boy took his turn filling up buckets for cooking and washing.

From a distance it was okay to take this picture. As soon as I came closer to say hello, the young girl in blue took off screaming.

These three girls are orphans who have found a home with a woman named Maude. She has rescued 16 orphans from the community. She clearly loves the girls but keeps them busy with various tasks. Here they are getting Cassava seeds ready for planting.

Goats are all over rural Ghana. This goat pressed itself against the wall as it tried to pull some coolness out of the stones.

At the Tafi Atome Monkey Sanctuary we met the sacred Mona monkey. Unfortunately we had a difficult time calling them to us even though we’d brought a handful of bananas. The mangos hanging within close reach proved to be an easier alternative.

For our final night on the road, we arrived at a beach resort nestled between an estuary and the ocean. The resort was only accessible by land through sand dunes or by boat from a launch point a few kilometers away. We opted to go by land but nearly got stuck in the deep sand a few times.

Upon close inspection of the cabins (above) and the latrine (a bucket in the sand), mom and Marcia opted for a hotel nearby. They’re adventurous, but not that adventurous I was told. Since they were traveling all night the following day, I easily succumbed to this second option. Still with the view below beckoning from the door of each hut, I know I’ll be back.

- Janet

White hot

2007-04-12T14:41:00.000-07:00

It was 7:30 in the morning but it was already very hot; my breathing was shallow and shirt sweat-stained as we climbed into the tro-tro and slid into the back seat. It became even more stifling after 20 people had squeezed into the van, which couldn’t leave the yard because it was hemmed in by other tro-tros. I turned my head to the left and my colleague Renee had stuck her head out the window, gulping for air. I turned to my right. The man beside me had a woman sitting on his lap. I began to feel claustrophobic, and pulled out my book to try and calm myself down.

It didn’t work, and I began to feel more anxious, cramped and short of breath. I stood up and announced that we had to get off the bus. A man in the front motioned for me to sit down. Everyone turned around to look at me but no one got up to let us off. “We have to get off NOW!” I said, and started to push my way past the couple on my right. Everyone then got up so we could get out.

Outside the bus, Renee squatted close the ground with her head buried in her arms. I felt embarrassed by my outburst but thankful to be outside stretching my legs and catching my breath. We only agreed to get back on the tro-tro when we were given seats near the front by the window.

I sat down beside the man who had early urged me to sit down. I smiled sheepishly, and then laughed along with the people who were amused by the “obroni” who couldn’t take the heat at the back of the bus. The man turned to me and said, “The black man is strong,” he said. “Yes,” I said. “The black man is strong!”

A month ago, I had a similar meltdown on a tro-tro and we had to get off and board another one. I felt silly and worried that I had insulted them, leaving the impression that I found the conditions of the tro-tro (the heat, the overcrowding) unacceptable and beneath me.

I’m not one of the obronis that wants to blend in here, to be treated like a Ghanaian. But I am sensitive about the way people perceive me. I want them to respect and like me, and I try to do the same with them. I was glad that we were able to share a laugh over my hysteria on the bus, and move on.

- Mark

An upbeat celebration

2007-04-11T08:40:00.001-07:00

We were walking down a rural road in central Ghana on Easter Sunday when we heard drums being played in the distance. Janet’s mother is visiting and she had just bought a drum, so she was quite excited to see where the sounds were coming from. We headed toward the closest town a half a kilometer away. On the way, though, the sounds stopped; we walked into the town centre and there wasn’t a drum to be seen or heard.

It was getting dark so we began walking back to our hotel. The drumming began again five minutes later. It grew so loud we thought it might be a parade of drummers marching toward us. We stopped a man on the road and asked him if he knew where the sound was coming from. He said it was from a town several kilometers away. Drumming is an important part of the culture here. But we’ve only been exposed to it at funerals so far, so Janet asked if that’s what it was for. “No, just for happiness,” he said and went on his way.

- Mark

The rule of radio

2007-04-11T08:40:00.000-07:00

A woman was recently assaulted by her husband in a rural village outside Tamale, the capital of the Northern Region. The man wasn’t arrested and prosecuted, but his crime didn’t go unnoticed. It became the starting point for an ongoing discussion on the community radio station about how to stop domestic abuse.

In interviews with a variety of people in the community – men and women - they tackled central questions about women’s rights and domestic violence. Why do men feel entitled to abuse their wives? What can be done to stop them?

The program producer said the debate was cathartic and constructive; she said it allowed the community to have an open discussion about the causes and potential solutions to domestic violence.

She spoke about her radio station’s work on this story during a recent workshop for journalists in Tamale. As I listened to her recount the interviews they conducted and the questions they addressed, I thought about one that didn’t seem central to their debate: what role does the justice system play here?

Our human rights workshops are supposed focus primarily on access to justice for women and children, but that’s not why that question occurred to me. In Canada police and the courts are central to this discussion. I was quite surprised they didn’t seem to be important to the debate in this community.

I asked her if the recently passed Domestic Violence Act was discussed much in the community. She smiled politely. No, it wasn’t, she said.

We didn’t have an in-depth discussion about why the man wasn’t prosecuted, or why the community didn’t seem concerned that he wasn’t even though they were concerned about the issue itself.

It may be that they feel the justice system is too slow or unresponsive. It may be that it’s just not part of the way they solve problems. I don’t know for sure, but it’s important issue to keep in mind in discussions about human rights in Ghana, and around the world.

The rule of law may not be relevant but the role that radio plays certainly is.

- Mark

Journeys of the mind

2007-04-03T12:25:00.000-07:00

The day after I arrived in India on a cultural exchange in the fall of 1991, we were invited to a reception at the Canadian Embassy. I was talking with someone about the baseball pennant race back home when the ambassador interrupted us to say, “You won’t care about that soon enough.” He meant that we would become absorbed in Indian life, and disconnected from life back home (perhaps I would become a cricket fan instead).

He was right about being cut off from what went on at home. I was placed in a small town with no TV, newspapers, radio or Internet (in 1991 not many people used it in Canada, let alone India). A month after the end of the baseball season, I got a letter from my parents. They had enclosed a newspaper clipping from the sports section of the Evening Times Globe. It told of the Minnesota Twins victory over the Atlanta Braves in World Series.

Much has changed in 15 years - in the world of technology, though, not the world of Mark. The baseball season began earlier this week, and I listened to the first Boston Red Sox game at an Internet café in Accra, just as I would have at home in Saint John. The next day, I read the analysis of the game on The Boston Globe online. It’s worth mentioning that Accra is a big city and that you can’t find internet cafes in many small towns, but New Delhi did not have high-speed internet in 1991 and neither did Accra.

The other thing we didn’t have back then was the cell phone. I would go a month without talking to mom, which was very difficult for her - and for me. The cell phone has changed the way we communicate in Canada, but it has revolutionized communication in the developing world, particularly in rural areas that never even had landlines (They’ve skipped that generation of technology entirely). You will find a little shack or stand on every street corner in cities and towns that sell pre-paid phone cards. Not many people have landlines, even in Accra. I talk to mom now most Sundays, most times with a line as clear as if I were calling from 15 minutes away.

I’m reading The Shadow of the Sun, a book about Africa by Polish writer Ryszard Kapuscinski. At the beginning he writes about how it used to take a long time to travel to faraway places – whether by foot, horseback or ship – and this allowed people to gradually adapt to a change in climate and culture. “Today nothing remains of these gradations,” he writes. “Air travel tears us violently out of snow and cold and hurls us that very same day into the blaze of the tropics. Suddenly, still rubbing our eyes, we find ourselves in a humid inferno.”

Communications technology now affords us similar journeys of the mind. It’s no longer true that, as the ambassador to India once said to me, “You won’t care about that soon enough.” When I listen to a game over the Internet, I’m transported across the ocean to a ballpark, the preferred trip of my childhood; when I talk to my mother, I see her standing by the dishwasher with a glass of wine in one hand and the phone in the other, and dad sitting at the table eating his dinner.

And then there is this online diary, which affords our friends and family glimpses into the lives that we’re living here. It bridges the gap for those who did not make the journey with us.

- Mark

Being Obroni

2007-04-01T12:53:00.000-07:00

“Hey white!”

I looked to my right and saw a woman gesturing angrily for us to move out of the way of oncoming cars. We were so startled by her comment that we quickly obeyed and moved onto the nearby foot path.

Every day I travel to work on tro-tros, rickety buses that when filled to capacity are hot, dusty, and uncomfortable. Within five minutes of being squashed like sardines into a seat, sweat rolls in droplets down my cheeks. I look around me and everyone else is glistening in much the same way.

Most of the time, I am the only white person on the bus. I pay the same price to ride on the bus as everyone else, I get just as dirty, and I sweat just as much. But somehow I am different. I am white. After two months in Ghana, I personally think I’ve earned the right to be “black.” By this I mean that I deserve the right to fit in and no longer be seen as an outsider.

I am an Obroni. Translated directly, it means white person. I am reminded of this fact about 5 times a day. Little children I walk past will point and say “Obroni, Obroni!” The expected response is for me to turn and wave. For children I always oblige. They wave back.

When adults yell out Obroni it can mean many things. Sometimes they call out “Obroni” and want me to buy something they’re selling. Other times they call out “Hey Obroni”, and they just want to point out that I’m different from them. For this no response is necessary. Still other times, it’s to identify they want my attention. “Obroni sit down. Obroni come here. Obroni come pay.”

Somehow the term Obroni softens our separate identity. It’s a foreign word for us, so even though we know it is said to identify us as being a different, it doesn’t sound harsh. Sometimes, it’s even endearing.

Last Friday night we traveled to the University of Ghana to attend a play. Accra has no sidewalks so we’re used to walking along the side of the road. As we entered the main gate, carefully making our way past fast moving cars, we heard the call.

“Hey white!” It was the first time anyone had ever called us this. We turned stunned and alarmed. The woman’s words were harsh and stung in our ears. We obeyed her command, but the anger of her voice lingers even now.

At home we are cultured not to overtly identify people as black or white. Sometimes at home I will use every word possible to describe someone before finally saying, “…you, know who he is, he’s black.”

We worry that calling someone black is a racial comment. Here, most of the time, it’s simply used for identification.

I hardly notice skin colour anymore. When I meet new people I sometimes think of who they remind me of back home. None of the people I’m thinking of are black. I notice my whiteness, but only because I’m constantly reminded that I am not black.

- Janet

Home is where the heart is

2007-03-24T08:26:00.000-07:00

A tent city is what comes to mind for most people when they think of refugee camps. Buduburum – a Liberian refugee camp an hour west of Accra - is a small city, a 17-year-old settlement with about 45,000 residents. There are cement and wooden shacks and small buildings that house families, restaurants, stores, a hospital, churches and schools.

There is a makeshift movie theatre, which has old wooden benches and a TV and DVD player suspended from the ceiling. There are bakeries that make darm good cinnamon rolls; I was told Americans introduced these tasty treats to Liberia.

In short, the Buduburum camp is a home, a place where Liberians have raised and schooled their kids, and buried their dead.

I went to the camp for the first time two weeks ago. A group of refugees publish a monthly newspaper there about life in the camp and events back home in Liberia. It's called The Vision, and is primarily about social justice issues. We went there to lay the groundwork for workshops JHR will conduct over the next five months.

Come visit Wednesday, The Vision people told us; it’s Decoration Day, the day of the year that Liberians clean up the gravesites of their dead relatives. It’s a national holiday in Liberia, and one here at Buduburum too.

We arrived at 8 a.m. that Wednesday (March 14) and headed straight for the graveyard. I was taken by complete surprise when we arrived there. I expected an air of solemnity, perhaps a quiet ceremony to honour the dead; instead, people were hard at work and the mood was for the most part celebratory

Most of the dead are buried above ground. Family members were clearing weeds and grass, and some were re-painting the concrete tombs. Some were bowing down over the graves in prayer or sorrow; others were clutching bottles of beer and dancing. You rarely see people drink in Ghana, so this was indeed an unusual sight.

We were with reporters from The Vision, so we had the opportunity to talk with people about family members they had buried here and what this day meant to them.

One man stood beside the graves of two close friends who died shortly after they graduated from high school in the late 1990s. I asked what he remembered about them. He said they were very close to each other, and were affectionately called the “politicians” by their friends, because they were always talking about politics. He said the students were so upset by their deaths most of them didn’t go to the graduation ceremony. They died of an illness that remains a mystery to this day because it’s not common to conduct autopsies.

We talked to an older man who was cleaning the gravesites of his brothers. His mother had also died in the camp, but he had shipped her body back to buried in Liberia. I asked what he and other people at the camp would do with the graveyard if they returned to Liberia. He said many people who have returned already dug up their relatives’ graves and shipped home the remains.
Figuring out where “home” is is a hugely controversial subject here, especially these days. The UN has begun a voluntary resettlement program, and will pay the costs of moving. But it has set June 30th as the deadline for people to take advantage of the program. It’s not clear what will happen then. Will people lose their refugee status? Will the UN cut off funding for the camp? Will people still here after the deadline be resettled in other countries? These are the questions that pre-occupy people here.

The camp was established in 1990 after a civil war erupted in Liberia. There have been brief interludes of peace since then, but the camp has continued to grow with each new outbreak of violence back home. Liberia has been at peace since 2003, and the UN would like to see people go home. Some are willing to return, some are not. There are varying reasons why many don’t want to go back. Some don’t trust the situation in Liberia; they think that war could break out again at any time. Some still hope to settle overseas in places like Canada or the U.S. Some have made a home here in Ghana, and want to stay.

I am continually struck by the ways in which the refugees have made Buduburum “home.”

There is group of young people that have formed an “intellectuals club,” where they meet every Wednesday to debate important issues. The most recent topic of discussion: is the Buduburum camp going to meet the UN Millennium Development Goals to reduce poverty worldwide by 2015? The MDGs were crafted for countries; these young people feel so at home here they want the camp meet them too. As you can imagine the problems on the camp are many – poor sanitation, water and food shortages and inadequate health care. The group plans to present recommendations based on their discussions to the camp’s political leaders.

Then there is the newspaper, The Vision. A British NGO pays to print the paper once a month. The Liberians who work there are volunteers. They are all youthful and idealistic. They are all motivated by a love for the camp and a desire to learn skills that will help them rebuild their lives when they are no longer refugees. They are incredibly patient (some have been here for 17 years) and focused on publishing stories that will help make the camp – their home for the foreseeable future - a better place to live.

- Mark

P.S. I will file more entries from the camp in the coming months. If you’re interested in learning more about The Vision, the Millennium Development Goals and the situation in Liberia, click on the links at top left-hand side of the page.

Time for the Almond Tree to Bear Fruit

2007-03-18T09:58:00.000-07:00

There are two weeks left in the Almond Tree’s Business Training program. The Almond Tree is the name of the group of people living with HIV who are involved in a business training program at the West Africa AIDS Foundation where I am volunteering. At the end of March, the 15 participants in the program will apply for micro credit loans and start their businesses.

According to a microfinance institution in Ghana working with marginalized people in start up businesses, they have about a 30% chance of success. We’re trying to increase these odds as the participants need this project to work. They want desperately to live economically independent lives. They need to buy medicine, they need to send their children to school, and they need to pay for food and housing.

The one thing that connects the participants of the Almond Tree Project is their HIV status. In many cases they have been rejected by their families and friends. In some cases, their families don’t even know their status. Were they to know, the participants fear their families would banish them from their lives.

One woman, Vida, a thirty-five year old mother, has two children who are also HIV+. Her husband died a few years ago from HIV, leaving her bankrupt. The small amount of money she had went to cover hospital bills and medication. Prior to her husband’s death, she ran a small provisions store from her home. It was enough, she says, to cover monthly expenses. Now she has no savings, so is unable to invest in the inventory she would need to re-start the business. Vida is learning the alphabet and can now recognize the letters from A to H. She’s still working on the sounds of these letters.

One of the reasons many of the businesses of marginalized people fail during the start up phase is the owners have little or no savings. In North America, most people who start businesses know they won’t make a profit for many months. In some cases it can take years to turn a profit. They plan for this situation by both adequately financing their businesses, and making sure they have enough savings to cover their living expenses for an extended period of time.

In Ghana, when banks give out loans to people without savings, the money often goes to day to day living, rather than business expenses. By the end of the second month, the money is gone and the business fails. In practical terms, this scenario makes sense. If a parent is faced with the choice of either feeding a hungry child, or purchasing material for a sewing business, she will feed her child. The business will always rank as a lower priority.

For this reason, well-experienced microfinance institutions try to assess a client’s ability to pay versus their willingness to pay. Most people applying for small loans are willing to pay; they’re often, however, unable to pay. Unfortunately, this assessment has led many financial institutions to refuse marginalized people. Many even refuse to finance start up businesses because the risks are too high.

We have fortunately been able to find a sympathetic microfinance partner to work with on the Almond Tree Project. The organization is called the Ecumenical Church Loan Fund (ECLOF) and operates in many countries around the world. As a Christian organization, it isn’t mandated by profits. The Executive Director, a woman with a decade of experience in microfinance, is especially compassionate. She left a lucrative career as a consultant to work with ECLOF and has a special interest in working with people living with HIV because she knows 90% of all microfinance institutions won’t touch this group of people for fear they will die before paying back their loans.

Most microfinance institutions charge 4% interest per month, or 48% per year. ECLOF will charge our group 1% interest. Most microfinance institutions will provide little more than $100 in working capital per client. ECLOF believes the businesses must be adequately financed to succeed so is willing to provide up to $500 in working capital loans. ECLOF also understands that our participants need to have financial support during the start-up phase of their businesses so they won’t use their loans for day to day living. The organization is working to help us find wage grants for the first 6 weeks of business operation.

Some people have questioned us on our insistence that participants receive a wage grant during the start up phase of their businesses. “This will create dependency,” they say. “They were surviving before they entered the program, so they can survive while starting their businesses.”

What most people don’t realize and I have to admit I also questioned the grant before coming to Ghana, is that without this grant, the businesses will likely fail. Our participants did survive prior to entering the program, but they survived by finding odd jobs day to day. Some sold things like ice blocks and other small provisions; others gardened, washed clothes, or cleaned homes. None of these activities were sustainable, but with them, they scraped by. If we were to ask them to survive in the way they’d survived before, we would be asking them to pull their focus away from their business startup – only a small portion of their energy would go into actually building the business.

ECLOF, while bending rules to work with our group, isn’t totally risk averse. The Executive Director explained that a project officer will accompany each of the business owners to purchase capital equipment. No money for capital purchases will enter the hands of the business owner. This, she explained, ensures the money goes where it is supposed to go, and the businesses have everything they need to run effectively.

Our bakery group has many capital purchases. They need to buy an oven, mixing bowls, pans, and various other pieces of equipment. Their loan is also the largest of all of the businesses. Based on the price they can get for their bread, it would be next to impossible for them to pay back their loan at the normal interest rate. ECLOF has agreed to stretch the loan over a 2 year period (most loan periods are no longer than 5 months), and honour the 1% monthly interest rate. In Accra, landlords also want rent months in advance – sometimes up to two years. The bakery group has found a location that wants them to pay $25/month, for a year and a half in advance. The group is very proud of itself as the members talked the landlord down from $50/month and 2 years rent in advance.

Two years of rent at $25/month may not seem like a lot of money, but the advance rents are huge deterrents for people starting businesses in Ghana. Where most people make about $3/day, saving $500 would take years. It is only through loans, and compassionate microfinance institutions that our group could even dream of running their own bakery.

Once the businesses are running, the owners will make loan payments every two weeks. They will also start saving money. ECLOF will set up a savings account for all participants. It will go to help secure future loans, business expansions, and serve as a contingency fund.

We spoke to the group this week about starting to save money. They were asked to start saving 1,000 cedis per day (about 12 cents). At the end of each week, we would collect the money from them. Saving is a new concept for group, and as the loan officer talked about the benefits of saving, the group became more animated. Meri, a mother of 5 and a member of the bakery group, kept coming out with bursts of enthusiasm. I didn’t understand her statements because she spoke her native language, but to my ears, it sounded like a continuous stream of “Amen.”

On Friday, I went to meet the bakery group for their English and literacy lesson. I had forgotten it was also the day to collect the group’s savings for the week. Addrissu, one of the members hadn’t forgotten. Without my prompting, he proudly handed me five crisp 5,000 cedi bills, one from each of the group members.

As the group gets ready to embark on the start up phase of the business, I watch nervously, keenly aware of the statistics, and the chance of success. Even with wage subsidies, 1% interest rates, and a whole band of cheerleaders, they will struggle. Their challenges are beyond anything I can relate to.

Now that I have come to know the group members, I am confident they have the integrity, and determination to run their own businesses. I am also confident they are willing to pay back their loans. We now need to test their ability.

- Janet

A funeral march full of merriment

2007-03-18T09:25:00.000-07:00

It was Saturday and we were laying on the beach at Kokrobite (the same beach west of Accra that Janet wrote about in an earlier entry). We had been for a swim and had lunch, and were now soaking up the sun and reading books.

Suddenly there was a commotion to our right. I turned to look that way down the beach, and there was a swarm of yelping and laughing people running toward us. I noticed the excited children first – dozens of them laughing and running along the shore. Then I saw a yellow coffin hoisted in the air above the crowd. Several people were holding it above their heads and running with down the beach, amidst the crowd.

It was a like a group of schoolboys holding their coach aloft as they raced around the field to celebrate a championship victory.

It was like a scene from an epic movie, watching these children, this yellow coffin held aloft, the women in black holding up the ends of their dresses as they ran to keep up with the crowd. The mid-day heat, the sights and sounds of waves crashing against the shore as they ran by us. All of this excitement, this merriment and celebration…in a funeral procession. What a way to go!

When they had passed by, I turned to Janet and said, “OK. I’ve seen everything now. I can get back on the plane, head home to Canada, and say my trip to Ghana was complete.”

- Mark

The tree of life

2007-03-18T09:22:00.000-07:00

Every morning on my way to work, I walk through a housing project that reminds me a lot of McLaren Boulevard and the Rifle Range – in appearance and in character. The buildings are non-descript and some rundown, but it has a real neighborhood feel. Because the apartments are so small and likely very hot, people spend most of their time on the streets - cooking, sleeping, chatting and playing.

On evening I saw a group of children gathered around a middle-aged man. They had their notebooks opened in front of them, and were listening to the man intently. They all looked to me when I stopped to say hello. “Are you doing homework?” I asked the man. “Yes, we are,” he said. By the look on his face, I realized that I was disturbing the lesson. I smiled and moved on.

Many small neighborhoods and towns have a central gathering spot; the one that has stood out the most for me is the town tree, and this neighborhood has a grand one. About 150-feet high and leafy, it offers protection from the heat. Every morning and every afternoon, a group of men are gathered beneath it playing checkers. They often have three boards going at the same time, tournament style.

A few weeks ago, we visited a small town in the mountains called Amedzope (Janet wrote about it March 5). The “town tree” was the first thing I noticed when I stepped off the bus. There was a group of men – it’s always the men at these spots - gathered under the tree so I wandered over to say hello and escape the heat. It turned out the tree had been planted about 100 years ago when they settled the town. It was the centerpiece of the central square. They had even enhanced the space under the tree by constructing chairs out of stone tablets and fixing them to the ground.

Modern societies – in developing and developed countries – favour large urban centres, places that don’t have the intimacy of small towns and neighborhoods. I become nostalgic when I come upon places that have that small-town feel, those central gathering spots - be they trees, squares or marketplaces. You can find that in a small town like Amedzope and even a big city like Accra, if you look hard enough.

- Mark

P.S. What are the gatherings spots you like best – in your hometown or places that you’ve visited?

The towering termites

2007-03-18T09:18:00.000-07:00

American novelist Jim Harrison wrote that spending time in natural settings - and taking in interest in the animals, plants and insects that inhabit them - can be a humbling experience for people. We humans are so enamored with what we think makes us special – our consciousness, ingenuity, and intelligence – that we forget about the wonders of the other living things that share the planet with us.

In Ghana, termite castles are the natural wonders that have captured my attention. I first noticed them when I left Accra a few weeks ago to conduct a workshop. Along the side of the road on the way of town, I noticed what looked like 10- 15-foot sand castles. My Ghanaian friend told me they were homes for termites that construct them with mud and grass.

They’re big enough to house a million or more termites, and are quite sophisticated in design. For example, they’re constructed in such a way that new air can flow in and old air out. Imagine an office tower that holds a million people constructed by hand out of such basic material. They’re so well built that Ghanaian Muslims have used mud from them to help reinforce mosques built with similar materials.

- Mark

Door of no return

2007-03-13T08:32:00.000-07:00

Cape Coast Castle, located on the Gulf of Guinea two hours east of Accra, was a major transit point for slaves until the early 1800s. Millions of Africans were captured by their countrymen and sold to the British, who held them here before they were shipped out to slave-owners in the Americas.

We visited the castle on Saturday. Usually, I remain interested but emotionally detached when visiting tourist sites, even ones that are centered on tragic events and circumstances. I couldn’t do this here. Among the things we saw and heard:

- Rebellious slaves were thrown into a dark cell with stone floors and walls. They put about 200 of them in there at a time, chained to the floor and walls. The only light came from three small windows 20-30 feet from the floor. The slaves ate there, vomited there, urinated and shat there. To clean the cell and the men, the guards would occasionally hose them down with water; the feces, rotting food, urine and vomit would be carried out in trenches along the floor. Twenty of us spent a few minutes down there, and the cell quickly heated up. I can’t imagine what it was like for those men. They often stayed there for up to two months.

- The really rebellious slaves were thrown into a cramped, windowless cell. They weren’t given food or water. They were placed there to starve to death. I was claustrophobic within seconds of entering the cell. It was terrifying to think of being left there to die.

- The women were held in a separate cell, and regularly raped by their British captors. If a woman resisted, she was thrown into a detention cell, which was no bigger than a big walk-in closet.

- The slaves boarded ships after passing through the “door of no return.” We walked through it and were treated to a beautiful view of the Ghanaian coastline. Africans who walked through it more than 200 years ago saw ships that would transport them across the sea to lives of torture and enslavement. Some preferred to drown themselves by jumping off the canoes that carried them to the ships.

- Some of the women who were raped by their British captors became pregnant. If they were discovered to be pregnant on the ships, they were tied up and tossed overboard alive.

A month ago, the governor-general visited Cape Castle and one of the pictures released to the media showed her crying at the door of no return. I rolled my eyes at the time, cynically thinking that she was being theatrical, putting on a show for the cameras. I had tears in my eyes at the same point, though, and at other moments on the tour.

I was initially surprised when a Ghanaian man poured the remains of a beer on the grave of a British officer buried at the fort. Looking back on it now, I can empathize with this gesture of disrespect and disgust.

One positive sign: when you re-enter the castle through the “door of no return” it has a sign that reads the “door of return” – a symbol of the fact that the ancestors of former slaves are now free to return to their homelands and rediscover their roots.

- Mark

Ghana @ 50

2007-03-07T05:29:00.000-08:00

Ghana celebrated it's 50 years of Independence from Britain yesterday. Thousands of Ghanaians took to the streets to celebrate. Mark and I made our way to Independence Square early in the morning, but not early enough to find a seat in the immense stadium. Many people grabbed seats as early as 5:30 a.m. and others spent the night there.

Once we realized it would be nearly impossible to see the proceedings, we headed to the back of Independence Square and down to the beach. Here we found hundreds of people enjoying the cool breeze while still feeling part of the festivities. The loud speaker from the stadium squawked out political speeches and marching tunes, but few seemed to pay much attention. We watched children and teens play soccer, splash in the surf, and wander along the water's edge. The breeze coming off the ocean was also a welcome air conditioner.

There's been much talk about the $20 million US spent on the celebrations, and heated discussion on exactly what Ghana has to celebrate, but yesterday, it seemed Ghanaians just wanted to party. They flooded the streets decked out in national colours. Mark and I even let one aggressive entrepreneur paint the country's flag on our toe nails.

There are good reasons to question the money spent on the festivities. Villages in northern Ghana still don't have eletricity. One journalist told us yesterday people in these same villages didn't even know Ghana was celebrating 50 years of Independence. The celebrations have little impact on their isolated lives.

For today, however, we'll leave political discussions behind. Yesterday Ghana seemed proud. It was nice to see people dancing in the street, and smiling as we passed. Last night at around 10 p.m. as we wearily headed home after 14 hours in the heat, we saw a young man stick his head out of a taxi window and yell in our direction "Ghana is 50!", he said. We smiled and waved back in a sign of unity.

Janet

Below you can find the day in pictures...

A young girl squats on the beach behind Independence Square

An aggressive entrepreneur convinces us to paint

our toe nails with the Ghanaian Flag

Hundreds of people flood onto the beach as Independence
Square fills to capacity

A few young boys enjoy playing soccer while decked out in national colours

Soldiers relax as they provide security during the proceedings

A patriotic woman watches her child on the beach

Mark's height allows us to catch a bit of the activity

inside Independence Square on camera

People dance in the streets to celebrate Ghana's Independence Day

A young girl watches as I take her picture,

half hiding behind the safety of a pole

No payoff for ignoring abuse

2007-03-05T09:19:00.000-08:00

A grown man allegedly sexually abuses a little girl (or is “defiled,” the word they use here when referring to abuse of children). Rather than being arrested and prosecuted, the man pays off the little girl’s family and a local policeman.

A journalist brought up this story in a roundtable discussion at our recent workshop in Ho, a town in the Lake Volta Region. He had encountered three or four situations like this; they all ended in much the same way. He wanted to know how to write a story about what was happening, and it was difficult because no one would talk about it.

Since I arrived here six weeks ago, I’ve heard about many human rights violations that are not prosecuted, usually for two main reasons – poverty and stigmatization.

The case of the little girl is a typical example. Her family is very poor and could make good use of the money, the reporter said. The rape is also a great embarrassment to family. To be labeled a victim of abuse would affect her future marriage prospects, he said.

Police salaries are also low so the officer takes a cut and agrees not to pursue the case, which is in the best interests of the man but also the family that needs the money and doesn’t need the grief of this incident going public.

The same issues come up in other cases involving rights, like child trafficking for example. The families are often very poor and need the money selling the child brings to them. It also saves the family the expense of feeding and schooling the child.

In cases where they are rescued and reintegrated into their families, they are often ridiculed by other kids. Being trafficked means their family is poor, a stigma none of them want to carry around.

We encountered this scenario when we went to a town called Sogacope several weeks ago. A couple of kids didn’t show up for an interview about child trafficking because they didn’t want to be identified in a newspaper circulated in the community.

Nonetheless, these issues are important and need to be discussed in a public forum or they will not be addressed. In our group discussion around the little girl who was abused, we talked about ways he could report about the story. For example, he could offer anonymity to family that agreed to talk about their situation. If he included no details that could identify them, they could feel reasonable safe that their privacy would be protected.

The reporter was still unsure about pursuing the story. I plan to check back in with him in a few weeks. I’ll file an update if he’s made any progress on it.

- Mark

A Bus Full of Bananas

2007-03-04T11:32:00.000-08:00

Every hundred feet or so, we stopped to rest. I could feel my thighs shaking under the stress of the descent. The path was so narrow and the edge so steep that we dared not look anywhere but straight ahead. Decked out in hiking gear, and wearing sneakers for the first time since our arrival in Ghana, we were ready for the rugged terrain.

Suddenly behind me I could hear voices speaking a language other than English. I turned my head and saw two women walking quickly towards us. Dressed in skirts and light shirts, they carried large buckets on their heads and wore cheap plastic flip flops. They nodded a hello then sailed past us almost dancing down the path. We were on a well-trodden mountain path that connected two communities. The women were on their way from one to the other.

The town we were going to was Biakpa (pronounced Beeyapa). From there we would hiked to a waterfall. We’d spent the previous night in Amedzofe (pronounced Amedjopay), a small village on top of one of the highest mountains in Ghana. The prospect of cooler temperatures, fresh air, and hiking had easily lured us to this village five hours from the oppressive heat and pollution of Accra.

Amedzofe is one of the few towns in Ghana with a tourist information centre. It was set up by Peace Corps volunteers in 2003. Upon our arrival in the village, we were escorted to the centre where we met Jerry. A young boy of about 18 who’d just finished secondary school, he was thrilled to see us. We were the first tourists to arrive in two days so we quickly became his responsibility. We registered our names, learned of the ‘ecotourism’ activities available to us, and paid our fees for the activities we’d chosen.

Jerry, now our official guide for the weekend, took us on a tour of two guest houses. Mark and I selected a rustic lodge (i.e. sparsely furnished guest house badly in need of repairs with a large open common room and friendly atmosphere, but with running water) on the side of the mountain where two American missionaries were living. The rest of our group went for the more upscale guesthouse five minutes closer to the main square. Their rooms had fridges, nice furniture and was very clean but the taps weren’t running so the group had to settle for bucket showers.

One of the activities offered to tourists is a visit to the local waterfall. Jerry said we could walk into the waterfall, but because we were approaching the end of the dry season, there would be no water. Our only other option was to visit a waterfall a little further away, outside Biakpa - a village 45 minutes by foot down the mountain from Amedzofe. He warned us the trek would take about 5 hours, beginning to end. We agreed we would attempt it the following morning before heading back to Accra.

Thirty minutes into the journey, we started showing our lack of conditioning. I was amazed to feel my legs actually shaking as I tried to maintain balance, and support my weight while traveling along the bush path. The path itself, well worn from frequent travel between the villages, provided a stunning view of the valley and surrounding hills. Jerry pointed out mango trees, cocoa trees, and cassava plants – some growing wild in the bush while others clearly part of a plantation. We also saw dozens of colourful butterflies. Ghana apparently has ten times the number of species of butterflies to what’s found in North America.

We picked up another guide in Biakpa who led us to the waterfall. We loved the walk through the tropical forest. Vines hung from the tops of trees and we grabbed them to help us maintain our balance along another steep, narrow trail. During the final descent to the waterfall, we had to rappel down a steep rocky cliff while holding on to a rope. Mark grumbled about how unsafe it was and would only climb down once the rest of us had. We made it safely, but all agreed Parks Canada wouldn’t accept the liability for this last maneuver.

We made it back to Amedzofe in just less than five hours. As buses don’t travel to small villages on Sunday, we’d made arrangements with the local taxi driver (the only one) to take us into the closest city, Ho, where we would catch a bus back to Accra. We agreed he would pick us up at 2:30 at one of the guesthouses.

A one-taxi town

At 2:30 p.m. there was no taxi driver. We tried calling him on his cell phone, and learned he’d gone to Ho earlier in the day with another group of people. He was 30 minutes from Amedzofe he said. At 3:30 p.m. the taxi driver still hadn’t appeared. We called again. He’d had some trouble with his car, he explained, but would be there in 30 minutes. Finally at 4:30 he called to say he was just leaving Ho and would meet us in one hour. We learned later that he’d waited until he had a return fare before setting out for home.

At 6:00, twenty minutes before it gets dark, the taxi driver finally appeared. We were pretty upset because none of us wanted to travel down the mountain road in the dark. It is a steep narrow road, and definitely not advisable to attempt in anything but clear daylight. The taxi driver knew he was the only way out of town, and doubled his fare.

We made a quick decision and chose to stay an extra night in Amedzofe. Most of us had work commitments the next day so needed to get back to Accra as soon as possible. We learned the first bus of the morning left at 6:00 a.m. so agreed to be on it.

At 5:45 a.m. we were huddled in the village square waiting for the bus to appear. We were afraid the bus would fill up so dressed quickly, gathered our bags and hurried to be one of the first in line. We were the only ones in the square. Villagers started emerging from their homes, and a few people were sweeping walkways, but there was no sign of the bus.

Finally, a man we’d met the day before who was also traveling to Ho early on the bus arrived in the village square. He told us to follow him as he’d seen the bus. We followed him around a corner and came upon our bus. It was sitting in the middle of a narrow side street being loaded with three huge crates of bananas. The crates were being hoisted up on top of the roof and tied down with netting.

We were a bit concerned the banana crates might make the small bus top heavy especially as it plodded its way down the mountain path, but we knew that this bus was the only thing that was going to get us back to Accra, so we all boarded the bus and found our seats.

Twenty minutes later the bus moved to the town square where two men stood with five large boards. They also planned to load their supplies on the roof of the bus. The wood was too long to fit on the roof, so we sat in the bus and waited for another 20 minutes while the men sawed through the pieces of wood to shorten them so they could fit alongside the banana crates.

Finally the bus was loaded, and the seats were filled. We moved out of the town square towards the road leading down the mountain. Just before leaving the village, the bus stopped again near a group of people who’d gathered beside the road. The back doors opened, and more people pushed into the bus. Before we knew what was happening, men and women had squeezed their bodies into the bus, and some were squatting by our feet. There was no way to move, and the bus was so full it was almost hard to breathe.

I looked around and decided there was no way I was going down the mountain on this bus. “I’m getting off,” I said. “This is completely unsafe.” The others agreed, but as we began voicing our concerns, the bus driver started to close the back doors telling us to stay where we were. Luckily a local man sitting near us, recognized our growing panic, and yelled at the man to open the door. Soon the entire bus was complete pandemonium. Some of the passengers yelled at those crouched on the floor to get off so we would stay on, while others yelled at us for wanting to get off.

We fought our way to the back of the vehicle and jumped away from the bus. The remaining passengers scrambled to take our place. The bus filled up immediately and took off down the mountain without us.

Thankfully, our helpful friend, who’d shown us where the bus was hiding earlier that morning, jumped off with us. We protested, but he insisted saying he’d show us how to walk to the next town to find another bus.

Giddy with happiness that we could breathe, were in one piece, and no longer squashed into the bus, we started the long walk down the mountain.

Five minutes later, an empty bus used for collecting timber from nearby forests drove by. Our friend signaled for him to stop, and he agreed to drive us to the closest town.

We hopped onto the bus – each of us with our own seat - stretched out, and leaned back ready to enjoy the beautiful view. Without the load of banana crates, and wood, our bus moved along at a good pace. Ten minutes later we caught up with the first bus and passed it. We waved.

By noon, the increased traffic and the strong smell of diesel indicated we were almost in Accra. The sound of the waterfall, the clean mountain air, and the bus full of bananas, was completely left behind.

- Janet

Communal spirit

2007-03-02T02:40:00.000-08:00

A few days after I returned home from a six-month trip to India in 1992, I was eating dinner with my family. Rather than dig in with my knife and fork - as is the custom in Canada - I dug in with my right hand - as is the custom in India. I recall my father being appalled. (Though not as much so as when he came home from work two weeks later and I had gotten an earring in each ear – as is the custom in Rajasthan, a state in India.)

Since then, on my various trips overseas, I’ve found myself in situations where I thought, “My father wouldn’t do this.” I’ve had many of these moments since I arrived in Ghana, but one that comes most readily to mind.

Ghanaians love a dish called “fufu.” It’s a mixture of cassava, maize and yam (or some combination of these) pounded into a dough-like ball. It’s then served inside a meat-based soup. You eat it by tearing off a piece of the dough and dipping it in the soup.

One day, I walked into a “chop shop” – Ghanaian term for a local restaurant – and a group of strangers asked me to sit down and have some “fufu” with them. They were eating out of the same bowl, and I politely declined by patting my tummy and saying, “I’d just ate, thanks, and I am full.”

An hour later I sat down for lunch with Renee, Janet and a couple of Ghanaians, who ordered a big bowl of “fufu” for us to share.

Once again, I declined. I had a good excuse again, though. I’m a vegetarian, I said, and the soup is meat-based! I tore a couple of pieces off the dough ball and that was it.

The truth is, though, I was a bit squeamish at the sight of all those hands dipping into the same bowl of soup, even though it’s customary to wash your hands thoroughly before the meal.

Like father, like son, I guess.

- Mark

The politics of people

2007-02-27T01:38:00.000-08:00

I’m more curious about the lives of strangers when I travel. For example, one day last week, Renee and I were eating lunch in a small restaurant in Ho, the town in the eastern part of the country where we were conducting workshops. A man sat down at our table because there was no empty one available, and before long we were engaged in conversation. He worked at the nearby credit union and was deeply interested in politics and journalism. We told him about our jobs and the work we were doing here in Ghana.

He invited us to tour the credit union after we finished lunch. He introduced us to his employees (he turned out to be the manager) and then we sat down in his office to chat further. He was interested in running for political office in next year’s parliamentary elections, as a member of the National Democratic Congress (NDC). The NDC is the Ghanaian equivalent of the Liberal Party (pro-business but socially left-leaning). The National Patriotic Party (NPP) is the equivalent of the Conservative Party. We left his office after about a good chat about the similarities and differences in Canadian and Ghanaian politics.

Later that afternoon, I struck up a conversation with the owner of inn I was staying at. He had been to Canada once, he said, when he visited friends in the U.S. about 20 years ago. He stayed in Vermont, a short drive from Montreal. He said he was studying at a university in the Soviet Union at the time, and was offered a chance to take a trip to the U.S. Most people that you meet here associate Canada with its big cities – Montreal, Toronto and Vancouver. I explained to him that I was about 1,000 kilometres away from Montreal. He was blown away by the distance, a common reaction here because Ghana is geographically so small (not much bigger than New Brunswick).

He was a farmer as well as an inn operator, he told me. He had about 100 hectares of maize on land east of Ho. This led us into an interesting discussion about economic development in the country. He said it’s difficult to make money because so many people are growing maize. This is the case in Ghana and throughout Africa, so it’s difficult to sell it at home or export it. Commercial farming is small-scale; most people farm just to put food on their own plates (in fact, more than 50 per cent of the economy is based subsistence farming). He also told me that rural development is neglected in favour of the cities, a familiar complaint in Canada too. Many of the young people here move to Accra or other urban centres because that’s where most of the jobs are.

Party politics and out-migration…I crossed the Atlantic to sub-Saharan Africa just to have the same kinds of conversations I have with people I bump into at the City Market!

- Mark

A sorry spectacle

2007-02-23T09:22:00.000-08:00

The open sewers are a real hazard here, as Janet and I have both mentioned in earlier posts. Janet accidentally stepped into one at night a couple of days after she arrived. I learned early on to keep a close eye on the road...or so I thought.

I was walking down the side of the road one night last week, heading toward a tro-tro stop. There were no street lights and I was keeping a close eye on other people nearby because there are muggings here at night, and you have to be careful. Unfortunately I wasn't paying attention to the ground below and stepped into a pothole. It was very dark so I really had that feeling of the ground disappearing beneath me. Though the hole was three-feet deep I didn't really hurt myself - a slightly twisted ankle and a nick in my shin.

As fell into the hole and then proceeded to pull myself out, three young guys came running toward me. "Sorry, sorry!" they cried, and helped me to my feet. I thanked them and went on my way. It struck me as odd that they apologized - after all, they didn't dig the hole or push me into it!

I thought back to this incident yesterday. I was conducting a workshop in Ho, a town in the eastern part of the country (pictures and a full report to come sometime next week!). On the last day of the workshop, I was cleaning up the conference table and accidentally knocked over a bottle of water. It fell to the floor and splattered all over my pants. One of the Ghanaian journalists came rushing over. "Sorry, sorry!" he said. No problem, I said. I'm ok. Again, I thought to myself, why is he apologizing. I brought this up with my colleagues over dinner. They told me it was customary for people to say that, but they weren't apologizing in the way I understood. Rather, they were sympathizing with me, as in "I'm sorry that happened to you."

I had thought it was some kind of Canadian thing. You know how we apologize for every little thing, even when we're not responsible or when it isn't even something worth apologizing for?

The next time something like this happens, I think I'll introduce them to two other Canadian mannerisms - self-deprecation and sarcasm.

If they say sorry, I'll say, yeah, I'm sorry too - sorry I'm always such a clutz!

- Mark

Black Saturday

2007-02-18T10:29:00.000-08:00

As our tro-tro pulled into the bus station on the outskirts of Accra, we were met by a sea of black. Women wearing impressive black dresses and men wearing traditional black cloth thrown over their shoulder milled about waiting for a bus to take them into the mountains, an hour’s drive from the city.

We had been invited to attend a funeral in the mountains by a man named Eric. The funeral was in a town called Larteh where his mother and father had grown up. He had been raised in the city, but because his father had five wives, and his mother had 14 siblings, he had many aunts, uncles, cousins, brothers and sisters residing in the area.

In Ghana, funerals are community events that only happen over weekends. They last three days, and during this time, anyone connected with the family or wishing to pay respect, wears black. We were told we were welcome to accompany Eric to the event as long as we wore black.

Mark and I searched our closets and came up with black golf shirts to wear. We weren’t nearly as elaborately dressed as everyone else, but at least fit the theme.

Following the flow of black onto buses, we too found a seat and started the journey into the hills. We arrived before 9 a.m. as we’d chosen to travel early in the morning to avoid the heat of the day.

Larteh is perched on the top of a small mountain overlooking a large flat plain that stretches into Accra. As our bus pulled into the town, I was surprised to see a place that looked more like an ancient European settlement than an African one. Houses are built out of concrete and are closely connected to one another by a maze of narrow alleyways, also made out of concrete. Walking through the town was a treat following weeks of walking along dirt paths in Accra. The place seemed clean, prosperous, and friendly.

The streets were filled with people dressed in black. It was clear the entire town had come out for the funeral. We were soon told there were three different funerals all happening on the same day. People from the same tribe will travel up to 5 hours to attend a funeral so the town had likely doubled its weekday size to accommodate all of the travelers.

Eric led us to his grandmother’s house where we met some members of his family. We were then ushered to a local bar, where other relatives, including his mother, were gathered together drinking Guinness. The bar was full of people dressed in black. We were offered a drink, but as it was only 9 a.m. declined the invitation and settled instead for a Fanta.

Eric guided us around the town, pointing out places of interest and introducing us to a continuous stream of relatives. There didn’t seem to be any kind of schedule for the day, and everyone seemed to be casually strolling from one place to another without any clear direction.

Mid morning, Eric told us we should follow him to meet the family in mourning. We followed him blindly through narrow alleyways, past throngs of people in black, until we reached a small room. Inside the room lay the body of the dead man. He was covered with luxurious cloth and surrounded by plastic flowers.

We were ushered into the small room and stood on one side of the bed. On the other side of the bed was what I presumed to be two of the man’s wives. We were instructed to approach the bed and touch the man’s chest three times. Each time we touched the chest, we were to say “I’m sorry”. My eyes widened at the instructions, but I did what I was told. We were also told our words would help whisk away the spirit. I looked back at Mark hoping he could go through with the ritual without fainting. (Editor’s note” Little did Janet know that Mark had grown up Catholic and been exposed to dead bodies at funeral homes at a very young age. His uncle John works in a funeral home. He can still remember the time, when he was very young, that he stumbled upon a body being prepared for burial).

Near the end of the day close to 500 people gathered at the town cultural centre. At one end of the square, five men on various sized drums beat out a rhythm to summon people to the ceremony. The drumming became more frantic as the crowds grew. Once the area was full of people, a woman dressed in elaborate clothing danced around the square. Her goal was to collect money from the mourners to help pay for the funeral. She would move in and out of the crowd, while people placed money in pouches she had hanging from her dress. Funerals are very expensive because of the number of people who attend, and we were told if they don’t collect enough money, the eldest son is handed the burden of covering the shortfall.

During the drumming ceremony, periodically the dancing money woman would take a break, and a group of women would come forward with gifts for the family. All the gifts were elaborately wrapped in shiny steel pots. They included things like candy, alcohol, and various other food items. We were told the groups of women coming forward are often the dead man’s wives and her children. It appeared that women from other families came forward as well.

The last group we saw offer gifts brought a goat. The goat’s eyes were covered with a blind fold and he frantically tried to run away. At one point a man came forward, grabbed the goat by the fur and thrust it in front of the family. Mark and I were worried they would sacrifice the goat in front of us. Thankfully the blind fold was only intended keep the goat calm.

It looked as though the drumming and dancing ceremony would go on until the early hours of the evening. We needed to head back to the city, so after a quick visit to meet the Chief, we boarded a bus back to Accra.

Editor’s note: Janet omitted the story about our visit with the local chief. Just as we were about to leave town, I whispered in the ear of Eric’s uncle, “is the chief here?” Eric’s uncle took this to mean that I would like to meet the chief. The next thing I knew we were being led through alley ways and into the courtyard of a housing complex. We sat down in Chairs lined up in a row. Ten minutes later, the chief emerged from behind a door that had strings of beads from the top of the door frame to the ground. He sat down beside us and we were introduced by the uncle. He made a point of chastising his nephew, saying he should have known to bring us over the moment we arrived in town.

In a communal gesture, we all had to down a shot of Schnapps. We were told that if ever we came and ran into trouble, the chief would be there to help us out. He was also the go-to guy if we wanted to acquire a piece of land for a house, a school, or anything thing else we might want to construct (one of the responsibilities of the chief is distributing land to citizens and newcomers).

We were ushered out when people from the funeral party popped in for a visit.

- Janet

Janet gives her address to a few children in Larteh who want to write to Canada

Eric, our host, sits beside Mark on the porch of a house his uncle is building

One of Eric's uncles at the local bar

A young boy moves to the rhythm of the drums during the funeral ceremony

Crowds of people watch the drumming ceremony on the main street of Larteh

Happy Chocolate Day

2007-02-14T07:10:00.000-08:00

I woke up this morning, prepared some coffee and went out to the porch to join Janet for breakfast. On the table was a plate of pita, bowls fruit, and…CHOCOLATE! Three boxes of it – fudge cookies, mini-bars and a chocolate key! Yes, a chocolate key. Presumably to dear Janet’s heart! On the box it said, “Happy Chocolate Day” Not Happy Valentines Day. Happy “Chocolate” Day. I was feasting on cookies as Janet was leaving for work. “Save some for me,” she said.

This year, the Ghanaian Ministry of Tourism and the Ghana Cocoa Board launched a public relations campaign to change Valentine’s Day to Chocolate Day to boost cocoa sales across the country. Cocoa has long been one of Ghana’s biggest export products, but it’s not consumed much at home.

In today’s edition of The Statesman, a daily paper in Accra, the tourism minister blames the dieting industry for giving chocolate a bad name. “Ghana produces the best chocolate in the world,” said Jake Obetsebi-Lamptey. “We as a country have been very remiss at attacking the enemies of chocolate.”

He goes on to say that chocolate goes well with spirit of Valentines’ Day. It activates our endorphins, he said, the same that are produced when you are in love. “So if you eat lots of chocolate, you have the same glow that you get when you fall in love,” said the minister.

Many of the newspapers and radio stations are going along with the new theme. “Chocolate is the food of love,” reads the headline on the front page of The Statesman. At the top of every page, it reads, “Special Chocolate (Valentine’s) Day Edition.

The Heritage, another daily paper, wrote an editorial that said eating chocolate was a patriotic act. “Let the authorities utilize the chance well this and subsequent years. Today, as many as possible school-going children should be given chocolates to enjoy.”

The paper also talked about an added social benefit of phasing Valentine’s Day, which encourages young people to get a little too friendly with each other. “It would do our nation a lot of good, if we did away with the practice whereby out students and other youth…take their friends out for amorous acts most of which end up in unwanted pregnancies and sexually-transmitted diseases.”

I’m reluctant to make fun of this argument because this is a serious subject here, with half a million infected with HIV/AIDS. It just seems like a clumsy way of trying to manipulate kids into not having sex – but aren’t adults everywhere a bit off the mark in their well-meaning, but ill-considered efforts to keep kids in line?

One Ghanaian thought promoting chocolate on Valentine’s Day dishonoured the man who introduced the cocoa bean to Ghana – Tette Quarshie. He should get a day all to himself, said Nathaniel Davies in a letter to The Daily Graphic. “I humbly propose, as a more patriotic alternative, that Tette Quarshie’s birth date or some other significant date connected to him, should more conveniently and satisfactorily be made Chocolate Day. That, I think, would be more relevant and also serve to deservingly honour his memory.”

Let’s not quibble over which day to honour the cocoa bean and the legacy of Mr. Quarshie. Let’s make every day Chocolate Day.

- Mark

Labour of love

2007-02-13T04:03:00.000-08:00

Last week, I wrote about visiting a town called Sogakope with reporters from a paper called The Statesman. They were working on a story about child trafficking and we visited with some children and parents that had participated in a rescue and rehabilitation program. Here is the story that appear in The Statesman last weekend:

"Trafficked children in desperate need of rescuing"

By Albert Oppong Ansah, Fred Tettey Alarti-Amoako and Eva Salinas

The Statesman, February 10, 2007

David Gozey wants to be a doctor. The 13-year-old, who lives in Vume with his Aunt, is quick to reveal his future plans. But for now he will settle on attending school, where his favourite subjects are mathematics and English, and playing football.

Already it is a life starkly different compared to his earlier years, when David was one of thousands of Ghanaian children who are trafficked and forced to work at a young age.His is a typical story – he spent years working long hours for fishermen in the Volta Region.

David remembers his time spent scooping water from the boat; and working with other children whose main tasks were preparing fish, mending nets and diving to the deep bottom of the lake – the latter job putting the lives of young boys at serious risk.

Fortunately for David, these are memories that have begun to fade. It has been four years since he was rescued and reintegrated into his family as part of the African Centre for Human Development (ACHD)'s anti-child trafficking programme.

The programme, which started in 2001 and continued until its $300,000 in private funding ran out in 2005, rescued 1,560 children between the ages of four and 16. At present, the organisation is looking for new financing in order to continue. It estimates that there are upwards of 200,000 Ghanaian children that have been trafficked and are in desperate need of rescuing. Most of whom are denied schooling, over-worked, and abused physically or sexually.

"All those children you see selling ice water, they are all trafficked children. All those children are working for people. Accra is one of the recipient areas of trafficked children, and most of them turn into street children," said Mr Wilbert Tengey, the programme's executive director.

Programmes such as his, and others like that run by the international organisation for migration, under the United Nations, have tackled the problem by checking borders, interviewing children and negotiating with employers for the safe return of the children, at times with cooperation of local authorities.

However, despite the 2005 Human Trafficking Act, many authorities close their eyes to the problem, Mr Tengey said, making the task of rescuing children more challenging.

"There are not many organisations that are interested in this kind of job," he continued, "Why? Because it's difficult, it is very frustrating and sometimes, it can very emotionally taxing."

The rewards, on the other hand, are plenty. Last week, a number of rescued children, including David, sat down with The Statesman in Sogakope, where the ACHD ran one of three rehabilitation homes, and recounted their stories.

"We met strong winds and if we were unable to paddle, we were beaten," David recalled of his time working.

His aunt said she is not sure how David ended up in the hands of fishermen, though she knows it happened sometime after his father died when he was around five years old. Both she and staff with the programme were unable to locate his mother.

Also present was Abigail Anafle, 16, and her mother, Juliana Amehlor, who have been reunited for three years now. Abigail was sent to work in her grandmother's home, where she was prevented from attending school and from seeing her mother.

14-year-old Edem Tamekloe's story resembles David's, as he also worked on boats in Lake Volta when he was just seven years old.

One mother, Mary Amlalo, came to tell the story of her two children, though they refused to attend the gathering. Their classmates tease them about being trafficked because it means their family is poor, Mrs Amlalo said, so they avoid associated with the rehabilitation group.

Mrs Amlalo, a potter with eight children, admitted she felt obligated to send two of the children away to help finance the family. She was promised 200,000 cedis per year for the labour of each child.

"I was aware it was hard work but I had no choice," she said.

Two years later, an older son visited the children and returned to tell Mrs Amlalo that they were suffering. "The dreadful things they saw" were reason enough to bring them home, Mrs Amlalo said, adding that her son has since told her how he would see the bodies of other children when diving in the lake.

In the end, the family received only a quarter of the payment promised.Mr Peter Debrah, supervisor of the Sogakope house, said after educating the community, many parents like Mrs Amlalo came forward, requesting that the organisation help find and rescue their children.

He added that the majority of families allow their children to be taken away, as they cannot afford to look after them and need the extra income. Because poverty remains a factor, he continued, there have been cases when rescued children were trafficked again.

To prevent such an event, families were provided with school supplies and financial support. Watch groups, made up of teachers, assembly members, chiefs, social workers and members of the local social welfare department, have formed to continue educating the community and check in on the families.

"Child trafficking can be reduced but not totally eradicated," Mr Debrah said. "The first step should be education and awareness…The law is there. You pass the law and it is just sitting there."

School Again

2007-02-12T08:37:00.000-08:00

Approximately 3% of the population in Ghana is infected with HIV. Compared to other African countries where rates are as high as 25%, this is low. Because of the threat of HIV/AIDS, people are frightened of the disease and those who are infected face severe discrimination.

Education of HIV/AIDS is limited amongst the general population. I am working at the West African AIDS Foundation (WAAF) for the next five months, and during a training seminar last week, one of my colleagues said some of the people in the training seminar still thought you could get HIV/AIDS from touching someone.

Billboards throughout the city remind people to use condoms, and encourage young people to abstain from sex until marriage. For a highly conservative, Christian region, the messages can be pretty direct.

Starting this Monday, I am going to be working with a group of 15 people living with HIV who are involved in an income generating project. It is difficult for them to find work because of the stigma attached to people with HIV. Once employers find out they are HIV+ they lose their jobs. And, it is difficult for them to hide their status because of the regular trips to the clinic for anti-retroviral drugs.

To help them build sustainable lives, WAAF has developed an income generating project that will hopefully provide the participants with some form of financial independence. For the past couple of months, in groups of 5, they have been trained in one of three areas: Jewellery making out of Ghanaian hand-made glass beads, sewing textile products from hand-made batik cloth, or bread making for the local market.

By the end of March, it is assumed they will have the skills necessary to apply for a loan, and start their own businesses. My role is to help them build business skills so they’ll know how to find markets for their work, sell the products, and manage the business.

Early on I realized the group had some barriers to overcome before I could start teaching business skills. More than half the group has trouble speaking English, (they only speak their native languages Ga or Twi), and three quarters of the group cannot write much beyond their names. When asked if they’d gone to school, I learned that about half had gone to school until they were 8 or 9 years old, and the other half had never been to school.

My plan quickly changed from one where I’d be teaching small business workshops, to one that focused on adult literacy and teaching English as a second language. The business skills could follow or slowly be incorporated with the ESL teaching, I decided.

When I told the bead and sewing groups that we would start with English lessons, all of the women were very excited. They want to be able to speak English, and read and write. It will give them confidence and freedom. One woman, Vyda, smiled shyly as she struggled to show me she could write her name. Her situation is difficult. Vyda’s husband died recently from AIDS and both of her children are infected with HIV. She faces eviction from her apartment next month because her lease will be up, and she doesn’t have enough money to pay her rent for two years in advance – the norm here. Still, I could see in her eyes, the thought of learning to write more than her name, and learning to read, gave her hope.

The bread group all came running when they saw me for the first time. I was greeted with huge hugs. When they found out my name was Janet, the same name as one of the group members, two women threw their arms around my neck and hugged me again. When I told the group I would teach them English, I could see tears well up in one woman’s eyes. She looked straight ahead, and nodded approval.

An older man, Ibrahim who is part of the jewellery group, decided his English was good enough that he wouldn’t take the lessons. “I think I can express myself,” he said.

I want the lessons to be voluntary, so didn’t push it. When I told the staff of WAAF that Ibrahim would not be taking lessons, they were disappointed. He really needs help with his comprehension, they said.

I went back out to the front garden where Ibrahim was sitting with his cane; a white crocheted hat covering the top of his head. He was concentrating on stringing a small white glass bead.

“Ibrahim”, I said slowly. “We would really love to have you as part of the English group. It might be too easy for you, but it would be a good chance to practice your writing and learn some new words.”

I watched for his reaction as he sat up in his chair. He leaned forward, gripping his cane between his fingers as he thought about his answer. “So we go back to school,” he said.

- Janet

Play ball

2007-02-09T02:31:00.000-08:00

The kids are so cute here - shy but very friendly. Last Saturday morning, we got up early to go to a baseball clinic, of all things, here in the soccer-mad country. It was organized by Major League Baseball, to be held in Tema, a city just north of Accra.

To get there, we caught a tro-tro near our apartment, and woman with a one-year-old strapped to her back. He kept pointing at me and then hiding his face in his mother’s back whenever I looked his way. No shy smile – a deadpan look on his face, but nonetheless curious.

At the next stop, a woman with two young kids boarded the tro-tro. One of the boys – maybe two years old – began giggling the moment he saw me. They sat down behind us, and a few minutes later, he tapped on my shoulder and said, “una una” and giggled madly when I turned around. Joseph, who was accompanying us to Tema, said “una una” was just babble, didn’t mean anything at all. He was just making a sound. This continued until we got off at our stop – one tapping me from behind, the other pointing at me from the front.

I enjoy the interactions with kids here because the adults are very standoff-ish, much like Canadians - warm and friendly when you get to know them, but a bit aloof or reticent in the beginning.

We arrived in Tema at nine o’clock, and took a taxi to the field. This is a soccer-mad country (even more so after their World Cup appearance last year). Almost no one plays baseball, so I was very curious about what a delegation from Major League Baseball was doing here. There were a lot of big wigs – Omar Minaya, general manager of the New York Mets, Dusty Baker, former manager of the Chicago Cubs, and Dave Winfield, a member of the Jays when they won the World Series in the early 90s.

The U.S. baseball people were there on a “goodwill” mission, not a scouting one. They came with equipment to donate to schools and league teams. There was one player that could play in the States someday, but the MLB people know Ghana – like the rest of Africa - was a long way from producing major league players. The event was organized by a well-connected Ghanaian ex-pat living in New York.

It was a blazing hot day. I got a really bad sunburn because I got so caught up interviewing people for a possible newspaper story back home. I talked to little league kids and older players who dreamed of playing in the big leagues, Ghanaian baseball officials, Winfield, Minaya…probably 10 or 11 people in all. Anyone back home who knows how much I love baseball can imagine how much fun I had.

It’s difficult to say whether baseball can catch on here and eventually produce really good players, ones that could play pro in the states. There is no real baseball field anywhere in the Accra area, although a politician showed up at the event promising to build one at the University of Accra.

The field where we were on Saturday had no outfield fencing, though it did have a backstop. The infield was on uneven ground, and full of rocks. The baseball people were impressed by the quality of the players, though. “Can you imagine what they could play like on a real field,” Winfield told me.

In the little league game, they played much like little leaguers at home – full of enthusiasm, making spectacular plays one minute and botching one the next. One kid made a spectacular catch on a line-drive grounder to third, and then couldn’t figure out when to throw the ball!

It was harder for the older players – the ones between 17-19. The little kids get equipment and uniforms though schools and community sponsorship. They have organized leagues with a lot of teams. There is no league for the older ones because they can’t get sponsored – this despite the fact that Ghana won a bronze medal in baseball at the all-Africa games in 1999. I talked to the minister of sport and he said they couldn’t guarantee funding a team for this year’s games in June, despite enthusiasm at Saturday event. There were hundreds of people on hand to watch.

A couple of highlights: a spirited but botched rendition of 'Take me out to the ball game' by the U.S. ambassador to Ghana, Pamela Bridgewater. The public address announcer called the game like he was a Hockey night in Canada commentator. No sounds of the game - crack of bat, the ball hitting the glove - because he never really stopped talking. Now I know why I can't watch HNC!

- Mark

P.S. the lovely photos were taken by Janet

Bread Winners

2007-02-04T09:53:00.000-08:00

On Friday, I visited a town called Sogakope (pronounced shooga-kopay) in the southeastern part of the country, near where Lake Volta meets the Gulf of Guinea. I was there with Renee and Eva, and two interns from The Statesman, the newspaper that Eva is working for. They were working on a story about child trafficking, to be published in next Saturday’s paper. We had come to meet a man who runs a program to rescue children who had been sold off by the parents to work in the fishery mostly, but also to work on cattle farms or as servants in people’s homes.

We arrived in Sogakope after a two-hour bus ride from the city. The landscape was flat, and the roads dusty. A tree-lined boulevard cut through the town, with street vendors and shops on both sides of the road. Most of the vendors sold loaves of homemade white bread, and it was a mad scramble every time a bus or a tro-tro passed through town and stopped to pick up or drop off passengers. The bread business was fiercely competitive because so many people were doing it; they came running from every direction, swarming the bus or tro-tro on all sides, sticking the loaves of bread through the windows at potential customers.

This aspect of Ghanaian life reminds me very much of India. Street vendors are very common in both places, and many of them serve people passing through places on buses and trains, in the case of India. They’re very aggressive generally and have to work fast because the buses are only making a very short stop. It’s common for them to be running along the bus as it takes off, collecting money from a customer or frantically trying to make a last-second sale.

From the bus stop we walked about a kilometer to the centre that rescues and reintegrate trafficked children into their families and communities. Peter Debra, the supervisor of the program, met us there. Peter is 68-year-old retired schoolteacher with nine children and 14 grandchildren. He told us that his retirement project was helping rescue children from a slave-like life and getting them to their families and into school.

The program was currently suspended because they had lost their Danish funding partner, but Peter was hopeful that he could continue his work once a new one was found. The Catholic Church leased the land to the centre, which resembled a summer camp. It had two dormitories – one for the girls and one for the boys. We saw the boys’ house, which had bunk beds and no fans, I noticed. The heat must been unbearable when this place was full, though that would probably have been overlooked by them, so glad would they have been to escape the misery of their lives in slavery.

There were no children living there at the time, so Peter had asked some mothers and their children to come meet with us. They were all families that had been reunited with the kids.

The program had many phases.

It conducted education campaigns in towns and cities around region, informing people through media stories and community meetings that selling kids into slavery was both illegal and very harmful to the children.

They conducted searches for children who had been sold off, and went on rescue missions to bring them back and locate their families.

Before they returned home the kids came to the centre and stayed there for a period of time, which could be weeks depending on the child. They got them back into kid-like routines – eating three meals, getting a good night’s sleep, playing with each other, getting used the idea of school again with lessons in the one-room school house on the grounds.

They also got medical check-ups and treatment for things that happened to them while they were away. Some of the boys had damaged eardrums from diving too deep to free nets from rocks and tree stumps in the water. Some of the girls had been raped. They were also given psychological counseling, depending on the emotional issues they were still dealing with. “A lot of the kids were rough, not well-adjusted, because they had been mistreated,” said Peter.

When the kids went home, the centre gave the families a sum of money. It also bought them school uniforms, books, and paid their school fees.

All of these kids came from very poor families that didn’t mean to harm them. They weren’t greedy for money and uncaring for the plight of their children. They were desperate in most cases, and the fishermen, cattle farmers, et cetera, offered them a way out of poverty by giving them money in exchange for their kids. They also consoled them by saying that the kids would learn a trade, and be better able to provide for themselves and their families in the future. It was a generations-old practice that was hard to stamp out even though it was now against the law.

The women and children that agreed to meet with us were shy and didn’t speak much English, a sign that they hadn’t received much formal education. Peter had to translate our questions and their responses, which made it difficult to learn their stories in great detail. I studied their faces and expressions, but they were very shy and didn’t betray much emotion. They were kind to us, though, and warm. Most of the Ghanaians I’ve met – except the practiced ones like politicians and NGO workers – have been very shy of media interviews.

A brief sketch of one of the children (next week I’ll put up a link to the article that’s published in The Statesman): One little boy was taken away from his mother by his older stepbrother. This was more common than I thought – kids being enslaved by family members. I found this surprising and difficult to understand because we all tend to think (or hope) that family members will do right by each other, something we know isn’t always true no matter where you come from. The little boy worked from 3 in the morning until late at night, repairing nets and diving to free lines. He had been beaten regularly, and nearly drowned many times from diving in deep, wavy waters. He appeared emotionally scarred to us, because he slumped in his chair during the interview and talked reluctantly, rarely making eye contact. You had to be careful not to read much into his behaviour, though, because we were journalists conducting an interview. One family refused to come out for an interview because they feel the media exploits their stories, and makes them feel ashamed for what they’ve done.

We left the centre about one o’clock, and walked toward town for lunch. As we headed off down the street, I heard the clip-clop sound of little feet running up from behind me. Suddenly there was a little boy – maybe two or three years old – walking alongside me holding on to my baby finger. He was too shy to look at me; he stared at the ground instead. He had an un-inflated pink balloon beween his teeth that he chewed and blew on. I tried to lean over and talk to him, but he was too shy. He walked along and swung my arm until we hit the end of the street. His mother called him back before he could disappear around the corner with us.

Before we headed home, we had lunch at a chop shop (the name for restaurants here). I had rice, noodles and fish.
As we were about to leave, I saw a malnourished little kitten wandering around the restaurant. I walked back to the table and my plate was still there. I scraped flecks of fish off the bones and fed them to the kitten.

- Mark

Cultural Sign Posts

2007-02-04T09:40:00.000-08:00

Malaria kills thousands of children in Ghana every year

This place looks like it needs some divine intervention.
It is common for businesses to use religious messages to sell products and services.

3% of the population in Ghana has HIV/AIDS

More Power to the People

2007-02-04T09:38:00.001-08:00

Ghana’s Independence Day celebrations are March 6th. The government will spend the equivalent of $20 million dollars to herald the countries 50-year severance from Colonial rule.

Malaysia, a country on a similar geographic parallel to Ghana, is also celebrating 50 years of independence from Britain this year.

Educated Ghanaians who have expressed their thoughts to us on the March 6th celebrations are furious with their government. They don’t believe there’s much to celebrate. Malaysia, they say, has made huge strides since 1947 and deserves recognition. Ghana has only stepped backwards.

There are two things most often cited as examples of Ghana’s lack of development and poor management. The first is electricity. This year Ghana is back to regularly scheduled blackouts, something that last happened ten years ago. In 1996 the same situation caused the power shortages. Lake Volta couldn’t handle energy production for the entire country so the people were forced to ration electricity. One angry Ghanaian said, “If the government can’t learn from problems of the past, how can we expect them to lead us into the future.”

Ten years ago, he said, there were planned blackouts every three days that rotated throughout different neighbourhoods. At the time there was a popular TV show that had taken the city by storm. On blackout nights, people could be seen running from neighbourhood to neighbourhood carrying their TVs to homes with power.

The solution this year is to stop supplying energy to Togo and Benin. Nigeria is supposed to take over this role so that Ghana can focus on providing power to its own country. People are skeptical that this will work. Nigeria has worse problems than Ghana with even more frequent blackouts.

We’ve also heard that many small villages and towns have been promised access to power for almost a decade. Much of the mineral resources are found in rural areas, but due to lack of power, once mined, they are shipped by rail to the coast, and then brought by ship to Accra, where they are processed. With regular power, the minerals could be processed in the areas where they’re mined bringing jobs and prosperity to desperately poor parts of Ghana. Instead, many young people who can’t find work in their home towns leave in search of work in the cities. This relocation causes resource problems in the cities, and high unemployment levels.

Joseph, a new friend of ours, is from one of these small villages. He told us that every four years prior to an election, a government official makes an announcement that power will come to his village. One time they even put up electrical poles to suggest progress. Still, he said, there is no power, and he along with many others, have been forced to leave for the city.

The second example cited is the case of the Palm Oil. Palm Oil production is huge in Ghana. In the late 40s the Malaysians asked to come in and learn about Palm Oil production. Ghana opened its doors and taught the Malaysians how to process Palm Oil. At the time, the majority of Ghana’s Palm Oil exports went to Malaysia.

Malaysia took its new found knowledge and started developing its own Palm Oil industry. Now, Malaysia not only supplies all of its own Palm Oil, but it has also found multiple uses for this product and is exporting these products internationally. Ghana, we are told, is still only using Palm Oil for its primary purpose - to make Palm Oil soup.

The 20 million dollars the government is spending on the Independence celebrations could be used to take electricity into villages and towns in the country, and to encourage industrial innovation, we’ve been told. One cynical Ghanaian, who works for the BBC and CNN said with a wry laugh. “I’d like to see what they celebrate.”

When asked if they have hope for the country, people we meet hesitate and then say they have faith in the people, but not the government. Ghanaians, we are told, are resilient, and will keep going.

Still, one of the most common expressions I hear every day is “Let’s wait and see.”

At a Jubilee lecture last week celebrating Ghana’s upcoming 50th anniversary, the Chairman of the Council of State stood up and spoke pointedly to the audience of 2,000 of Ghana’s elite. He was following Kofi Annan, who had given a very positive, inspiring speech on Ghana’s progress over the past half century. The Chairman obviously didn’t want people leaving thinking everything in Ghana was okay. He looked into the eyes of everyone in the room and said seriously, “We must work harder, we must work quicker.”

Every day I wake up with these words in my mind. He’s right. I’m just not quite sure how to manage this effectively in the heat. Do they have more air conditioning in Malaysia?

- Janet

Play Time

2007-01-29T05:33:00.000-08:00

On Friday night, we went to a couple of plays at the National Theatre. One was called “Streetism” and was about the life of street children in Accra. The other was called “Everyman,” a morality play about how a rich man must account for his life on earth to get into heaven.

What better way to get to know a place than through it’s culture. Well, we thought we’d gain that insight through the place itself – the plot, the themes, the acting styles. We didn’t consider what role the audience would play.

In most Western theatres audiences are reminded before the show to turn off their cell phones and it’s considered rude to talk during the performance. In Ghana, as it turned out, audience participation is part of the show. From the opening scene of Ghanaian people setting up mats on the streets of Accra to the final scene where street kids were convicted of theft but ultimately released into the care of local churches, audience hooted and hollered, laughed and shouted questions and made comments to the actors on stage. It must have taken incredible concentration to deliver lines amidst the racket in the audience.

At times it felt like the set of a lowbrow U.S. talk show. One particular scene involved a father and a stepmother trying to deal with their son, who is skipping school and getting poor grades. At one point the son puts up his fist and challenges his father to a fight, and the crowd goes nuts, some egging him on, others aghast that he would show such disrespect for his father.

I remember a couple of lines from a heckler who sat behind me. The father at one point was talking to the boy’s stepmother about how his real mother had left him and his son when he was a baby. He told her that’d raised him all by himself. The heckler called out, “Did you breastfeed him too?” When the stepmother was chastising the mother for the boy’s poor behaviour, the heckler shouted, “What are you giving him a hard time? You can’t even have kids.”

Later in the play, a little boy said he ran away to live on the streets because his father and mother were too busy at work to take proper care of him, the heckler shouted, “That’s no reason to leave home.”

At first I felt badly for the actors – especially the little kids – but then I realized it was part of the culture, a sign of their engagement in the play. They weren’t passive observers like they are back home.

I dare someone to try this at the Imperial. Post a note and let us know how it goes J

On Saturday we were torn between spending the day at the beach and the funeral of an important tribal chief that would draw tens of thousands of mourners to the centre of the city.

As travelers we to immerse ourselves in the culture, and in the lives of the people of the place we’re visiting. In the case, attend the funeral of a person who was very important to people here, to get a sense of how they mourn the death and celebrate the life of a public figure.

But then a big part of you just wants to escape the heat, pollution and and relentless busyness of the big city. Go sit by the beach, swim, drink beer, eat good food, go to sleep to the sound of the surf.

We went to the beach … though I felt guilty as we left the city in a cab, and saw mourners making their way through the streets to the funeral. It felt like the right thing to do once we got out there, though. There was a cool breeze coming off the water, a welcome break from heat and humidity of Accra. We stayed overnight, and came back to the city late Sunday afternoon.

- Mark

Photos from the Weekend

2007-01-29T05:15:00.000-08:00

Sunset at the Beach near Big Milly's Campground

A huge wave hits Janet and Mark as they play in the surf near AMAAL

The private beach near AMAAL - we were the only ones swimming

A woman walks with dishes on her head in Accra

The Beach near Big Milly's

The Great Escape - From The Heat

2007-01-29T04:48:00.000-08:00

Escaping the heat – or at least splashing it with some water - was my goal for this past weekend. I read in the Brandt guide book that there was a beach town about an hour from Accra called Kokrobite (pronounced Kokrobreetay). Ato, the JHR representative in Accra, laughed when Mark asked him how to get to Kokrobite (pronounced the way it’s spelt). We are quickly learning that the pronunciation of places in Ghana is not obvious. I will not be able to get around the city based on names on a map until I learn how to pronounce them properly. Ghanaians don’t know how to read maps or street names. Every place is identified by its proximity to something else. We live near Metro TV. We want to be dropped off near Koala supermarket. Please take us our friends’ house near the Poly Clinic. It’s actually quite funny and difficult to get used to. I asked our landlord to show us where our house was on the map, and she pointed to an area even I knew wasn’t close to where we actually live.

Our exit from Accra happened on Saturday morning. We negotiated a cab ride to Kokrobite for $100,0000 Ceedees, or roughly $12. It took us an hour to get there. The last leg of the journey took us through a village that stretched for 7 km along a narrow dusty road. Along the entire length of the village, little shops selling everything from hair clips to fresh pineapple, sat adjacent to the road. The shops were little more than metal or mud shacks with one or two people either asleep in whatever shade could be found, or sitting with children running around them. The children, barefooted and covered in dusty dirt, stopped and watched us as we passed.

We were delivered to AMAAL (The Academy of African Music And Arts Limited). It sounds more official than what we found. The ‘Academy’ was little more than a rundown, empty resort that was obviously past its prime. We were met by Victor, the manager of the Academy, who told us we were the only white people who’d checked in. Apparently there was one other person staying in a place that could easily hold 100 people. We didn’t see anyone else the entire time we were there. When we left, Victor told us to call him when we planned to return “Just to ensure you get a room,” he said.

Further down the road from AMAAL we found its westernized cousin. Big Milly’s, a beachfront, hostel, populated mostly by young expats and backpackers was as vibrant as AMAAL was empty. Big Milly we found out was a woman from Britain named Wendy. Her husband was from Ghana, and for 13 years they’d been running a successful business that pulled in travelers looking for a good time, western food, and access to a secure beach.

We spent part of the afternoon at Big Milly’s. There were many village people roaming the beach. Children played and danced on the beach, and young men spent hours repairing fishing nets.

I wandered along the beach with my camera to take some pictures. The children posed for me as long I would show them the photos on the digital screen once I’d taken them. Their poses grew sillier as I took more photos. They laughed gleefully upon seeing their reflected image on the screen. Later I found the kids playing quietly in a circle so took another picture.

The next morning I got up in search of bottled water. The first place I found told me to sit and wait, they’d go find water. Five minutes later a young woman came back telling me the water was all gone. I should go further down the road, about 50 metres she said. I went further down the road, and a young boy named Abdul told me they didn’t have bottled water either. He told me he would take me to find water.

Abdul, a young boy of about 14 jumped off his bike and walked with me down the dusty road toward the next stall. He told me he goes to school in Accra, an hour’s drive away to secondary school. He wants to become a refrigerator and air conditioner repair man. He also wants to be a boxer and showed me a couple of moves he’s been working on. He asked me if I had seen the big house near our resort.

“You mean the hotel they’re building?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

The building he was referring to was a monstrous construction project on the other side of AMAAL. We’d noticed it the day before. Apparently it’s been under construction for almost 5 years. We were told it would be finished in time for the 2008 African Cup. We had discussed the project the day before, unsure whether western corporate interests in Kokrobite were a good thing or not.

Abdul was convinced the hotel would change things for his village. “It will be great for development,” he said sweeping his arms across the area. Tourists will buy more from our village.”

I hoped he was right. Exclusive resorts often have a way of providing all services to their guests so that there is no need for them to leave the area. Hopefully, the friendliness of the villagers and a desire to truly get to know the culture of the area would pull people from their luxurious surroundings.

The highlight of the weekend was jumping into the surf coming off the Gulf of Guinea. We stayed close to shore for fear of the powerful under tow, but submerging into the cool waters was an incredible treat.

Our drive back was more Ghanaian style. We took three trotros to get back to our neighbourhood. Tro tros are vans or buses that go all over the city and serve as the country’s public transportation system. It was a longer, hotter trip this way, but only cost us about $1.50 to get back from Kokrobite.

Soaking wet by the time we reached our apartment from the heat of the trip home, we were thrilled that the air conditioning in our room was working.

We were glad to be back, but the memory of the surf will soon pull us back to Kokrobite.

- Janet

Our Patio

2007-01-26T06:12:00.000-08:00

Our Breakfast Nook :)

2007-01-26T06:10:00.000-08:00

2007-01-26T05:19:00.001-08:00

January 25, 2007

Former UN secretary general Kofi Annan gave a lecture today - two days after he returned home after his retirement from the UN. He is revered here in his home country, and there was much celebration about his return.

Janet and I went down to the conference centre where the talk was being held, though we did not have a ticket and therefore not much chance of getting in.

We were standing outside the centre when a young man passed by and asked if we were going in. We said no because we didn't have tickets. He motioned for us to follow him, and he asked the guard at the door to let us in.

We followed along and he led us upstairs and into the auditorium. It was packed so we sat down on the stairs in the aisle. At this point I leaned over to Janet and said, "I have to pee really bad." I thought the talk would last a couple of hours, and I was afraid I would burst long before then. Janet told me sit tight. She said if I mentioned it to our host, whose name was Christian, he feel obliged to lead me to the bathroom. I didn't think I could hold so I leaned over and asked Christian where the bathroom was. Sure enough he insisted on taking me, and we shuffled past well-dressed women - me in my dirty sneakers and sweat-soaked clothing (I still haven't gotten use to perpetually sweating here).

By the time we returned, Kofi had walked to the podium and begun his speech. We shuffled past the women again - the only people moving in the entire 2,000-seat auditorium. Janet was surely mortified - on my behalf - the whole time.

The speech itself was on the future success of Africa, which Kofi said rested on three pillars - security and peace, development of the economy and social service, and human rights. It was not a gripping speech and it was very short at 20 minutes, but we felt very privileged to be there. Afterwards, we found out that Christian was part of the United Nations Association in Ghana. We exchanged numbers and promised him we'd take him out to dinner sometime for his kindness. He took us down to the floor of the auditorium and got someone to take a picture of the three of us. We'll post it when he e-mails it to us.

The thing that struck both Janet and I was the lax security at the event. The president, his ministers, and a former UN secretary general were there, and we weren't putting through a security screen at the door. Can you imagine walking into a talk by a prominent western leader and not being subject to security check?

- Mark

A representative day

2007-01-26T05:19:00.000-08:00

January 24, 2007

In the morning Renee and I met with Ato at the JHR office in Accra. Renee is the person I will be organizing the workshops with. She is a radio journalist from B.C. who taught in Tanzania for three years.

Our jobs are mostly based around giving workshops on the fundamentals of good journalism and human rights reporting to reporters around the country. Today we found out where we will be going first and what kinds of rights issues we'll be focusing on. We'll be going to Hoe, a community in eastern Ghana, between Lake Volta (the largest lake in the country which houses the hydroelectric dam that powers most of the country) and the neighbouring country of Togo.

We'll be focusing on human rights issues that affect women and children for all of the workshops, with the help of a human rights activist from Amnesty International. We'll tailor the human rights education to the regions we visit, as the issues vary from place to place.

Ghana has had a constitution that protects human rights - a constitution that's a comprehensive as our own - but abuses still persist because it's only been in effect since 1992 and many Ghanaians still don't know much about it and continue with traditional practices that often violate individual rights.

For example, it's still legal to rape your wife - there was a failed attempt last year to pass a domestic violence bill because it contained a clause criminalizing marital rape.

In the afternoon we ended up at Darrell and Eva's. There I met an assemblyman - the equivalent of a city or town councilor in Canada - and got a good glimpse into the life of a politician. He says politics are very retail in Ghana - some would say the same is true in Canada! He got elected because he was able to get streetlights erected in his community. You realize this is a big deal here when you've wandered around pitch-black neighbourhoods at night that don't have them. He got the government to agree to donate the lights, but he had to fundraise to erect them. The government doesn't have the money for many infrastructure projects that we take for granted. He found a well-off local resident to pitch in some money and he paid the rest out of his own pocket. He says this is very common here. A lot of people expect politicians to financially support the community, as well as represent it.

Like our councilors at home, they also take on initiatives that are not officially part of their jobs. For example, he's organizing a quiz competition in local schools about the history of Ghana. It will coincide with the 50th anniversary of independence celebrations in March.

We also talked about Canada for a while because his sister lives in the Toronto area.

- Mark

Great Expectations

2007-01-25T02:40:00.000-08:00

I spent last night lying perfectly still. Moving created heat, and with the second blackout of the week, our air conditioner hung silently on the wall. At one point, I rolled over and said to Mark half joking "Can I go home?"

I have never experienced heat like West African heat. I looked in my closet this morning, and half smiled, half grimaced at the clothes I packed. All of my t-shirts will remain in the closet. The only things I'll be able to wear are sleeveless shirts, linen pants, and skirts. I'll melt away if I wear anything else.

Today, I also have blisters on my feet, and a few minutes ago noticed one is bleeding. Mark wanted to show me around the city yesterday so we walked from 11:00 a.m. until 8:30 p.m. We stopped periodically to eat, check in to the Internet cafe, and visit a couple of the JHR participants, but other than that, we walked. It was hot, but thankfully a cool breeze from the coast kept us fanned, and more or less content.

The streets are dusty, and there are no sidewalks, so we balanced our step between the sand at the edge of the road and the pavement where trucks and cars running on diesel left their black wake for us to inhale.

I've only seen a few neighbourhoods in Accra, but so far, there doesn't seem to be a downtown, or a central tourist district. "Is there any opulence in Accra?" I asked Mark. I was referring to my travels in China and Vietnam where cities clean up at least one area of the central district to impress tourists, and find ways of encouraging them to spend extra money. Mark said he hadn't seen this area yet.

Last night on our walk home from Koala, the western grocery store, we weaved in and around traffic to follow the path back to our apartment. It was dark, and I was thankful to have someone with me. We passed other ghanaians making the trek into the heart of the city as we were leaving it. Happily carrying my french baguette, goats cheese, and other western delicacies, I plodded forward, weary from my day in the dusty heat. Mark beckoned for me to follow him as we crossed the street. I looked up, checking both ways to watch for oncoming traffic but did not look down. I stepped forward and suddenly felt the ground disappear under my feet. Mark yelled out in alarm, but it was too late. I had stepped right into a sewer. My right foot went straight down three feet, and the baguette, having fallen from my grip went with it. A women, walking on the other side of the street, came running to my rescue, and Mark, alarmed tried to pull me back to my feet. Thankfully, I escaped with little more than a couple of bruises and a dirty wet foot. I now know that along the edge of every street in Accra runs a narrow sewage gutter. Whenever I cross the street, I will not only look both ways, but I will also look down.

The blackout last night affected our fridge. This morning, I realized we would have to eat all of the goat's cheese I'd bought the night before for breakfast. I was disappointed the expensive western delicacy wouldn't last more than a day, but was excited at the prospect of a nice breafast. I opened the cheese, and the smell that erupted, was so strong, I quickly closed the package. Perhaps the grocery store had experienced its own blackout and the cheese hadn't survived.

I am going to have to re-set my expectations for life in Ghana. I will not eat or live like I did in Saint John for the next 5 months. Cheese, yoghurt, and all things requiring refrigeration will be a thing of the past.

We showered in cold water this morning. Yesterday I longed for a hot shower. Today after a night without air conditioning, the cold water was wonderfully refreshing. I left the apartment optimistic and eager for today's new adventures.

Immediately upon leaving the apartment we learned there will be another blackout tomorrow night. Mark and I choked back a gasp. Maybe we can find someone to fan us in bed.

- Janet

The journal-ist

2007-01-24T08:52:00.000-08:00

In addition to reading material on human rights issues in Ghana, I'm reading a collection of novellas called The Summer He Didn't Die by Jim Harrison. Harrison's from Michigan and has written fiction, poetry and screenplays. The narrator in the last novella of this collection is talking about the main character's view on writing and travel. "He avoided keeping a regular journal except of the most nominal kind. Why turn everything immediately into language? Why not let it rest there among a trillion neurons and see what might wish to arise."

I'm not a journal writer by nature. To this point, though, I've felt the need to recount my days here as faithfully and as fully as I could. But I know that mundane, factual account of my days will bore you and me, so I'll try to be guided by the spirit of Harrison's approach.

A few things stand out from this day:

I went looking for a coffee along a sidewalk packed with vendors' stalls. The pathway followed a busy highway. It was noon hour; the place blazing hot, packed and very noisy. I walked up to one stall that served drinks. The waitress was sitting on a stall with her resting on her arm placed on the counter. I soon realized she was sound asleep amidst the racket. I said hello gently several times. She didn't wake up. I walked away and then returned, deciding I really needed that coffee. I said hello again, and again, and then she slowly woke up. I said I wanted a coffee. She said she didn't have one, but pulled out an ice coffee drink from her cooler. This is the same thing, she said. No it wasn't, I said. I would try and find a regular coffee somewhere else. Reflecting on this now, I wonder what's more incongruous - the woman falling asleep on this chaotic street, or me wanting a hot coffee instead of a cold one on such a humid day.

I went to Internet cafŽ after my futile search for a coffee, and then walked down a busy road toward the JHR office. The traffic moves slowly here at times and street vendors try to sell food, ballpoint bens, and clothing to cars that have slowed down. On my walk I encountered two guys trying to sell puppies to passing motorists. I've handled myself very well since I've been here. No serious culture shock yet, I've managed to keep my emotions in check. For some the sight of these vulnerable little pups being peddled to motorists in this heat, on this busy roadway, brought tears to my eyes.

The headline of the main newspaper read, "AMA IN MASSIVE CLEANUP" AMA stands for Accra Metropolitan Assembly. The local political authority has organized a community cleanup for the independence celebrations March 6. There will be a lot of foreign dignitaries and the city wants to present a clean image to the outside world. This city is a lot cleaner than many I've been to in the developing world. Many of us remarked on this when we first arrived here. But some of the beaches and busier sections are very dirty. Garbage is scattered on the street or sits in piles that substitute for garbage cans. Part of the cleanup involves removing street vendors and their rickety shacks. They are very much part of the street life and economy here, though, and I wonder where they're expected to go. The news story doesn't really touch on what happens to them. It reminds me of when Western cities have forcibly removed homeless people to make way for the Olympics - Atlanta in 1996 comes to mind.

- Mark

By the light of the computer screen

2007-01-24T08:50:00.000-08:00

January 21, 2007

I'm writing this entry by the light of the computer screen - there are rolling blackouts across the city throughout the week. Tonight it's my neighbourhood's turn. I only discovered this when I arrived home here at 9:30.

My day was relatively uneventful. I got up at 10:30 - for the past several days it's been like this. I guess it will come to an end when I begin work early next week. We're still an orientation phase. It's been nice, though, catching up on sleep. It may be part of the reason why I haven't gotten sick yet. I haven't even experienced symptoms from the malaria pills. This is the fourth time I've taken them, and got sick only once so far - when I was in Panama with Sean in the spring. I should be careful not to jinx myself by writing about this. Stay tuned...

I had been wearing the same "trousers" for four days so I washed them and a shirt in a bucket and hung them online so they'd be ready for work tomorrow. I got measured today but the trousers won't be ready for a few days.

I decided to walk around today on my own to familiarize myself with the city. I tend to follow the people I'm with when I travel, so it was nice to have this day on my own to wander around.

The city landscape reminds me most of big cities like Delhi in India. It's relatively flat and very dusty, despite the humidity. It has two million people and is spread over a very large area. There several tall buildings across the city, but most are no more than five stories high.

The sky is hazy and overcast, and will be like this until the end of February, I'm told. There are northerly winds that are blowing the sand from Sahara south over the entire country. They're called the Harmattan winds and they blow every year at this time. It's reminds me of the southerly winds that bring the fog to the Bay of Fundy in the summer, I guess, only it's not so thick at ground level!

The sands cover the blue sky and obscure the sun. In the late afternoon, it looks like a yellow ball trying to poke through a light grey cloud cover. I find it beautiful and the idea of the sands blowing down from the Sahara strikes a romantic chord. Of course, the dust is probably contributing to my breathing problem so I'll be happy to see blue sky again come March.

- Mark

Card sharks

2007-01-24T08:48:00.000-08:00

January 20, 2007

I got out of bed at about 10 am - so luxurious in my queen-size bed and air-conditioned room. I thought I was supposed to be roughing it here! I soon discovered, though, that the shower didn't work. I sat in the shower stall with a bucket of cold water and a scoop. I washed my hair and my feet and splashed some water on my face. I don't know how Janet's going to take this news about the shower - or lack thereof :)

I got dressed and unpacked my suitcases. The room now awaits Janet and her suitcases full of stuff. We seem to have plenty of room and closet space.

Joseph called just as I finished. He was going to take me, Eva and Darrell to the market to buy material for tailored clothes, which are quite cheap here. I walked down the road to meet him. I was in such a daze (I'm surviving on little sleep and only a coffee a day right now) that I walked right by him and his friend Derrick as they waved to me from the other side of the street.

We walked all the way to Eva and Darrell's. We kicked around for about an hour and I had my first coffee of the day. It was past noon by the time we headed to the market. The 'market' was actually many city blocks long, and encompassed the area stores, as well as street vendors. It was teaming with people - so invigorating, and it's quieter on the weekends apparently. We spent an hour jammed into a fabric store. It felt like shopping in a transport trailer - not very wide but long and high...and dark. I was looking for yards of cotton for tailored pants (or trousers, apparently pants mean underwear here, so we always get a smile when we said pants).

Afterward, we wandered up the street through more of the market. Darrell and I bought transistor radios from a street vendor and I also bought an iron! My clothes are wrinkled to the point that even the heat and humidity can't iron out.

I made another Ghanaian toddler cry. One of the market vendors gestured to a little girl, who was trying to catch my attention. I went over and knelt down in front of her. I started to talk and she started to cry! The woman smiled and picked the girl up to comfort her. She brought the little girl back over me and she started to wail even louder. This was the second time I'd made a girl cry since I arrived. At the hospital I leaned down to talk with a little in the waiting room. Her lower lip began to quiver, and then she cried and ran to her mother.

We then went for a late lunch at a local restaurant on a bustling but poor street. Ramshackle shacks house the shops and restaurants, the roads are dusty, open sewers line the sides of the roads, and garbage is everywhere. But damn that food is good - and cheap - at the places the discriminating locals eat. I treated today - $3.50 for everyone - not each, everyone. I had fish, rice and beans - it's become my staple here, the only variable the amount of spice.

A couple of things of note at the restaurant:
- The food is great but the bathroom facilities are not. Today I was led out the back door and down a filthy alley, and taken to an outdoor urinal with no door. A bunch of kids stood about 15 feet away, laughing at the white guy trying to pee discreetly.
- I finally made a little girl laugh, not cry - and I'm not referring to the previous story. When we entered the restaurant, a little kept laughing and chanting something at me in her native language. An adult translated for her - White guy, where are you going? White guy where are you going? We exchanged high fives with her and her friends and went inside.

The day was nice but considerably less interesting after that. I came home, stripped naked and lay on the bed with air conditioner going full blast. My clothes were soaked from the heat and humidity. I read the papers, listened to the radio. The big news of the week: in a small city in the centre of the country, a bunch of young people rioted because there had been several people murdered in the past month and the police hadn't been able to solve the crimes. The police compounded the problem by breaking up the protests, injuring a few people in the process. Mistrust of the police by the public and the media is a big deal here. Today the police held a workshop to encourage the media to cover the police more "fairly," which would in turn give the public a more balanced perspective on police activities.

I went to dinner with Darrell and Eva and had...surprise, surprise...fish and rice - but no beans this time. I may have to vary my diet a bit.

We came back to my place and played hearts on the patio. It's a very relaxing hangout.

- Mark

A fallen vegetarian

2007-01-24T08:45:00.001-08:00

January 19, 2007

Got up today at 10 o clock. Was sure everyone would have been up and out by then, but found Kate, Sam and Renee in the lobby of the hotel, along with Ato.

Sam went to the market, Ato took Kate to the hotel to swim and Renee and I went for breakfast at a strip mall across the street from the University of Ghana, which is just off a busy highway.

I ordered an egg and cheese breakfast sandwich, which turned out contained sausage...I broke my vegetarian fast. I was so hungry and couldn't throw it away and order a new one. Lesser of two evils I suppose, huh, because the animal would have been killed in vain. Or is that just a rationalization!? :) Also had two cups of Nescafe!

We took a taxi back to the hotel and I packed to go to my new apartment. While I waited for Joseph (works for JHR) to pick me up, I sent an e-mail from the hostel Internet room. Heard news from Debra about my cat Isabel (Izzy's still being a territorial grump with Debra's cat Merlin).

Joseph arrived and we took a cab to the apartment, which is in a quiet area of the city near the US embassy and the United Nations Refugees office for West and Central Africa.

Our apartment is in a two-storey white building with an enclosed courtyard in the center of the building. There are palm trees and a little porch area in front of our apartment, which is on the first floor facing the courtyard. I foresee see early morning coffees and late-night chats on the little patio that has a table and three chairs. We have a one-room apartment (queen-size bed and bathroom) with an attached kitchen. We also have a TV that I can't figure out how to work yet! Damn...wanted to watch late-night Friday movies. Janet's not going to want me to watch them after she arrives. :)

After I arrived at my new place, fellow JHR participants Darryl and Eva showed up with Joseph. We then headed out on a walk to the waterfront. It didn't take long for us to leave the leafy, protected embassy area where our apartment is located, and down streets that led into a poor neighbourhood - open sewers along the sides of the road and rickety roadside stalls selling food, consumer goods...I have to learn to keep an eye on oncoming traffic and at the same time avoid stepping into the sewer gullies, which are three feet deep and filthy.

We went to Eva and Darryl's place, the home of the Volunteer Abroad program. I chatted with people there while Darryl and Eva got ready for Ato's birthday party (he was being honoured for turning 30). I met a couple from Alberta working just west of Accra (one in agriculture, one in forestry) and a woman from Vancouver who was traveling around the country doing educational seminars on preventing sexual assaults.

Before we went to Ato's party we went to a beach nearby their place. We drank a beer each and walked along the shore. After my experience yesterday it was so nice to breath clean ocean air. On our walk we met a woman who hosted an entertainment show on Metro TV, a popular local television station. She was a singer from New York but had African roots and thought it would be interesting to come here to get experience in TV. She was playing with a balloon when we met her. She was with a guy from Liberia, who sat on the sand and watched her dance.

After we left the beach we caught a cab to Ato's party at the Ghanaian Journalists Association. I drank many beers and even danced a bit, which would come as a surprise to anyone who knows me! The party was hosted by his radio station - Joy FM - and was sponsored by a wine company from South Africa that was trying to crack the market in Ghana.

- Mark

Accra takes my breath away!

2007-01-24T08:40:00.000-08:00

January 18, 2007

Oh dear, I didn't not want to get out of bed this morning. I slept well but I was still so tired. At 8:20 they called my room to see where I was; we were supposed to meet at 8 in the lobby. I jumped out of bed, got dressed, threw some water on face and brushed my teeth. All done in five minutes. Got downstairs and the tro-tro wasn't even there yet. Took the opportunity to check e-mail. None of us can seem to break that addiction. We're suffering withdrawal from easy, high-speed access.

It turned out to be an "interesting" day. We started out with a nice breakfast and a great chat with a prominent human rights lawyer. She gave us a condensed history of the current human rights situation - a very engaging passionate woman. In future posts, as I get into my work, I'll start talking about specific human rights issues.

Mom: you should probably skip over this part.

In the afternoon, we went on a driving tour of the city and ended up in huge traffic jams - I was choking on the diesel and the humidity and the sand from the desert. Suddenly I could hardly breathe and realized I was having an attack. I popped a Benadryl but it didn't seem to work, so they rushed me off to the hospital! To make a long story short (you'll get the long one later) I was ok in the end but it was really scary at the time. The doctor didn't want to prescribe a puffer today. He said to come back if I was stilling having trouble.

The journey back from the hospital was interesting. We took a tro-tro until we got really tied up traffic - again! Joseph told me to jump out and then led me into a wooded area across the street from this crowded intersection. It tuned out to be a short cut to the next tro-tro station, and we beat the tro-tro by quite a bit - the traffic was that bad. The path through the wooded area cut through people's backyards, and it ran along a polluted swamp - polluted by raw sewage from the area homes. It turned to be a popular short cut for locals. We passed a number of people along the way - no foreigners. I felt strangely privileged because I knew I was seeing something that not many tourists would be exposed to. It reminded me of the open sewers in Saint John, and the creeks that kids walked along that were as polluted as this.

At the end of the path we crossed the main road right into the bus station, which was grubby and crowded. There were little stalls selling food and household goods. I didn't see any foreigners there either; it had that local feel - uninfected (or is that unaffected) by tourists.

We caught another tro-tro from the station - again, lots of slow -moving traffic, and my lungs burned every time I took a deep breath.

Had a wonderful meal to end the night. I was still recovering from the events of the afternoon so didn't head into the city with everyone else for dinner. Sent some e-mails and headed over to a Chinese restaurant near the hotel with Kate, one of the participants. I had spring rolls (which we think had meat in them though we were assured they didn't) and a seafood soup. Yummy!

Back at the hotel now writing in the journal. Going to read, watch the news and go to sleep.

- Mark

Food for thought

2007-01-24T08:36:00.000-08:00

January 17, 2007

It would have been nice to have a day of rest, but it was not in the plans. I rolled out of bed at twenty to nine and a tro-tro (name for minibus) was here to pick us up at nine sharp (5 Atlantic time so I was still pretty sleepy).

We went to the Ghanaian Journalists Association to begin our orientation with Ato, JHR's country coordinator. We ate a nice breakfast on the patio outside the association and then went into an air-conditioned room (thankfully since it was already 25 degrees and muggy).

We heard two talks during the day. In the morning, it was Bright, Blewu, the head of the Ghanaian Journalists Association. He spoke about the history of the free press in Ghana. He says the media is in the embryonic stage right now because there was no real free press before freedom of speech was enshrined in the 1992 constitution. The real freedom came, though, after the criminal libel law was dropped in 2000. Until then a journalist could be jailed for criticizing or investigating a politician or prominent figure. There is still a libel law but it's a civil one so reporters are more inclined to investigate and/or comment on controversial subjects.

I had the most amazing lunch - a bean stew with fish and rice. Oh my God it was good. It was mildly spicy - I must find out what kinds of spices they use so Janet and I can try and cook it. I'm pleasantly surprised by how much I enjoy the food...for two reasons. One, I was so afraid of potential allergies to nutty dishes. But it is easy, as it turns out, to avoid them. Two, I had been told by many people that the food was unexceptional. But it's great so far. I think it's because fish, beans and rice are such staples in my diet. It's comfort food...

In the afternoon, we spoke with Egbert Faibile, a lawyer and journalist in Accra. He gave us a broad overview of the political system, and the culture and society.

By the end of the afternoon, I began to fade. You know that feeling when you're trying so hard to stay awake - the eyes flutter as you fight falling asleep.

We went back to our hostel and took a short nap. At night we went to the French association, which was interesting because the British colonized Ghana though it's surrounded by French African countries. We watched a performance by an African drum and dance troupe, and ate dinner. I had plantains and the same bean and fish stew. I didn't enjoy it as much because I don't like the sweetness of the plantains and the stew was a little too spicy. Had a beer and went back to the hostel to sleep.

- Mark

A safe landing

2007-01-24T08:34:00.000-08:00

January 16, 2007

Arrived in Ghana after a flight from Toronto to London, and then London to Accra. The flights themselves - about six or seven hours each - were uneventful. I read, watched movies, and slept a bit. I flew to London alone but four of us were on the plane to Accra from London.

I was incredibly nervous and agitated on the flights over. It's hard to let things go for eight months - the cats, my family, my creature comforts. As much as I like the idea of traveling and international development work, I'm a homebody at heart. This kind of transition is especially tough because it's eight months long - longer than I've ever been away before. And the assignment is challenging. Figuring out what I'm able to contribute to human rights reporting in Ghana will take time.

I'm so happy Janet's coming, but it would have been nice to have her with me today.

The landing was also uneventful, which you could say is good news! I didn't even feel the wheels hit the runaway. As I stepped off the plane, I tried to absorb the atmosphere. It was muggy and dark, and we had to cross the tarmac to the terminal. It was a very small airport for a city of 2-million. It seemed to only have one terminal and just a couple of gates.

We got through customs quickly and went out the front door of the airport to find Ato, the head of Journalists for Human Rights in Ghana. He was to greet us and take us to our hotels and apartment, in my case. It was odd - there must have been a couple of hundred people there to greet passengers - entire families must have come out. There were also about 50 women with bedrolls on the ground in the entranceway - didn't get a chance to ask Ato what that was all about.

As it turns out I was put up in a hostel that night. The person hadn't yet vacated the apartment that Janet and I have rented for the next eight months.

First awkward moment with a local: Two guys carried my bags out to the car and I hadn't yet changed any money so couldn't give them a tip.

First moment of deprivation: As I write this diary, they called my room to say they were cutting the power for the night. These kinds of blackouts are apparently common to conserve electricity. So much for reading before bed...

- Mark

Black like me

2007-01-24T08:28:00.000-08:00

January 15, 2007

Black like me: I went to a CIBC branch in downtown Toronto before I left for Pearson to catch my flight to London. I told the teller I needed some U.S. cash for a trip. She asked me where I was going, and I said Africa. She then told me that her great-great - or is it great-great-great? - grandfather had married a woman from Congo in the 1800s. He fell in love and wanted to marry her and bring her home with him. She wasn't a slave, but nonetheless he had to pay her family to take her away with him.

The teller didn't know she had African roots until she went in for surgery on her leg. She scarred heavily in a way that meant she might have black roots of some kind, the doctor told her, even though her skin colour and facial features were white. She asked her family members if they had black ancestors and she learned the story of her distant relatives.

I knew what she meant when she said the scarring might mean she had black roots. I got my ears pierced 10 years ago and one of them got infected. When it began to heal, a scar started to form on the lobe and grew until it formed a little ball of skin - highly annoying and embarrassing. I went to see a doctor when I was living in Toronto and he asked me if I had any black ancestors. He said this kind of scar tissue build-up was common in black people, but not in whites. He was Korean and said it was also a common occurrence in Asians. I only know of my Acadian, Welsh and Irish roots, but I've wondered about it ever since.

- Mark

The last Saturday

2007-01-20T07:46:00.000-08:00

Mark is in Accra. Today's my last day to run around and pick things up, drop things off, and make sure everyone knows how to reach us, our plumber, carpenter, and my mother, while we're away.

I felt pretty organized yesterday, but still had 10 last minute items I had to do on the last day I could access the North American working world - one being go to Service New Brunswick to replace the licence plate that fell off the car last June! The plates are sitting on the kitchen counter and still need to be installed.

Mark seems to be doing well in Accra. He arrived Tuesday night and I will join him next Tuesday night. I keep telling him he has to post something to the site, and hopefully he will soon. He's the one getting the head start on the adventure.

I guess he's already witnessed difficulties with the infrastructure in Ghana. Our apartment wasn't ready when he arrived so he's been staying in a hostel. The hostel's power cuts out every night so I think he's been going to bed early. Without light, it's tough to read in bed :)

He said he had a great bean and fish stew this week. As a vegetarian, I think he was happy to see this served as a common meal. We were all making bets on how long he'd be able to stay vegetarian in West Africa.

I also learned what I'm going to be doing in Ghana. I am going to be on a volunteer placement with the West African AIDS Foundation working on a microcredit project. It all came together this week. Canadian Crossroads International, an organization that Mark's worked with for close to 15 years, had an unexpectant vacancy open to work with their partner in Ghana. They needed to fill it by February 1st, and weren't sure how to get someone in place by then. Mark had happened to drop into the organization on Monday enroute to the airport and mentioned that I would be going with him to Ghana. He explained my skill set, and they said I'd be welcome to help out with the program from time to time. An hour later they were notified of this placement that needed to be filled, and after a few minutes of reflection realized I was a good fit.

We've been working out the details this week, and on Monday at the Toronto airport during my 4 hour layover, I'll be met by a Canadian Crossroads representative to sign a contract, exchange personal details, and begin my training.

From what I know right now, the West African AIDS Foundation is running a program with 15 AIDS patients to help them build skills to run their own businesses. The participants are being trainined in the art of bead, bread and batique making. There are some challenges with the participants moving from the training phase to running the business phase, and they'd like me to get involved to see how I might assist with this transition. It sounds like an interesting challenge.

It's already noon and I still need to drop off our espresso maker to Dave, pick up a lawnmower for John, take the kite surfer to Mike, clean the car to sell it, drop off information to our tenants, pick up last minute items for Ghana, and head out to Christine's for dinner. The deadlines are now real.

Janet

Getting Ready

2007-01-01T09:08:00.000-08:00

Mark and I are getting our apartment ready for someone else to move in. It's harder than you might think. In the five years that I've lived in the apartment, I've accumulated a lot of "stuff". Thankfully we only have to move our personal things out from the bedroom. Everything else will stay as it is until we return.

We're also both a bit sentimental about our home. We had our last leisurely breakfast this morning. Mark leaves for Toronto on Saturday, so this is the last time we'll sit in our dining room enjoying coffee from our espresso maker and Montreal bagels from the market.

Today is also the day that Spunky leaves home and the espresso maker - his favourite roost in the apartment. I hope that he gets along okay with Mike. He's a brave man. No one else would take Spunky, so we're thankful Mike agreed to be the foster parent while we're away. If it doesn't go well, we're in trouble.

It's New Year's day. 2007 has begun.

- Janet