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
Wednesday, April 11, 2007
The rule of radio
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
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
Tuesday, April 3, 2007
Journeys of the mind
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
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
Sunday, April 1, 2007
Being Obroni
“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
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
Saturday, March 24, 2007
Home is where the heart is
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 deadlin
e 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.
Sunday, March 18, 2007
Time for the Almond Tree to Bear Fruit
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
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
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
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