The road home goes through...the mailbox

Yesterday, I decided to look at my mail which had been dutifully collected in a box.  For the first two and a half days I was home, I mostly ignored the mail.  I knew where it was; I knew that is was, but I had a hard time coming to grips with the idea that the box of mail was for me and perhaps I should do something...like look at it.  Open it maybe.

So I began the painful process of sorting through bills, cards and various correspondences from various entities that had collected over three weeks.

Guess what?  Despite my awesome trip to Ghana, Visa AND American Express want to be paid.  Blue Cross Blue Shield wants me to fill out a form. I have appointments to confirm, places to go and people to see. I have decisions to make. And lots of things to read.

Reviewing my mail was like reviewing and grounding myself in my real life.  When you're gone for a long time, I think it's common to wonder if you'll be forgotten. Will people remember me and what I do and how I fit in to things? Will things change>

Certainly for Visa and American Express it's like I was never gone.

What is means to be twins in Ghana: Peter and Paul's story

These kids don't smile much. And most have never had their picture taken so they really don't know what to do in that circumstance either.

In the U.S., the arrival of twins is mostly looked upon with delight.  "Double the fun" as they say. Parents and grandparents scurry around buying 2 of everything and the next several years are spent oohing and ahhing over the twins. Twins are stars here.

It's a little different in rural Ghana.

People have a lot of superstitions in the Upper West.  Twins and triplets are many times looked upon as a curse to the family. Surely, the mother (almost always the mother, not the father) has done something horrible to bring the curse of multiple births upon the family.  Many twins are killed at birth. Some are abandoned in orphanages, or along roadsides.  Many mothers run away because of the shame of having twins.

Which is what happened with Peter and Paul.  Their mother ran away shortly after they were born, leaving them with their grandmother.  There are a LOT of grandparents raising their grandchildren in Ghana, with varying degrees of success.

Peter and Paul's grandmother is a seamstress. She's doing as much as she can for her grandsons but that's not all that much.  She struggles to keep the family fed and clothed. Most days, they can eat one meal. Most days. She used to keep the boys hidden in the house for fear of what may happen to them outside. One of her former neighbors told her twins are demons.

The grandmother was fearful when she brought Peter and Paul to school the first time. Fearful that they would not be allowed to attend. But she was relieved when the head teacher welcomed the boys, even though they were a little older than a P1 kid should be.

Peter and Paul are doing well in school. Peter would like to fix cars (and also ride a motorcycle) and Paul would like to build car engines like he saw in a book once.

Sounds like double the fun.

There and back again

If this was anything other than a blog, I'd get sued for that title because it belongs to Bilbo Baggins in The Lord of the Rings. But Bilbo's probably not reading this blog.

I'm not sure what it says about me as a person, but I feel better than I thought I would.  After a 12-hour sleep, I feel acclimated to home.  I have unpacked everything and washed about 1/2 of everything. I've watered my flowers and put my pots and dishes back were I like them.  Where I like them - do you hear? I can travel to Ghana and live with bucket showers and winged worms but I can't live with my favorite cereal bowl and mug in the wrong cabinet.  Hey! My favorite cereal bowl and mug were in the wrong cabinet.  Do you hear? Woe to the person or person who try to hide my favorite cereal bowl and mug from me.  Woe.

I drove for the first time today in almost three weeks and did a good job.  I expected to feel weird but I didn't. I enjoyed the relative orderliness of the traffic. How people used turn signals, stayed in their lanes, and obeyed the speed limits.

I also remembered how to use the washing machine (after having to learn what "bucket laundry" is all about), the dishwasher, and my flat iron.  Even though I learned to live without them, I love having my appliances back.

Do you hear?

The Road to home goes through Heathrow: Oatmeal by any other name

London Heathrow is the most entertaining airport I've enjoyed.  Miles and miles of shopping and interesting food choices. You can buy Gucci and Prada at Heathrow, or a bagel, or visit Starbucks, like me.

In Ghana, I had the traditional Ghanaian breakfast of egg and bread almost every day.  After a 6-1/2 hour flight which was delightfully frigid, and still smarting over the disappointment of no oatmeal at Shugar's the previous morning, I was determined to find some oatmeal at Heathrow.  Oh, they call it porridge. Even at Starbucks.

After an hour of security screenings,  I found my faithful Starbucks just where I left it when I had flown through 19 days earlier, and I was thrilled to learn that they did indeed have porridge, honey and a decaf, no whip light cinnamon cappuccino ready in less than 5 minutes.  Tastes like home. How I savored my simple cardboard container of porridge.  I don't want to see an egg for awhile.

Heathrow is the intersection for a lot of travelers going to a lot of places, so there is the constant chatter of various languages permeating the air. The airport was quite cold and porridge was the common order, both at Starbucks and at the place next to it, Pet's Perfect Porridge.  I love that name.  But not as much as I loved the pre-loaded Starbucks card, you know. Anyway, my point is that people from many countries were enjoying their porridge, or whatever they called it...

Oatmeal
Porridge
Havernut
Farina
Zobena
zabpehely
Yulof

...while sitting the sun-soaked splendor and hearty air conditioning of Terminal A.

The road home goes through Kotoka Airport: Sir, I am a Princess!

I spoke a little too soon on the wonderful amenities of Kotoka Airport.

While the customs and check-in areas are fully air conditioned, and that was greatly appreciated after a 1-1/2 hour sweaty drive in  Accra's rush hour traffic with Bea's younger brother, the rest of the place isn't air conditioned at all. This change was most noticeable as I left the toilet paper and running-water free bathroom and went up to the first of many security checkpoints at Kotoka: the eye and fingerprint scan.  Picture about 300 crabby people in a cavernous, un-airconditioned hall waiting to have red and green lasers flashed into their corneas.  The only good thing about the 45-minute wait was that I met up with a man from India who I had stood behind in the customs line for 45 minutes. You know, before I declared my "clothes and stuff." He was friendly and funny, so we easily passed the time  waiting in a very disorganized line.

In the eye/fingerprint scan area, there was a well-dressed African woman standing several rows behind us who was complaining loudly. She wore a brightly-colored sash across her left shoulder which Bea had explained denotes coming from a chief's family.  The woman left the line and went straight to the Ghanaian Army guy at the front.  This was a bad idea. You know how security people are in airports.  Line jumping gets everyone all excited.  The army guy started yelling at her to get in line, which prompted this response, "Sir! I am a PRINCESS!"

The Indian man I mentioned, who was sweating so profusely, lost his cool, his calm, and his much-appreciated (by me) sense of humor. He also started yelling, "I do not care what kind of princess you ah. In dees airport you ah a passenger, jist like everybahdy else here-ah. Please get back in line you foolish woman." 

And then 2 other army guys came running out, grabbed our princess and made her go to the back of the line. And gave her dirty looks. She was quiet after that.  I think the AK47's across their shoulders had something to do her sudden subdued demeanor.

My issue at this checkpoint was that my pinky fingers are so short they could not reach up into the box where they are supposed to be scanned.  The army woman kept telling me to move up my finger, but because of the way the machine was made, I couldn't. A second army woman came over and tried to stretch my hand to get my dwarf pinky fingertip up to the box. I don't know if the army woman got the pinky fingerprints or not.  I think that, exasperated by the obruni's short fingers, and not wanting to bring in the guys with the AK47's again, she moved on, hoping that the princess ended up in a booth other than hers.  Dwarf pinky fingers, cranky princesses.  What a day at the office for the folks at this checkpoint.

I have never been to an airport where I've had to flash and ID 9 times between entry and leaving. And where there are no washrooms past the final checkpoint that gets you to your gate.  That last security guy eyed me suspiciously as I came back out, used the bathroom and bought what I knew would be my last Malt for awhile.

Then there was the matter of what to do with my leftover cedis.  I thought I might eat before I got on the plane, but I wasn't that hungry, so I purchased: a magnet, a key chain, that last malt, 2 large bottles of water, 2 Cadbury milk chocolate bars and...well, I hadn't had my daily ice cream bar yet.

At Kotoka Airport

I have to admit the Departures Terminal is better than the Arrivals Terminal.

1. It's air-conditioned.


2. The washrooms are almost normal. Almost. There was no toilet paper and no running water from the faucets.  I don't know why I expected there would be these little amenities. But I did.


It took 45 minutes to go through customs - to get to the front of the line, only to be greeted by a Ghanaian army woman who sayed "Aye, obruni - what do you have in your suitcases?"  Wow. I could have said anything.  Explosives. Aerosol cans. Liquor.  I said "Clothes and some other stuff."


And that was that.

I am preparing now to go through Security to get eye-scanned (again) and finger printed (again), and get my backpack x-rayed and myself x-rayed too.

More from Heathrow, where Blackberries work and bathroom faucets have running water.

The road to...home

The day did not exactly get off to a brilliant start, you know.

I awoke this morning to thunder, lightning and heavy rain at 7:00 a.m.  I didn't see much point in getting up, so I dozed for awhile and finally rolled out of bed around 9:30 to begin the process of getting home. Normally, I consider this to be scandalous, and in my normal life, I have lost the ability to sleep in this late unless I'm sick. Realizing that this is most decidedly not my normal life, I decided to cut myself some slack.

I thought the road home would best begin with a shower.  And I was thinking that with all that rain, the problematic "water pressure issue" that was interrupting running water at the Osaken Beach Resort would be corrected.

Pleased at the steady stream of water flowing from the shower, I decided to give my hair a good washing and lathered up. And shaved my legs. And washed my face.  And then, just like that (snap fingers), it was gone.  The water. Not even a trickle.

No problem, I thought.  I'll simply switch to the bucket-shower-method to rinse my extremely-lathered head. Sadly, there was no water in the lower faucet either, and that posed a problem for this shampoo-full obruni.  I grumbled about how I had spent 2 years growing my hair long, only to have it end like this - a bunch of split ends and a head full of shampoo.  You know, like all dressed up and no place to go.

Fortunately, once I stopped grumbling I remembered I had 1-1/2 bottles of water on the table in the room, and that's how I managed to rinse my hair.  I'm not saying it was a great rinse or even a good rinse. I'm just saying that, except for standing outside naked in the rain, I exercised my only option.  Just sayin'.

Once past that crisis, I knew the deserted and rain-soaked Osaken Beach Resort would not be an option for food for awhile. The rain stopped, so I decided to try the snack shop Bea's brother had recommended in a building down the street. Shugar's. That's Shugar's. With an H.

While people are expected to give extra money to everyone for everything in Ghana, waitresses are the exception. Tipping  the waitress just isn't something Ghanaians do. Service is slow because there's no real incentive to be fast. Customers grumble, the waitresses grumble back.  It's not a good system.

The "omelet, toast, cheese, grilled tomatoes, sausage, oatmeal and tea/coffee" breakfast sounded like the best of the two options.  Of course, as is common in Ghana, the restaurants are often out of a lot of the menu. So it was omelet, bread (toaster broken), no cheese, no tomatoes, no oatmeal (big disappointment), no coffee but tea (better anyway), and sausage = a hot dog.  I rarely eat hot dogs even at home, and I was certainly not going to try one here. 

The breakfast was OK.  A bit pricey at $5.50 cedis for all the options not available, but what's a hungry obruni gonna do. I reminded myself that I was not in Wa or Ho anymore.  Accra is an expensive city. Heck - Wa doesn't even have a place go for breakfast.

I came here, to the Vodaphone Internet Cafe to check in for my flights, but the online check-in keeps coming up "error on page."  So I will call them when I get back and perhaps try again later.

Hoping for just a few more travel mercies...

Jude's 12 compelling observations about Ghana

As my next-to-the-last day in Ghana winds down, I thought I would share some thoughts I recorded as I moved through various parts of the country.

1. Ghanaian  people are as friendly as advertised, and very pro-USA in particular.  And not just to promote tourism.  While other nations criticize the U.S. for our "involvement" overseas, Ghanaians like it. And they're not shy about sharing that.
2. Even as a woman traveling alone, I was warmly welcomed wherever I went and never felt threatened or like I was being eyed or anything like that. In fact, people seemed eager to go above and beyond to make sure the obruni was OK.
3. Ghanaians have an extreme gift-giving culture. On one hand, it can be endearing.  On the other hand, it can be annoying and frustrating.  People will give, but people also expect a little something just to get things done. Sometimes, people expect a lot of something.
4. Although I heard and read multiple warnings on this, no one on the street asked me for money or anything else. People wanted to sell me everything, however, from avocados to cheap rip-off dusty tupperware to smoked tilapia to Ghana coasters. Overpriced Ghana coasters.
5. The heat and humidity, at least this time of year, is unrelenting. I have been thirsty almost all the time and some days, I just can't drink enough water. Ghanaians love hot food - both in its spiciness and its temperature, and neither appeals to me when I'm bordering on heat exhaustion after searching a market at Noon for an spur-of-the-moment parent/teacher conference.  As uncomfortable as I was at times, I also realized it was relatively easy for me to buy water -- and that's not true for many Ghanaians. I don't know if native people simply are used to the heat, are used to drinking less water, or just suffer in silence because they have too.
6. The people in Accra seem to eat and drink pretty well and seeing this makes me think of the people of the Upper West -- particularly the children -- who don't eat well, or sometimes at all.
7. Littering is encouraged in Ghana. There are no garbage receptacles anywhere and certainly no recycling. Garbage is thrown in the open sewers on the side of the roads, or simply, wherever you happen to be.  In Wa, littering is encouraged because homeless children pick up trash in front of the merchant stalls in order earn a few pecawas for food.  I only witnessed this once and it was one of the occasions George asked me specifically not to take a photo. There are garbage trucks and weekly pickups scheduled but like everything here, "scheduled" doesn't have the same meaning as it does for us.
8. I didn't see a single mosquito or get a single bite.  Yes, I have taken my Malarone religiously anyway.
9. No snakes either. Plenty of goats, chickens, lizards, stray cats and dogs, a few sheep, pigs, 13 hippos, a Colobus monkey and a donkey. Oh and those flying worm rain forest thingies in Ho.
10. Muslims and Christians live side by side and it's no big deal. We can learn from them.
11. Plumbing rarely works as it should and no one thinks it's a big deal.  They can learn from us.
12. Bea is 53 years old - only 3-1/2 years older than me. George is 57. Both look at least 10 years older. Life is hard here.

The obruni's northern Ghana weird-looking tribal guy

It's a CARVING, not a real guy. Minds out of the gutter...minds out of the gutter...minds out of the gutter.

Hello from the Vodaphone Internet Cafe in Ushertown, Accra, where all the keyboard keys are in different places. So I apologize for the typos and unusual stuff you may find. And I can't upload photos either.

I've learned something about myself.  When I'm "on a mission" so to speak, I am tireless, complaint-free and nothing bothers me.  Once the mission is complete, however, that all changes.

The Osaken Beach Resort is nice enough but the heat and humidity are unbearable today for some reason.  My shower didn't work this morning...I can't find my phone charger.  It's all falling apart. Bea did come in by bus today. She brought my kente cloth purchases..well, some of them...and took me to the African Cultural Center to pick up a few souvenirs.  I was glad she came because that place is crazy for an obruni like me.  Haggling is the way it's done, my dear readers. And as I mentioned, I am the worst haggler ever. I just want to enter, locate, pay and leave.

The Cultural Center is a maze of merchant booths. After awhile - not too long of a while either - all the stuff looks alike and I can't remember what I liked where.  Bea is used to this and she was a little impatient with my indecision.  Finding a drum for my grandson was easy.  Finding other things...not so easy. 

After some time wandering, I found a large carving of guy who I like. He's a little goofy-looking but that's what I like about him. He has character.  70 Ghana cedis, says the merchant guy.  I was hot, I was tired, I was annoyed, and my water bottle had been empty for some time.  My obruni answer?

Me: "You're kidding, right?"

Guy: It's an antique! It's 180 years old! He thumps my tribal guy on the head.

Me: He LOOKS 180 years old. It's dirty.

Guy: I'll clean it for you. How much you give?

Me: 70 is too much. It's way too much.

(Bea, who had previously negotiated the drum purchase, beams with pride at her little obruni).

Guy: How about 60?

Me: What do you take me for? Some helpless obruni? (Of course, he doesn't know that I AM a helpless obruni...but I am faking it well right now.  I can get on a roll when I'm cranky. Especially when I feel like I'm getting ripped off.)

Guy: Ok. You tell me what you give and I take it.

Me:  $20.

Guy:  Oh no no no. This is 180 years old, Ma'am.

Me: And LOOKS EVERY DAY of 180! I'm going to have to polish it up when I get home and 20 cedis is all I can afford and still eat -- so 20 or I go home.  (Bea is bursting her buttons with pride.)

Guy: Ok ok. You a nice lady. But don't tell anybody.

He cleans and bags my northern Ghana weird-looking tribal guy.

Bea said she has never seen a white person get a merchant down so far. I tell her that I've learned well from watching her!  We walk a mile back to the hotel in the hot sun with my northern Ghana weird-looking tribal guy (the CARVING, not a real guy!), and have lunch by the ocean.

So the moral of this story is this: If you are ever in Accra, and venture out to the African Cultural Center, the guy at the wood carving stall, 3 stalls down from the woven picture stall, and just to the right of the ebony stall, will come down quite a bit. 

But you didn't hear it from me.

By the time I get to Phoenix I said "no thanks"

Greetings from Accra. Yay! The last "Road to..."

So, you may remember that one of my difficulties with Ghana is "the agenda thing." The lack of ability to make and stick to a plan. I don't know if I've mentioned it.

When I last left you, I was wasting away in Ho missing many buses.  I finally did catch the 2:00 p.m. bus.  These Metro Mass Transit buses don't leave until they are full; so "2:00 bus" is a bit misleading.  It was more like the "3:15 bus."  The "3:15 not-air-conditioned-and-not-many-people-speak-English-and-only-obruni-on-the bus" bus. Thank God it was cloudy today...otherwise it would have been like riding in a toaster.

We missed all those buses because, frankly, George is a big time putzer.  He's a lovely, dedicated, honest, driven awesome guy but...CRIKEY, as my friend Heidi might say.  We left the house in time to make the Noon bus, in theory.  However, after George stopped at the market for bread and still more papayas, stopped to drop off papers and talk to people at an office, and STOPPED FOR A HAIRCUT, the Noon bus was long gone and the 2:00 bus was the last bus outta Dodge. I had the distinct feeling he was trying to make me miss the last bus.  But it's only a feeling.

The bad news is that it's 10:51 p.m. here and I still don't know if Bea is joining me tomorrow.  The good news is she sent her brother Van to pick me up at the bus station and deliver me to my beachside destination, The Rising Phoenix.  Owned by a guy named Phoenix.  But I bet that's not his real name. And then there was more bad news.

It was dark by the time we reached "The Rising Phoenix" hotel.  It doesn't really rise anywhere that I could see, by the way.  Long dark stone walkways, creepy-looking people in the restaurant and bar, a creepy room with a fan that didn't work and a shower that was basically a drip -- and an even extra creepier owner. Yes. Phoenix.  He's Irish and kind of lecherous. Or at least he seemed lecherous.  The room was scandalous. Both Van and I disapproved. I was now at Van's mercy. An obruni alone in Accra with no hotel reservation. Awesome.

Fortunately, Van knew of a couple of other beachside resort-y places where he'd eaten before so we tried both of those before negotiating a deal with the Osakan Beach Resort.  Even in the dark it was nice, and run by an accommodating man named Maxwell who said, "You are no longer a tourist, Miss Judy. You are a member of our family!".  Hey! Phoenix! You can learn from this guy Maxwell!

The stairs are stone are uneven, but the people are nice and the creepy-factor is low to non-existent. And they had ice cream bars and giant bottles of ice cold water. I took 2. That bus drive was long and washroom-free, so I went light on the water and was seriously dehydrated by the time I got to Accra.

Once I was settled I wanted to buy Van and his wife Mabel a drink or some dinner, but they refused and insisted on buying ME something to drink and eat.   So, I had a dinner of a giant bottled water and a banana ice cream bar. Yummy! Not exactly "dinner of champions" but it still hit the spot.

I can hear the ocean crashing on the shore and will take photos and upload them tomorrow.

I have both the ocean and a GREAT Internet connection here in Accra!

Wasting away in Ho

If you haven't picked up on this, Ho is not exactly Margaritaville.

Because of what I not-so-affectionately refer to as the "agenda thing"  the plans we made last night for Bea to accompany me to Accra today have fallen by the wayside.  In fact, George tried to talk me into staying in Ho one more day, but I insisted on leaving for Accra today. The loosey-goosey nature of things makes me want to just be in Accra a little in advance so that I'm there for my flight and have some time to look around. One more day in Ho could easily lead to another one after that, and before you know it I'm running through Kotoka Airport leaping over luggage and people to get to my gate on time. 

So while I sit here waiting for my ride to the bus station...still undetermined...to get a bus...time of bus undetermined...I've been catching up on email, uploading some photos to Facebook and wishing I had a margarita...or one of those raspberry martinis I enjoy so much.

So, my devoted readers, do you think that today is, "American today" or "Ghanaian today"??

Stay tuned for the answer.

Hopefully, I'll write from the oceanside this evening.

Final thoughts on Ho, Wa and getting things done

You may wonder what I'm doing in Ho relating to the child support program.  The frustrating answer is "nothing."  And tomorrow will be the last road of this journey. The road back to Accra.

Bea and I will take the Metro Mass bus at Noon (that's the plan anyway).

George and I planned to arrange photos of the children and get color copies made, but his "day job" took priority today and so I'm not sure that will happen before I leave. I had time to write up some additional notes today, so I felt some accomplishment there. I have tried to get George to give me some written information - cost estimates for various projects, etc. - but his mind is in many places at once and he clearly doesn't multitask well.  Or at all.

African people readily admit that they have a hard time planning in advance. No one calls before they visit, and when they visit you are expected to drop everything and be a good host/hostess. Plans are not made more than 24 hours in advance and THAT'S if you've got an obruni like me breathing down your neck wanting answers. Since George was gone from here for 2 weeks, everyone is clamoring for his attention now that he's back.  Me too! I'm trying to be nice while reminding him that tomorrow is my last morning in Ho and that things will happen quicker if I take this information with me.

Dry desolation and desperation of Segyere, just south of Wa

George asked me tonight if I saw differences in the "environments" of Wa and Ho.  While the people of Ho are clearly not wealthy, everyone here seems not-quite-so desperate as the people of the Upper West. Children are better dressed here. Children look healthier, and actually play here. Children smile easily here. Fathers openly hold and hug their children. Families go places together.

Lush countryside just outside Ho

Some of the differences are cultural. The Upper West has more Muslims and they have different views of women than some other things.  Christian or Muslim, the people of the Upper West and Upper East regions are different from most Ghanaians. They historically come from the Chad area. They look different, eat different, act different. Not making a judgment -- just reporting. Just different.

Some of the differences are environmental.  The sad fact is that the Sahara is advancing on the Upper West and Upper East regions of Ghana. Perhaps this is part of natural climate change, and perhaps because of global warming.  But I can tell you that the people of the Upper West are making the Sahara's march a lot easier and a lot quicker. Deforestation is a problem. Rampant deforestation done to clear farmland that people can't farm because they don't have enough water, or the right machines or the knowledge. Or sometimes because children are running the household. Deep problems causing other deep problems.

In Ho, deforestation is a problem too, but so far the rains have been plentiful and everything stays green. Corn that is barely 6 wilted inches high around Wa is already 6 FEET high and feeding people in Ho. When parents abandon their children, when husbands abandon their families to come south to find work, places like Ho are where they're landing.  At least there's food.

George and Bea both complain bitterly that Africans don't take care of each other and that is evident in the Upper West.  It's very man and woman for him/herself there.  I'm sure it seems to them that it has to be that way.  And areas such a Volta, where food is more plentiful, don't help to support their brothers and sisters in the Upper West.  Whether it is a practical issue of poor distribution channels or a subtle form of  discrimination against an ethnically different people, I don't know.  Whether the government is helping the schools and children of the Upper West last because they are the farthest or because they are different, I don't know. As I said, the problems are deep.

Doesn't make any of it right, though.

The Ho Museum and taxi tales

The second place that TG2 (TrustyGhana Guidebook for those who missed my last post) recommended was the Ho Museum. I love museums and it appeared I had the time.  George is back at work today and the only information I got about the day was that Bea would arrive "maybe in the afternoon" and we would set about the day's agenda from there.  Not wanting to spend the day in my room, eating goat or staring at the pool I have no swimsuit for, I decided to take a taxi to the museum.

The clerk at the hotel desk warned me to not pay more that 50 pecawas for a taxi ride...anywhere. So when I got to the Ho Museum and the driver asked for $4 cedis, I handed him $1 cedi. He objected, as I was getting out of the car and I told him I had already doubled the going rate...and I wished him a good day.  And then ran into the museum like you've never seen me run when it's 100 degrees...or any other time.

The Ho Museum was a little...underwhelming. For $3 cedis you get in. For $4 cedis you can take pictures. They had some interesting "decision chairs" used by various chiefs.  These Absumi chairs are where the chief sits to decide important cases.  The word "Absumi" means "chief's decision is final."

Stools are meaningful gifts in this part of Ghana going back centuries.  They are all in the likeness of animals and each stool has special significance. The stool below is a "hyena stool" and means "nothing ventured nothing gained." A hyena stool is often given to someone who you are hoping will join you in a business venture. This one is about 400 years old though.


Hyena stool

While waiting for a taxi I noticed a batik shop next door where I stopped to browse...and bought a shirt for my son. The owner and I spoke about taxis and she sharply criticized me for giving my first taxi driver 1 cedi. I joked that I am NOT a good haggler...and that it was OK.  Obeison. Obeison. It is fine. It is fine.

When I finally found a taxi outside Vegus Batiks, the next driver wanted to charge me $1 cedi and I said "obeison."  But it was market day, remember? Traffic was terrible, people were jaywalking all over.  So when we got back to the hotel he asked for $2 cedis "because of heavy traffic."  And I gave it to him. Without haggling.

Haggling is fine sometimes, but no one's getting fat here in the Volta Region. If an extra cedi here and there helps feed the family then it helps feed  the family. It's only cedis.  Can't take it with me. No, really -- I CAN'T take them with me...and sometimes the Forex at the airport closes in the evening on purpose so that departing passengers can't change their cedis back to dollars.

The last thing displayed at the Ho Museum was the throne of the emperors of German Togoland, the small country next door now called "Togo."  Everyone here asks me if I'm German by the way. But perhaps I could fake it, and since we're so close to Togo, how do you like this??

The Obruni treks to Lady Volta

My Trusty Ghana Guidebook and I have become very close; so close in fact that I now refer to it as TG2.  TG2 freely admits that "there's not much notable to see in Ho." One of the two places recommended is Lady Volta, a shop affiliated with Village Exchange International Ghana.  Village Exchange is an NGO which works in partnership with Global Mamas to help improve the lives of women in poverty by teaching them new skills, or upgrading their skills in batik and beadwork so that their products are good enough to sell.

The map of Ho in TG2 shows my hotel and Lady Volta. Excellent!  Just down the road and to the left. So while I could have taken a taxi for 40 pecawas, I thought I'd just walk and "meet the people" along the way. How long could it take?  How far could it be? Besides the meet the people factor, I have mostly been driven everywhere in Ghana and felt the walk would do me good. An able-bodied obruni I am.

So off I went.

Beautiful downtown Ho

It was a nice walk, though hot.  The clouds and rain of the last 2 days have given way to sunny and humid conditions. It was also market day in Ho, so the sidewalk-less streets were jammed. I missed the "left" (what passes for a road in Ghana is amazing...). Fortunately when I reached the "T" junction, I knew I had gone too far (thanks to TG2 which, of course, I am studying while walking with a Voltic bottled water like a stereotypical obruni tourist).

I doubled back, found the correct road and made my way to Lady Volta, which was easy to find because TG2 smartly noted it was on the ground level of a building, and there aren't that many multi-level buildings around Ho. And it had a sign, that told you exactly what it was -- and that's not exactly common either. In fact, the streets here do not have names, nor do the ones in Wa.

Lady Volta is a nicely painted, cheerful place with a salesperson named Gift Odoku.  Gift was very helpful in explaining the different beads, where they come from, how they're made and, in some cases, their meaning.  So for example, says Gift, if you are buying for someone who has a good heart, you buy the oblong blue beads which signify "power of heart" and if you buy for someone who is close to you, you buy something with a certain pattern of beads close together and then you each where it.  It was mesmerizing to hear her talk about this.  And I don't believe she was trying to talk me into buying two of everything!

Of course, I was mesmerized until, out of the corner of my left eye, I spotted the thing that knew I could not leave Ghana without...a CARVED TURTLE.  Many of you know that I collect turtles. I buy one wherever I go, and I ask others to buy them if they're going somewhere exotic.  So, thanks to Kevin, I have a turtle from China. And thanks to Andy, I have a turtle from Brazil. And thanks to Candy, I have one from the Dominican Republic. And thanks to Patrick, I have a turtle from Florida who incidentally has 3 fins. And now I have my fairly-traded turtle from Ghana.


Gift writes up my order at Lady Volta

Contrary to what some of you may think, the turtle was NOT the real reason for this trip.

The Obruni goes to breakfast

Good morning!

I had a good night's sleep. In fact, I had a little too good night sleep and did not get up til 7:45 a.m.  This is the record for "sleep-in-edness" since I've been here in Ghana.  So I showered and dressed, then headed over the the hotel's restaurant for breakfast.

7:45 a.m. is late for everyone here, it seems. When I got to the restaurant the breakfast buffet - tea, fried eggs, bread, oatmeal and pineapple juice was gone.  Lesson learned.  Then again, I think that eating eggs that had been sitting out on a table since 6:00 a.m. wouldn't have been the best move anyway.  No warming trays, no nothing.

In looking over the menu, I decided my best move would be corn flakes and milk.

It is ironic to me that with all the cows and goats that people raise around here, people don't milk them. Milk is strictly Carnation canned milk.  Nestle is HUGE here, by the way.  But it wasn't the low fat or nonfat milk It was brown milk in a can.  So I had very Kelloggs-looking cornflakes with brown canned milk. It was not terrible.

The best part of the breakfast however was the South African soap opera, "Generations."  Now in its 14th year, "Generations" is a lot like our own All My Children or One Life to Live.  "Generations" is on a TV channel called "Africa Magic" which, as far as I can tell, is a lot like our cable channel, Lifetime, with programming geared mainly at women.

As I watched, I noticed that (1) people were dressed a lot better than any Ghanaians I've met and (2) the extremely orderly-looking highway traffic scenes that served as breaks in the program were definitely not shot in Ghana. I asked Vivienne my waitress if it was a Ghanaian program and she explained that it was South African.

Some of the cast of "Generations"

"Generations" has dramatic story lines that are very familiar:

1. Woman accepts engagement ring from rich, older man but has second thoughts about the boyfriend she's leaving behind. There may have been multiple left-behind boyfriends - I was having a hard time following that one.

2. Teenage girl is leaving house dressed in a way her father does not approve of. He feels she's shaming the family.

3. The struggles of step-families in African culture.

4. More than one man having an affair and getting caught by his wife. And wives.

Vivienne explained that the program is also controversial, at least in Ghana, by introducing story lines that involve:

1. A relationship between a Muslim man and a Christian woman.  Their families are neighbors and like each other socially, but both sides disapprove of the marriage.

2. A gay couple.

3. The social struggles of an albino man and the rewards that come to people who treat him like anyone else. In many parts of Africa, albinos are killed because of the belief that their body parts are useful for medicine or, in some parts of Africa, just because they look different than other black Africans.

No one tips in Ghana but I left Vivienne 50 pecawas (like our cents) for her time and patience in explaining "Generations: to me over my corn flakes. I was late and the restaurant had cleared out by the time I got there - so she had the time. But Vivienne displayed great patience in explaining the backstory of just about every scene.

She's a fan, by the way!

Hostile hostels and watch for the chicken on the road to Ho

So, yeah. About that hostel...this morning the view outside was good at least!

When you've been on the road for 13 hours, and it's dark when you arrive to your destination, and you're exhausted, and starting to not feel all that well...a room's a room. And a bed's a bed.

I am usually a laid-back traveler and I'm not the kind of person who expects the place I visit to be just like home.

But, as my high school friend, Sharon Morgan Cecil remarked..."Ew.:"

On our travels yesterday we stopped at a delightful "rest stop"  on the road.  Lots of food, lots of buses stop here. Good people-watching. Kind of like an outdoor food court where you eat under a big thatched roof.  Lots of ambiance, and ambiance is in short supply in Ghana from what I've seen. It was too hot to eat the traditional Fufu - a soup covering ground yam and casava with chicken, so I had the chicken with fried rice.  It was good.  Really good. I ate all the chicken and half the rice. Virgin finished it off.

But by about 9:00 p.m. it was gradually becoming oh, not-so-good. And each time I used the facilities, the situation and the room looked worse.  It's a hostel - so no top sheets and - may I quote again? - "Ew" I didn't like what I found under the sheet that loosely covered the mattress. The bathroom leaked and pooled water attracted these strange rain foresty insects that looked like worms with wings.  Downing Imodium and a Cipro, I vowed that if I was going to be laid up in bed, it would NOT be here. I vowed and vowed as more of those flying worm thingies gathered in the bathroom.

Personal note: I just want to mention that the hostel wasn't my idea. Do you hear me? Not. My. Fault. George insisted on "putting me up" somewhere since his Government house near Ho did not have running water at the moment. Doing without running water would've been a piece of cake compared to this joint. And calling it a 'joint" is wrong - that's an insult to all the little "joints" I've come to love.

In the morning, I took out my Ghana guide book and located a hotel in the middle of Ho called the Bob Coffie Hotel - The rooms have sheets! Towels! Air conditioning.  A small fridge. All for 40 Ghana cedis.  OH, and that includes breakfast.  Sold!

I don't think Virgin was too happy moving my stuff again but he was in good humor, at least to my face.

Later, George had me over to his house nearby in Kpetoe and we made lunch together, though I limited myself to one small piece of chicken, a little white rice and a Malt.  Love that Malt.  And needed it at one point where I felt like I was going to pass out. In Ghana, it is impolite to refuse food; George seemed put off by my eating so little. I explained that I wasn't feeling well, but was hoping to feel better, and that chicken stew that road in the back of a pickup for 13 hours was probably not a good idea for me (or for anyone else, but that "refrigeration optional" thing is the prevailing attitude among Ghanaians).

The day ended by visiting the Kente cloth weavers in Kpetoe to see how my orders were coming: 2 pastor stolls and a scarf. George suggested we do this because the weaver (also named George) is prone to confusion. Bea and I will pick these things up Tuesday morning before heading to Accra for the last leg of this journey.

Negotiating what's right: The art of social welfare

In Ghana, government organizations have a practice of giving their employees shirts with certain slogans on them.  But the other day was the first time I saw curtains. Of course I couldn't ask this government employee to let me take a picture of his curtains, so the above photo is the best I could do. I thought the title sums up how things get done around here.

In the U.S. we think of public service, public agencies as more of a...science -- wouldn't you say? There are set channels and set protocols. There are manuals for how to get things done.

Ghana has protocols, too, but they sometimes change..depending.

For example, George is helping an American friend finalize the adoption of his Ghanaian-born daughter.  Getting Faith home from Ghana wasn't so bad, but the two-year "interim" period is over, and it's time to make this thing permanent.  Some complications have arisen such as: the original attorney died.  The 2nd newly appointed attorney died.  The original judge died.  In Ghana, that's like starting over from scratch.

There is ONE attorney in the Upper West region, named Mr. Abou. (A-BOO). But you should know that because I kind of dislike him, in my head (and so far only in my head), I call him Mr. A-Boo-Boo.  I just can't help it.  Mr. Abou is really busy, being the only attorney in the Upper West.  So his method of getting cases through the system and representing clients can be summed up as "the more you give the more you get."

Mr. Abou is a young man who, at least to me, seemed disinterested and condescending. He was "A-Boo-Boo" to me after about 10 minutes with the guy.  When asked how quickly he thought this case could be brought before the judge, Mr. A-Boo-Boo pointed to the stack of files in the box on his desk.

"Two-three months if her file goes to the bottom," said Mr. Abou.

Then he removed his glasses and said, "Much shorter with an envelope!"  And we're not talking about jonesing for office supplies here.

On the way home, George explained that that's the way Ghana is and that's the reason we had a beer with the Bishop of the Wa Catholic Diocese the other evening:

I kid you not.

The Bishop of Wa can help us send used clothing to the children in the schools and not because he's a some kind of shipping wizard, owns a Fed Ex/Kinkos or because he's planning to pray for us.  The Bishop of Wa is good friends with the Regional Minister of Transportation and can influence him to allow George to receive the clothing duty-free.

But only if we succeeded in the "art" involved.

Hi Ho - The road to Ho, or, the woman who would not stare at goats

After experiencing both a water outtage and a power outtage yesterday, I felt today had to be a better day.

On the 13 HOUR drive from Wa to Ho, I had to do something to amuse myself.  So I dozed some, munched on some peanuts, and then as we were driving into Ho after all that time on the road, came up with a really bad parody of "Hi Ho" from Snow White that recounts our adventures today.  I think I'll spare you that. It'll make be giggle all night though.

Again, I want to reassure everyone that it all came out OK...for most of the participants involved.

The way to Ho begins with "Accra Road" - the road that will take you from Wa to Accra.  When you get about 2 hours from Accra, you hang a left on "Ho Road" - the road that will take you to Ho and many towns along the way.

Even though it is Saturday, traffic was terrible, especially around Kumasi. After experiencing Kumasi only twice, I can still confidently say that Kumasi has the worst traffic in Ghana. Worse than Accra. It took us an hour just to get through Kumasi.  There were a lot of trucks on the road (the kind with no pollution controls and a lot of people walking alongside the road. Saturdays are the traditional day for funerals, so lots of funeral-goers clogging up the road in EVERY town. Some in these long black "mourning robes" looking scary.

I didn't realize that Ho was in the mountains, so the road to Ho is also a climb into a rain forest.  It's beautiful, but a little scary with narrow, twisting and turning roads. Like Western Pennsylvania with people walking alongside taking up half a lane carrying bowls of plantain, bananas, mangos and coconuts. Virgin was dedicated to the cause of bringing some food home. You see, he lives around Ho. So we made many stops for yam, mangos, more mangos, bananas, plantain, even more bananas...well you get the idea.  This is one of the EIGHT fruit stands we visited:

There are goats wandering all over Ghana's roadsides it seems and just when I was astounded at how few goats we saw roaming around the Volta Region, one popped out of the bush and...well, what can I say? Virgin killed his first goat. At least he says it's his first. I have to say that I kind of figured this would happen.  But then Virgin and George had to stop and get out of the truck to look. I declined.  Not much to look at when a goat gets a fender in the head at about 90 mph. Hopefully Madame Goat will feed someone.

So, I am staying at what is basically a teacher's dormitory for the universities here in Ho.  It's basic but clean and will be OK for three days. George is going to take me on a little tour of the Volta Region tomorrow and Bea and I will go to the Kente weaving village before we leave for Accra on Tuesday.

Breakfast without Bea...and without water

Today is our one Bea-free day at home in Wa.

Bea left at 3:45 a.m. to catch a bus to Banga to attend a family funeral.  She will meet us in Ho on Monday.  I told her I would be happy to make breakfast this morning, especially since Bea shared that George is fairly useless in the kitchen. Also, George and Bea have been so nice, it's the least I could do to make sure George was fed for a day.

I can certainly make breakfast but I woke up to find a couple of challenges.  First, George had 2 guests over in the morning to review estimates for the future Upperwest Science Academy. 3 guests, if you include Virgin. So it wasn't breakfast for 2, it was breakfast for 5.  Second, the water tank had run out so there was no running water. The water man couldn't come until at least evening.

George and I putzed around the kitchen trying to find stuff.  I actually tried to do this myself while George was outside, but most of the cabinets were locked, I couldn't figure out how to turn on the gas, couldn't find the bread, couldn't find plates. Wow. Other than than, this making-breakfast thing was going swimmingly!  Women out there - you know how it is trying to work in another woman's kitchen?   This was much worse. I thought long and hard about walking up the road to the little store/shack where I distinctly remembered seeing overpriced boxes of corn flakes and bottles of soy milk.  At this point, I would have GLADLY paid C$8 for box of corn flakes, threw on some soy milk and called it a day!

But George came in and we managed to gather everything. He pointed out the unrefrigerated guinea fowl eggs designated by Bea for breakfast. At that point I pictured the look on my mother-in-law Jean's face as I considered cooking unrefrigerated eggs. I don't know why.

The traditional Ghanaian breakfast is "omelet" with bread and tea.  That's it.  Any variation is considered inferior.  Any additions to the omelet - onions, tomatoes, green pepper - is considered a special breakfast. Bea was apologetic the days we had plantain for breakfast. You can imagine how corn flakes and soy milk would be received by a group of hungry Ghanaian guys.

Now, I don't make great omelets at home...I don't flip them very well even in an omelet pan, but I had to act like I wasn't some kind of helpless obruni.  I missed my home spatula, by the way. I missed that little guy a LOT. Oh, plastic non-stick spatula, I will never take you for granted again!

So it started like this:

I managed to do the "flip" better than I do at home...

And it all ended looking pretty much like traditional Ghanaian breakfast.

And here's the menfolk enjoying breakfast under the mango tree...

Augustyn, Virgin, Adams and George chowing down on my omelet.

After breakfast I left the guys to talk and did the dishes using the tried and true "three pot method" with clean water from a drum in the kitchen, kept for running-water-free situations just like this.  But there were only 2 containers for this so I made do...

The men liked the breakfast (or at least they said they did). They seemed to eat heartily and licked their fingers. So either it was really good or they were a bunch of hungry guys.

But really -- Corn Flakes. They're not just for Americans, guys.

And I believe the best thing Bea did for us before she left was to boil a bunch of fresh peanuts.  These may be dinner. They are AWESOME by the way.  Nothing like Planters.

Bea's fresh boiled peanuts

We're leaving for Ho at 5:00 a.m. tomorrow morning. This is a 10-12 hour drive. You better believe these are coming with us.

Talk to you from Ho!

Cynthia's story

Like a lot of girls in Ghana, Cynthia is between a rock and a hard place.

Here she is:

Cynthia is 10 years old.  Her mother died when she was an infant, and she was raised primarily by her grandfather.  At some point her father remarried and moved to Techema, which is about 100 km away.  After he moved away, no one heard from him.

About 3 months ago, Cynthia's father came for a surprise visit. He wanted to take Cynthia back to Techema with him.  His wife just had their 4th child and they were looking for a babysitter.  10-year old Cynthia would do nicely.

Cynthia's grandfather was upset and went to the school to bring back the head teacher, Cecilia, begging her to talk to Cynthia's father.  Cecilia told the man that Cynthia's education was supported by people from the U.S.A. and that if he took her, she would lose that support. She also stated that he had to at least allow Cynthia to finish the school year. He argued back and Cecilia played her last card, saying that the grandfather was the child's guardian and only he could legally take Cynthia out of school before the end of the term.  Anything else would result in a fine. Of course, there is no such provision.  There is a law in Ghana that says primary education is compulsory, but it is not often enforced for a variety of reasons.

Cynthia's father bought her a pair of sandals and returned to Techema. (Personal comment: Well, at least she got a new pair of shoes out of this guy!)

Cynthia said she was happy to see her father but also very nervous.  She did not want to go to Techema to live with strangers. She didn't want to leave school or her grandfather.  She felt much better after her father left.  But the drama wasn't over.

Cynthia's aunt told the grandfather that, now that it looked like Cynthia would be around, she needed a helper around the house.  The aunt has her own seamstress shop in town and helps support Cynthia and her grandfather. Certainly, since Cynthia could read and write, she had enough schooling. It was time for Cynthia to stay at home and take care of the aunt. She wanted Cynthia to cook and help with the animals. (Personal comment: Dear Auntie, you really want a 10-year old cooking for you??) The head teacher said the aunt implied that if Cynthia stayed in school, she may withhold some of her support, although if she did this she would be shamed in her village for disrespecting an elder.

And a note on children cooking in developing countries.  In most of rural areas, cooking is done outdoors on an open fire.  It's dangerous even for adults and is many times fatal for children who have to cook meals. They are often burned. Many children develop lung ailments from inhaling all the smoke.

Cynthia's grandfather refused and, since he is the elder, the aunt had to listen to him, at least for now. The grandfather worries about Cynthia because he's old and frail.  When he dies, Cynthia will have no one but herself to advocate for her education.

Cynthia wants to stay in school. She is a good student.  She loves to read.  Her teacher lets her borrow books. He knows Cynthia values them and reads to her grandfather. And what's more, she taught him to read a little too, and write his name. She wanted to teach her aunt how to read because she felt it would help her in her business, but the aunt said there was no reason to learn since Cynthia could do all the reading for her.

Cynthia helps out with sewing on the weekends, but does NOT want to be seamstress like her aunt. She would like to be a teacher.

The Methodist School for the Blind

I wasn't able to take any photos for this entry.  George is sensitive about my recording sights that he considers "Ghana's shame."  And this is a good example.

There is a school for the blind in Wa which serves 200 children from 5 regions. Bea's good friend Mariam works there as a cook.  The other afternoon we stopped by to  pick up some guinea fowl Mariam had killed and cleaned for Bea.  Shortly after we got home, Bea received a call that the school's dining hall was burning.

If this wasn't bad enough, it was only 2 months ago that the boys dormitory burned. At the time, the boys were in the dining hall. After that first fire, they were housed, at least temporarily, in the dining hall.  They were all outside the building when the fire started, so fortunately no one was hurt or killed.

The few, the proud, the ridiculous.

In the category of "Really???", Wa does have a fire department. The fire department is government-run -- The Ghana National Fire Service -- and they are about 10 minutes from the Methodist School for the Blind. So they came, but when they arrived they reported that they had no water in their tank and had to go out and look for water.  As you can imagine, that took some time to get to a pond and fill the tank.  The fire service returned about an hour and a half later.  There wasn't much to do by then.

By the grace of God, all the children and staff survived both fires but this is a good example of the struggles developing nations face.  You implement a fire service, but training is so poor that your firemen can't understand why they need to keep the water tank full at all times.  Everyone is nonchalant about this.  Around here, expectations are always low...for just about everything.

Mariam was crying the when we stopped by the next morning.  Earlier on the day of the fire, she had taken many jugs of palm oil to the market to sell.  Mariam gathers palm leaves and has taught the students to extract the oil. The profits help support the school.  Since she had taken them to the market, she had just been paid and was planning to take the money to the bank the next morning.  All the money burned.  All her clothing burned, too. She said the only clothes she has were the ones she's wearing and they were dirty and smoky.

The layers of problems that are faced daily are overwhelming.  I am leaving Mariam two sets of my clothing so she at least has something. What I would like to do is go yell at the Ghana Fire Service.  Shoot. You're a FIRE service.  You put out FIRES with WATER.  Get the damn water in the tank, right?

2 sets of clothing is a small thing.  A very small thing. It's actually nothing.

Masodu's story

Another moment of comic relief.

Masodu is my new Ghanaian Muslim BFF. I just want to tell all the Ghanaian Muslim BFF-wannabe's out there that the job is taken.

Masodu - I can't even pronounce his last name, and won't even try spelling it.

Masodu is a Physics teacher at Wa Secondary School (WASEC). He was George's student when George taught there years ago. His last name begins with "A" and has 6 syllables that I was able to pick up on. I keep asking Masodu to say it slowly but, so far, he seems unable to do this.  So we leave it alone.

Masodu was born near Wa to a Muslim family.  He is the only son of his father's third wife.  Normally, that would be unlucky, but Masodu's father was a nice man who, according to Masodu, "loved and cared for all his wives and all his children."  Masodu's father lived with his primary wife but provided nicely for Masodu and his mother.  There was always food, money and "stuff", and Masodu' father insisted on enrolling all of his children in the best school possible.  At that time, the best school was the Presbyterian school. So off Masodu went, a Muslim in Presbyterian school. That's not so unusual here.

Masodu loved school from the very beginning and excelled. He won a lot of awards.  He won an academic scholarship to a boarding school in France, but turned it down because his mother was in poor health.  At WASEC, Masodu met George Guri and became his star pupil in Physics.  Masodu continued his education at the University in Accra and, after his mother died, pursued an advanced degree in Physics in France. When he came back to Ghana, Masodu decided he wanted to be a teacher and inspire students as George had inspired him, so he attended a 2-year teachers' training college in Hohoe.  That's a lot of education for a Ghanaian. You can tell Masodu lived in France. He started calling me "Madame." My efforts to get him to call me Judy have had so-so results. Some times I get "Madame Judy."

Masodu teaches at WASEC now and also part-time at a technical college. And he is a member of the Upper West Science Foundation. In fact, I can see that Masodu is George's "heir apparent" with the USF. George knows it. Masodu knows it. And they're both making sure I know it. Which is probably why Masodu goes just about everywhere with us, including the hippo sanctuary.  I believe that George believes that it's important that Masodu and I are friends.

At the hippo sanctuary, Masodu and I were the most adventurous and would have gladly gone closer to the hippos and were sorely disappointed when we didn't. It was Masodu who introduce me to "Malt" - a nonalcoholic drink that involves hops, sugar and malt - tastes kind of like a combination of flat root beer and cream soda.  It tastes good cold and, I believe, would be awesome over ice.  If anyone up here ever used ice. For anything. Ever. This may be for the best though since my Ghana guidebook warns against using ice here unless you make it yourself from purified water - you just don't know where the water came from. Most people don't seem to like ice cubes in their drinks.  I, on the other hand, would put ice in everything.

Masodu is a riot.  In the car the other day he complained about someone who was a bully in the office. 

Masodu: In the USA, how do you deal with such a bully in the office?
Me: Well, my manager, Kevin, slaps them down or tells me to slap them down.
Masodu (horrified look on face): Slap them?  YOU MEAN YOUR MANAGER ALLOWS YOU TO SLAP THEM IN THE FACE?
Me:  No, no, no. Slap 'em down. Make them be quiet. Tell them to stop their bad behavior in whatever way they can understand.

Masodu laughed so hard he snorted his malt. Then he laughed some more.
We spent a solid 1/2 hour after that coming up with ways that Masodu could 'slap 'em down.' We would have had more time if Masodu could have stopped laughing.

Masodu loves learning different words so I have been explaining words like "dork" and "quirky", "boo-boo" and "grubbage" among others. I carry bags of almonds with me on all our travels because sometimes food is a little scarce, so I said, "Masodu, would you like some grubbage?" on the way back from the hippo sanctuary.  And thus began a 20-minute discussion of what constitutes grubbage and what doesn't.

Masodu is passionate about the USF and their work here.  He is so enthusiastic about everything, as well as a lot of fun.  He has fully dedicated himself to making the future Upperwest Science Academy a reality and to getting students, especially girls, interested in science and technology.

Masodu is delighted that I'm teaching him American slang. He really likes American slang. Really really. And I like that I'm leaving my Ghanaian Muslim BFF here to slap 'em down.

To Lawra and back again

Today wrapped up two days in Lawra, a one-horse town about 2 hours north of Wa.  It would be a one-horse town if there was one horse. I didn't actually see any horses, but plenty of goats, pigs, chickens and one monkey on the way back today.  Oh, and a donkey. So it's a one-donkey town.

Wa is pretty cosmopolitan compared to Lawra. The people of Lawra are mostly peasant farmers. Here, peasant farming means maybe you keep a bag of corn for your family at the end of the harvest. Then again, maybe not.

Our first school was Kuoli

Kuoli is "extreme rural schooling." It is surrounded by miles of...nothing.

Luckily for Kuoli, their head teacher, Alphonsina is extremely dedicated.  Also lucky for Kuoli is that they are part of the UN World Food Programme school feeding program and can provide lunch to students 5 days per week.  At Kuoli, this program results in higher-than-average attendance. And higher than average cooperation from parents.

At Kuoli I heard the backgrounds of all the kids we support. When you know what your life is like and then hear what their lives are like, gifts of a few pens and pencils seem almost ridiculous. But you have to remember that no one gives these kids gifts and many parents can't or won't buy them pens or pencils.  Besides that, driving through Lawra I could not readily spot any stall (no stores in the Upper West, just merchant stalls that line the roads) that sold pens or pencils. And you have to remember the faces of the child support kids at Kuoli:

Childen supported at Kuoli Primary. To my left is the head teacher, Alphosina with Virgin next to her.

After 2 hours in the hot sun at Kuoli, we continued down the road to Yikpee Primary. I was looking forward to Yikpee the most because we support the most kids at Yikpee and their head teacher, Cecilia Aeliyama is the most responsive of all our head teachers.

Yikpee Primary: You can tell there's a blueprint for constructing Ghanaian schools.

The office was stifling so we moved outside to meet with children under the trees next to the KG "classroom."

We met individually with each student to emphasize the importance of attending school.  Fortunately, we didn't have to chase after any parents today, though one Aunt did come to us.  She helps with Yikpee's lunchtime feeding program so that she herself can eat.  Of the 15 primary schools in the Lawra district, only TWO have a feeding program.

After meeting with the student, they were each measured for their uniforms for the coming year:

The faces of Yikpee:

We decided to take a different road back to Wa, so that George could stop and see his Uncle Favo who has been in poor health.  Uncle Favo gave us some bags of cold water and went on and on about his medicine and after looking at George (and getting a look from George) slipped Uncle Favo C$10 for his medicine.

Money. Can't take it with you.  Unlike the memories of the faces of Kuoli and Yikpee.

The way things are: Joyce's story

An open letter to my faith family and a partial accounting of your financial support:

Dear faith family,

Hi. How are you doing?  I want to take a moment to thank you for your support of my trip to Wa. I want you to meet Joyce...

Joyce: By the time they get to age 10 or so, these children rarely smile.

and want to show you how I spent C$25 today. Here's me spending it:

Joyce wants to be a nurse very badly. But she's only "average" in school. Joyce gets lower marks because she doesn't do her home work or study.  It's not that she's busy with sports or Girl Scouts, plays too much XBox, or spends too much time at the mall. It's not that she's rebellious or she doesn't like homework. She loves it, actually.

When I asked Joyce what stood between her and becoming a nurse she openly wept. Once her head teacher got her to stop crying, and told her "be a strong woman, Joyce!" I learned Joyce's story.

Joyce's father was a hard-working man who took good care of his family.  But he was killed in a construction accident a when Joyce was 6 years old.  Now, Joyce's mother takes care of her and Joyce's brother Bartholomew on her own.  Her job is this: She buys charcoal, fava beans and yams on credit, and then walks through the market selling them for the original person at a higher price.  She gets to keep the profits.  So you can imagine that the longer and farther you go around selling this stuff, the more you sell and the more income potential you have.

Joyce told me that when she has homework she can't do it because her mother forces her to help her sell these things in the market until about 10 p.m.  So Joyce goes to school all day, walks to the market, puts a basket of stuff on her head and walks through the streets of Wa. She gets home at 11 p.m. and is exhausted.  When she tells her mother she needs to stay home and study, her mother tells her that, if she studies, Joyce can "eat her books for supper." So Joyce's choices are study or eat.

When George heard this he became very angry and put Joyce and the head teacher in the truck with us to hunt down Joyce's mother at the Wa market.  You remember I told you that it's not good to be a parent on George's wrong side?  OK then.

It was 111 degrees today and we were supposed to be indoors (as Virgin pointed out rather crabbily) but we were out in the vast Wa market to meet with this woman, whose stall was at the farthest corner of the market.  Figures.

Long story short, my faith family, Joyce's mother received a stern talk from George and, in true Ghanaian fashion, said that she could try to give Joyce some nights off from her market gig. She said this with her hand out, palm up and her fingers wiggling.  You get it.

So I said, "Would C$25 give Joyce some nights off for sure?"  Well, faith family, of course it would. At this family's level of poverty, 25 bucks will give Joyce a lot of things.

George then told her that he would personally check up on Joyce and her homework situation and make sure that she granted Joyce time to study, or he would come, talk to the man she was working for, destroy her credit and get the Nadala's 25 bucks back.

So, I hope you will approve in our "investment" in Joyce's future - you know, the Ghanaian way!

Sincerely,

Judy

The way things are: At Mangu

I am convinced that there is no way to keep an agenda in Ghana.  I call it "the agenda thing." You can have one, but your day never quite turns out as it is supposed to due to various factors.  Loosey Goosey as they say.  A person just has to get used to it. And other than my new use for clumps of bushes and the hot, humid weather, this is the aspect of Ghanaian life that I struggle with the most.

Today, we were supposed to visit some administrators to pay our respects, but they all were at last-minute meetings.  Or, were they "meetings"? Some meetings here are excuses to do other stuff. But this is a G-rated blog.

So, we began the day visiting the Mangu School, just outside Wa.


Mangu Primary School, Mangu-Wa


If you're thinking that Mangu looks a little less...decrepit...than the schools up in Lawra, you're right. 

Mangu Primary used to be run by the Catholic Mission and was called St. Cecilia's.  However, the mission abandoned this school and its name was changed to its district's name - Mangu.

In Ghana, a religious organization can "adopt" a public school, provide some basic needs for the school and name it whatever it wants. Thus, in Wa we have the Presbyterian School, the Methodist School for the Blind, and Islamic School and an Assembly of God school.  Religious doctrine is NOT part of the curriculum.

Anyway, Mangu was the pilot program for the church's child support in the Upper West with 3 students: Agnes, Joyce and Joseph.  We stopped by so I could meet them, talk to them about their dreams and what obstacles blocked their way to a better future.

First of all, these kids have grown so much that I barely recognized them from their original pictures.  Second, they are all doing well academically - Joseph, in particular.  Joyce is lagging a bit behind but you'll meet her (and her mother) up close and personal in another entry.  Agnes is just darling.  At age 10, she is the most outspoken of the three.  Joseph wants to be a doctor, as does Agnes.  Joyce wants to be a nurse.

Here are L to R, Agnes, Joyce and Joseph with me and their head teacher:

L to R back: Lucy Denbo, Mangu's head teacher (principal), me
Front: Agnes, Joyce and Joseph



It took a few minutes to round up Agnes, Joyce and Joseph so we did what is becoming my favorite part of visiting these schools: visiting the kindergarten (KGs).  The KGs love me, I'll admit it.  At Mangu, the KGs have already started learning English and can stand and greet visitors in English. They are very formal about their greetings. Except today's "Good morning Sir and Madam" was followed by "Nadala!"  Again. How embarrassing. Their teacher tried to Ssshh them but it was Nadala-this and Nadala-that. And no, I don't know what the "this" and "that" meant.

When we left the room, the some KG kids followed us out.

Some Mangu KG kids: The one in front is Rose.

The girl in front is Rose, who is NOT shy and has plenty of confidence for a 6-year old.  And beads. She twirls them around and around. Rose did not want to go back into her room.

And these P1 boys were very interested in our truck and could not stop waving to me. When I would wave back, they would get all bashful and start giggling.

There was a bit of an intervention -- Ghanaian style -- with Joyce's mother and then it was off to have a beer with the Bishop of Wa. He is a big supporter of the Upper West Science Foundation. This was supposed to be just a meet n' greet at his office, but he wanted to go out for a beer. So we did. It's the lack-of-an-agenda thing!

Me, George and the Bishop of Wa

Virgin's story

Caught your attention, did I?

So, you are wondering, who's Virgin?  Jude never mentioned "Virgin" before.

Good catch.  I KNEW everyone was paying attention!

For some desperately-needed comic relief, I'll tell Virgin's story.

George's driver is named Dominic.



Our driver for my visit: Dominic AKA Virgin

 Funny story: When George picked me up in Accra, he introduced me to his driver, Dominic.  As we drove, George kept saying what sounded like "Vegan" when he referred to Dominic or spoke to him.  So there's me, new to Ghana and struggling to understand people, and I'm thinking that George is explaining that Dominic is a vegan. Cool.

Two days later, George and Masodu were joking with Dominic having to "defend his virginity." Masodu, a devout Muslim, was doubled over with laughter and said, "You understand? We are asking him to defend his virginity so we call him 'Virgin.' At this point, Masodu is laughing so hard that tears are streaming down his face.

Hahahahahahahahaha. Joke's on me. Dominic is NOT a vegan. In fact, I've never seen anyone down a beef kebab quite like him.  I wouldn't touch beef in Ghana for any amount of money, but the way.  But back to the story.

I didn't understand about that nickname and didn't want to ask.  And didn't want to know, frankly.

So, now I call him Virgin, too. I don't get it, Virgin knows I don't get it, but everyone else seem to think I do. It's Virgin's and my secret.  He seems to like me anyway, at least most of the time. Our only conflicts come when I try to make Virgin a participant.

Virgin is a driver.  He is a servant, basically. So when he picks us up in the morning, Bea will make him breakfast but he eats outside or in the truck. His job is "driver" not participant. And he seems content with this. Except I feel really bad for Virgin sitting out in the truck all time, so I try to get him involved.

Virgin helped distribute things at the schools by carrying stuff, and then I had him help me distribute to the kids. He seemed to like that, and George seemed to be OK with it. But Virgin's finest hour was definitely at the Weichau Hippo Sanctuary.

Virgin was content to stay in the truck.  He said he didn't like boats or water or care about hippos. He was extremely helpful in locating a clump of bushes where I could...you know...do what had to be done when it needed to be done, but after that, it was clear he was done with being a participant.

Virgin: I'm in the truck.
Me: Oh, come on Virgin. You can't sit out here in the heat for 2 hours. Come on with us and see the hippos with us. I can't believe you've lived in Ghana all your life and never seen them. They're national treasures.
Virgin: I can't swim.
Me: We're not SWIMMING with the hippos, Virgin. Here's a life jacket.  I already paid for you. Let's go.

So off we went. Virgin was happy to be the last one in the boat, since having the three of us already in there steadied it somewhat. He enjoyed most of the trip, except for the leak in the boat, which worried him a lot.
OK, it kind of worried all 4 of us a lot.

On the way back to Wa, Virgin was in a good mood, which is not easy when you're George's driver, by the way. He said he never imagined he would ever go out on the Upper Volta in a boat or touch trees whose roots were in Burkina Faso.

I laughed and said, "And you thought you'd just be driving me around."  We all laughed, including Masodu who again was doubled over with laughter.

Stick with me, Virgin. I'll take you places.