updates

So it's actually really shameful how long its been since I've posted. In the midst of everything in Africa I totally left y'all hanging, not to mention things since then (although, admittedly, almost everything that's happened to me that's worth talking about happened in Africa). So I'm sorry. To close off the post that I hinted at, but never wrote, let me say:

I did go to Sodom and Gomorrah the next day with Michelle. It was crazy, but it was actually not as bad as I had imagined - although, the day I went it didn't rain. Apparently on days when it rains the whole damn place floods. And there's fires all the time that burn down half the shantytown because there's no running water so nothing to put out the fire. Everyone there was super nice to us, just like everyone else in Ghana, but a few years ago I guess Bono visited Sodom and Gomorrah, but no one knew it was Bono and then they found out after he left and realized they could have been a little more hospitable; they had just treated him like anybody else. So it is quite possible that they thought I was a movie star or something, but my suspicion is that they would have been nice to me anyways. I interviewed some people to write an article for my paper (through a translator - hardly anybody there speaks English), but as some of us know, that article never got written. I didn't have enough material for my story, I wanted to interview somebody from Slumdwellers International, the group that provided our guides and stuff... but the next week when I was going to do that I came down with (cue scary music) MALARIA.

Yep, I had malaria. In spite of the probably cancer-causing amounts of toxic DEET I applied to myself, I still got it... oh well. Bound to happen. Anyways, it wasn't nearly as bad as you might imagine because I knew that's what it was... my friend Sheena had already had it and I knew the symptoms. So I went to the hospital the morning after I got a fever and aches and all that jazz, waited around for 6 hours on a bench feeling like I was going to puke, all in order to get my blood tested, and finally somebody was like, "You have malaria."

Upon which announcement we went to a drug store and I bought malaria medicine over the counter. Which was, you know, a little frustrating. Malaria medication is only $10 though, which goes to show how poor people are if they can't afford that. I agree that we need to find a cure for malaria, but this might be a while coming... and in the mean time we should just be able to treat it in everyone when it comes along. Yeah, old people and children are more susceptible, and there's the odd young person that dies from it just because they waited too long to get treated. But honestly, since I got it treated right away, it really wasn't that intense of a thing. I stayed mostly in bed for a few days and by day 3 of treatment, I was able to go out... which was great, because it was our last night in Ghana with the whole crew, and I wouldn't have missed that even for my health.

After, of course, Michelle and Josh and Emily F*%$#@!& Doerr (so named by us because of her incredible ability to be awesome and badass in any possible scenario) headed off on a grand adventure through countries we probably shouldn't have gone to. Everywhere we went was amazing, totally different from Ghana... and I loved all of it. Well, not the part where I got food poisoning in Mali, or the part where we thought we were going to be accosted by Ivoirienne soldiers, or the part where we saw cheetah skins and monkey heads being sold in the voudou market in Togo, but just about everything else. And boy was I glad that I took all those years of le French! Vrai important for all of us. There are too many stories to tell here, I could write a book, but the important thing is that we had an awesome time, didn't get robbed, celebrated Ivoirienne independance day in a bar called Mexico with some drug dealers (?), swam at the most beautiful pool in Africa (Novotel hotel in Abidjian) with some creepy oil barons who bought us $100 champagne, made friends with a wonderful Ivoirien man named "Smiley" (kind of), went to the rehearsal dinnerish thing of a Malian wedding, laid on the floor and stared at the ceiling fan a lot, saw the cutest baby in the world, made chili out of some meat that had been sitting in a 100 degree market all day covered in flies, almost missed a plane because we couldn't find the earrings I wanted, got blessed by a fetish (voudou) priest and got his business card, and celebrated Michelle's 25th birthday with a hefty amount of pizza and wine. Not to mention yelling our way through a situation where I had to bribe a soldier in French, yelling at Toureg salesmen that would not leave us alone, yelling our way into an airport, yelling at some travel agents that we weren't going to pay them, yelling at a taxi driver that took all the money when we accidentally paid him twice, and a lot of other yelling, mostly at each other but always with love. One thing I learned in Africa is that being forward is not only expected but absolutely necessary for your survival. None of the yelling was taken personally, I promise... that's just how people do things there. In a lot of ways I think its healthier... wayyyy less passive aggressiveness.

And now I will talk about something not related to Africa for once, because God knows I could do that for the rest of my life.

I am about to embark on another wonderful adventure with some travel buddies that are two of the greatest people I know. Argentina and Uruguay, here I come! I really have no idea what to expect... so I guess we'll see. I'm totally a spoiled brat, I know, two new continents in 8 months... but I couldn't resist. If it helps, I'll owe money on this trip for years! Whoops... but I think it will be worth it. How often do I have the chance to travel around South America, where I have wanted to go all my life, with my best friend? Not many chances. And it doesn't hurt that she speaks Spanish, since I don't - ha! Anyways, I think I will have lots more good stories to tell when I return from that, so chin up, folks.

paradise way

So, as usual, many remarkable things have happened since I have last posted. Among them:

-attending Stars of the Future, the Ghanaian version of American Idol, where it was gospel night and fans booed every time a judge criticized anyone
-going to a crazy nightclub named Makumba wherein some level of debauchery definitely occurred... although I, of course, was not involved at all... :)
-saying goodbye to our illustrious leader, Leslie, and taking her to Wazoo
-playing hooky from work to clean the house, watch out for my friends and spend a lazy afternoon at a pool way too nice to be believed

But what I am choosing to tell you about is, I think, the most interesting... going to church.

My friend Josh, who works at Peace FM, a popular radio station which broadcasts almost exclusively in Twi (pronounced "chwee") language, has endeared himself to his coworkers and scored an invite to church on Sunday with his coworker Akua (pronounced, I think, "ah-kwi-yah"). That is actually not so hard to do here, as this country is pretty much obsessed with Jesus, and as Josh is Jewish, he is a pretty obvious target for conversion or what have you.

Anyways, I was eager to check out church here myself, seeing as I am pretty much obsessed with the exploration of religion in general, so I offered to join him.

After dragging ourselves unceremoniously out of bed to catch a series of tro-tros to a faraway part of Accra on Sunday morning, we found ourselves facing the usual problem: a situation that makes absolutely no sense.

We were set to meet Akua at the Blue Kiosk tro-tro stop, which mysteriously did not involve any kind of actual blue kiosk. There was a purple kiosk, which was labeled "Blue Kiosk," but it seemed that the name denoted the general area more than just a specific random nonexistent blue stand.

Then we waited for her to meet us (no one here is ever ever on time) for at least 20 minutes, probably a lot longer, and had almost given up when she pulled up in a taxi and we hopped in.

The church was called "Paradise Way" something something, and occupied a rather fantastic building, considering... we met Akua's sister, also named Akua... rather confusing but Ghanaian tribes tend to name their kids according to the day of the week they were born on and apparently both sisters were born on the same day of the week... bizarre. Anyways, Josh and I were most definitely the only white people for miles and probably also the only non-Christians for miles (Side-note: though Unity is technically Christian-affiliated, I definitely don't see myself fitting in that way... I suppose I am very loosely a Christian, but I wouldn't say that I was any more Christian than I am Hindu, Buddhist, Taoist, Muslim or what have you).

Anyways, the service already seems to be going. Lots of gospel-style choir singing in English and Twi, and lots of ladies in their finest Ghanaian dress. Lots of different pastors yelling excitedly about Bible verses and the importance of prayer. After some preachers yelled in English for a while, another would translate into Twi, although I think some stuff was lost in translation... the English-speaking guy would go on for 10 minutes and the Twi guy would only talk for one.

Josh and I, sandwiched in a row between the two Akuas, shot each other faces with different levels of surprise/shock expressed at what was occurring around us... at one point, a woman started wailing somewhere behind us and though I don't think Paradise Way was pentecostal the preacher did start shouting about the glory of Jesus flowing through her. Holy moly.

When hymns were being sung in Twi, the first Akua leaned over and whispered to Josh a summary of the meaning of the song. Then, Josh would lean over and repeat what she said to me, which always seemed overly simplified but we really didn't have any way to know otherwise. Most of them were descriptions like: "This is a song about how praying is important and God loves it when you pray" or "This is a song about how Jesus shows us the way" but one translation was alarming in a way the others weren't...

I stared at Josh incredulously as he slowly repeated what Akua had just matter-of-factly told him: "This is a song about how we used to have many gods here, with the traditional religions, but that these gods were false and we are so glad that the white man came and brought us the one true god."

Josh and I squeezed hands and pretended to accept this information unquestioningly, though I was actually feeling more guilty than I had since we visited the slave castles at Cape Coast. Not many people here seem to harbor resentment for white people, which really just accentuates the white guilt I feel sometimes.

Sometimes everyone got so into the hymns that everyone was dancing as well as singing along. There were balconies made to hold more people, but there wasn't really anyone up there but the ushers, and at one point I looked up to see two of them breaking it down to the rhythm of the choir. Fantastic!

At some point, they called all new attendees up to the front of the church to pray with them. Josh muttered something about how his grandmother was going to kill him, which just made me laugh. They didn't try to baptize us or anything, nothing too weird really... they did have us fill out forms about ourselves, which included a line for prayer requests... Josh's, of course, was "Ducks Victory."

After church was over, finally, three hours later (one hour of Jesus just ain't enough for these people), we piled outside where the Akuas invited us back to their house. An ice cream guy was right outside the church and amidst a crowd of eager children, Josh and I rather sheepishly bought FanChocos - frozen chocolate milk popsicles they sell for 40 pesewas (about 40 cents).

Akua from Peace FM was a sweetheart. We chatted on the way back to her house. I hadn't been invited to a Ghanaian's house before and it was a pretty exciting occasion.

She led us inside and introduced us to her mother. The house was pretty nice (relatively), and I was embarrassed to note how clean it was compared to our house here. There were two televisions in the living room and Akua turned one on to a channel with anime before going out to buy us some cookies and Cokes. She announced that her mother was making us kenke, a Ghanaian meal neither of us had tried yet.

We were there for hours and I honestly couldn't really tell you what we did. Akua came in and out of the room, we looked through some family photo albums, and waited as wafts of aroma floated in from the kitchen... and somehow stayed entertained otherwise. The kenke finally arrived - kenke itself is a maize (corn) concoction somewhat like a dry playdough. You don't eat it alone, though, you sort of mash it up (only using your right hand, of course) and use it to scoop up the accompanying sauce, which in this case was made of onion, chicken, goat, and some other things I would be hard-pressed to name. It was spicy and really really good, though Josh and I mostly skirted the goat. I tried it once early in the meal out of politeness and swore discreetly to Josh I'd never eat the stuff again. Later, however, feeling bad for leaving food on the plate ("we don't waste food!") and about how our hostess would feel about it, I tried again, with similar results, and finally gave up.

After we'd finished, Akua's mother thanked us for coming (we hadn't talked to her yet at all) and told us she was a prophetess. (Nothing surprises me anymore...) She told Josh that in his future he would be blessed with a lot of money and that he would use it to travel the world and also to help people, because he has a good heart. Then, haha, she looked at me and simply said my future is blessed.

More or less that was the end of the excursion that occupied the majority of Sunday. Talk about a cultural experience. I wish I had enough Sundays here to go to other churches around here and check them out, but I think I got at least one decent taste.

Tomorrow I'm heading to Sodom and Gomorrah, a really intense slum. I should have some stuff to say about that. It'll be my first independent article for the Observer, but don't worry anyone, I'm going with Michelle and a great guide.

TTFN

the internet is for blogs

Hello mes amis.

The internet, in some sort of miraculous fashion, is functioning at work today and I am taking advantage of it because there is nothing to do here and it is raining way way too hard for me to brave the outdoors and go to the nearby internet cafe (which may have the fastest and most reliable and cheapest internet I have yet to find here). Anyways, I wanted to include a couple references in case my blog doesn't keep you satisfied... Blogspot kind of confuses me and I don't have time to figure it out right now so I'm not putting up a blogroll, instead I'm just going to list a few friends' blogs you can read:

Josh, who is traveling with Michelle and I throughout West Africa after our official trip is over, and also is living in Ghana until February (?) of next year:
www.sweatpantsfreelance.blogspot.com

Katie, one of my two roommates at our house and the first person I have met in my life who shares my exact birthday of May 30, 1987:
www.katie-ghana.blogspot.com

Molly, who is almost, kind of my coworker because she works at the Crusading Guide, which shares an office with the Observer:
www.mollybedford.blogspot.com

Ryan, who does the best impression of a plantain seller I have ever seen:
www.ryanknutson.blogspot.com

I have more to say but just in case the internet fails I am going to post in sections so as not to lose too much...

the obruni experience: getting there is half the fun

Next Monday's column (July 21). Stuff in brackets will not appear in the actual column but I have added for you, my dear reader, who will probably appreciate it more than my Ghanaian audience:

Others have said it many times before, but I will say it again: life isn’t about the destination, it’s about the journey. Every day I spend in Ghana, I’m reminded of the truth in that old saying. My most memorable experiences here have all involved the unexpected and the unplanned.

Last weekend was no exception. The group of Americans I came to Ghana with took a trip to Mole National Park. We had heard, of course, that the trip is long, dusty and possibly dangerous. We knew that we would spend more time traveling than actually experiencing Mole. But we also knew that going on a safari was a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity that we couldn’t pass up.

So on Saturday morning, after spending the night in Kumasi, we piled into our chartered bus again for the long trip to Mole. We had arranged to switch buses and drivers 60 km outside of the park, because the owner of our first chartered bus didn’t want it traveling down such bad roads.

After many long but comfortable hours on our nice Chinese bus, we arrived at the juncture where we were supposed to switch vehicles. Confused, we looked around. There were definitely no other buses in sight. Instead, a van pulled up and out stepped an excited-looking man wearing flashy sunglasses that would have been more fitting on a professional cyclist.

The man identified himself as Mr. Fatal, who was indeed the same ominously-named person who was supposed to take us to Mole. He started loading our things eagerly into the van, while a crowd of local children begged for change.

Mathematically, the group of 14 obronis, our Ghanaian guide from Accra, Mr. Fatal and the driver should not have been able to fit into the van with all of our luggage. But by some form of obviously ancient Ghanaian magic, we did it. I was jammed into the very backseat with three of my friends.

The van had windows, but they didn’t open. The air conditioning in the van functioned so poorly that in the very back we could not feel it at all. Within minutes, the four of us in the last row were drenched in sweat. Outside the car, red dust swirled as though we were trekking across the surface of Mars.

Then the van idled to a halt. The driver and Mr. Fatal debated something loudly in Twi before opening the doors to let us out. Stepping out into the searing equatorial sunlight felt like stepping into a freezer. I realized that the back seat of the van must have been 10 degrees warmer (that's Celsius, meaning approx 20 degrees warmer Fahrenheit) than it was outside.

Outside the car were several small children. These did not beg, however, they just stared at us, silent and expressionless, as we emerged thankfully from our oven on wheels. We must have looked ridiculous; pasty white intruders sopping with perspiration, led by a bizarrely enthusiastic Ghanaian wearing shades that challenged the very sun with its own reflection.

After trying fruitlessly and awkwardly to engage the children in conversation for quite some time, an older boy of about twelve gestured for us to follow him. Mr. Fatal and the driver ignored us and scuttled around on the ground under the van, trying to figure out what had caused the breakdown.

Accompanied by the small crowd of still-silent children, we stopped under the shady relief of a mango tree. Benches and chairs were produced as if conjured from the cool, sun-dappled air around us and we settled down to wait for our van to be fixed.

(Except for me, who by now had to pee very very badly. Through Sonny, our Ghanaian guide from Accra's interpretation, we told a village man that I needed a bathroom. Michelle and Sonny went with me.

I was led to a rather nice cement building and into a tiny room. I had been expecting something like this, except this was even more perplexing than I thought. A cement room with not even a hole in the ground - instead, a sort-of drain leading from the wall to the outside. But the way the ground was sloped, it would never drain.

I called Michelle over. Perplexed, we decided there had been a miscommunication. I hadn't wanted to change, I'd wanted to pee... but no, we asked Sonny, and this was it...

I really regretted asking for a toilet now. The field outside looked so much more appealing. I've already mastered "the hover" - I do not trust seat covers here - but peeing in a room with no drainage went against all of my instincts.

Semi-victoriously I emerged from the bathroom and then covered for Michelle while she did the sensible thing and used the field - never again asking for a toilet when there is a perfectly fine field, I'll tell you that. Then we tramped back to the mango tree where our friends had made some small progress with the locals.)

Two hours later, we had finally established some sort of rapport with our adorable but shy little hosts. Some of us were clustered close to the dirt, where we played a particularly competitive game of “Hangman,” an American spelling game we all remembered from primary school. Another group watched as some of the local girls drew pictures in the dirt with sticks and giggled amongst themselves.

After reaching the conclusion that the van had somehow lost most of its oil, Mr. Fatal and a mechanically-inclined member of our group (Nick) repaired the leak as best as they could before acquiring new oil for the engine from a nearby village. Back in business, we bid our small friends goodbye and sorted ourselves back into our seats.
The road was not as bumpy as expected. Cheered by our recent mango-tree break, my backseat comrades and I faced our tribulations with great heart. We began singing choruses of any and every song we could remember. (Jay-Z, Bob Dylan, The Beatles and Disney all featured prominently) As we sang, the car got hotter. The air got dustier. We sweated more and poured the remnants of our water bottles onto each other as we had seen elephants at watering holes do on the Discovery Channel in the same sweltering African heat.

Soon I realized that the back of the van was broken. The Martian dust was clearly getting in through the cracks in the back doors, and the backseat-dwellers formed the first line of defense. The others in my row looked increasingly orange as the minutes passed, and I realized that I too must be covered in a layer of sticky, sweaty red dust. Laughing at our ridiculous appearances, we swiped still more dust from the seat behind us and painted stripes on our faces like badges of honor.
When we finally arrived at the Mole Motel, the four of us in the backseat were nearly delirious. In the last few minutes I spent in the car I felt as though I would pass out from the heat. Then the driver threw the back doors of the van open and I felt the gloriously fresh air on my skin. I turned around and smiled at the driver, who stopped and stared at my new red complexion, before making a guilty expression and going to mutter something to Mr. Fatal. Apparently, the dust in the back was so bad not because the van’s doors were broken but because they were open, a possibility my friends and I had not considered when wondering at the magnificent (recreation of the American) dustbowl swirling in the backseat.

The view from the patio of the motel was spectacular. Instead of the endless dusty red of the road to Mole was the endless expanse of pristine green forests and ponds. The breathtaking beauty of my surroundings was enhanced by the promise of a dip in the pool and the ice-cold Club beer in my hand. The sun shone through the clouds as though heaven itself had opened up before me.

I understand now that Mole was so beautiful to me then not only because of its inherent splendor, but because of the experiences that led me to that moment.

We did see elephants the next day, as well as warthogs, baboons and antelope. Ask me what I remember of Mole in ten years, though, and I already know what I will imagine: an overheated van barreling down a rusty road, a mango tree shading our hospitable young companions, tears of laughter and beads of sweat running down the faces of my friends and one fabulous, jaw-dropping view of paradise that I will never, ever forget.

the obruni experience: the ups and downs of ghanaian transportation

Column from July 14:

At home in the United States, I am a nervous passenger. I don’t like riding in cars with people whose driving I do not trust, or riding in cars that look like they are about to break down. If I feel unsafe in a car or bus, I might even ask the driver to stop and let me out, because I would rather walk.

I have a feeling that when I return to the U.S., I won’t be bothered by this problem anymore. Over these last few weeks, I have learned to trust in the skills of other drivers, however erratic and maniacal they may seem to me.

It is astonishing to me that there are not more crashes here. A Ghanaian explained to me that since everyone here drives crazily, it’s more important to pay attention to the road – so everyone does. Perplexing to me, because I’m used to traffic police enforcing the many laws of the road, but I suppose it’s each to their own.

Riding tro-tros and taking taxis in Ghana has been a less stressful transition than I would have expected, especially given my uneasiness in the passenger seat. Although the popular methods of transport here are very different from what I’m used to at home, I don’t feel like it’s any more difficult to get around. If anything, I think I might actually say that I prefer the Ghanaian system.

As a thrifty college student, I was happy to discover how cheap it is to get around in Accra. In America, I only take taxis when I have no other option. Taxis in the U.S. charge a standard rate based on how far you want to go, and this charge adds up very quickly. In Ghana, you will never pay more than you are willing to pay for a cab, because you agree on the price with the driver beforehand.

However, some taxis here are in poor shape. The most alarming problem with this is the lack of seatbelts. Research has shown over and over that traffic accidents result in more deaths when the people involved were not wearing safety belts. I would imagine that traffic fatalities would drop in Ghana if drivers fixed and used their safety belts.

What bothers me most about the taxi situation in Ghana, though, is the inability of many cab drivers to reach a destination. Most drivers seem to only know where they are going by the instruction of the passenger. This is extremely inconvenient for an outsider like myself, which is why my chosen mode of Ghanaian transport is the local way: the tro-tro.

Tro-tros, which are unlike any mode of transportation in the U.S., didn’t look reliable to me when I first arrived. The concept of an old, dirty van rollicking along bumpy, dusty roads packed full of people didn’t rally much confidence in my skeptical obroni head.

But once I figured out how to get where I wanted to go on them, I was delighted. For one thing, they’re incredibly cheap. I find it hard to believe that such cheap rates are even possible, given the rising cost of petrol.

Like taxis, tro-tros lack seatbelts, but this doesn’t worry me as much. In tro-tros, I reason, everyone is packed too tightly most of the time for a seatbelt to even make a difference in a crash. At least that’s what I like to think – my logic could be completely off base.

As I mentioned, tro-tros are much more reliable than taxis at reaching their destinations, which is my favorite feature of “the Tro,” as my American friends sometimes call it.

Also, the Tro comes along incredibly quickly. In the U.S., I often wait half an hour for a bus. Though buses in my country are scheduled for certain times, which makes them predictable, it’s never fun to realize that you’ve just missed a bus that won’t run again for another 30 minutes. Tro-tros are like a constant stream of ants pouring from a multitude of anthills. As long as you know what anthill you’re trying to reach, there’s never a time when you won’t be able to find another tro-tro.

Though getting around in Accra was intimidating for the first week, I think I have the system down now. It’s easier, cheaper, and even safer than I expected – although if you were to sit next to while bumping down a particularly rough stretch of Ghanaian road, you could probably still hear me whimpering quietly to myself about traffic laws.

photos

I'm too lazy to post pictures in multiple places, but I have been making Facebook albums. You can check them out at these links:

http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169464&l=f7182&id=11511714
http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2169843&l=bdf1a&id=11511714

I'll continue to add pictures as I go. I'll try to keep including the links in this thing.

Ciao!

the obruni experience: an outsider's view of american politics in ghana

So I've got a column in my paper. It should be coming out on Mondays. It's called "The Obroni Experience" (the editor only gave me five minutes to come up with the name; I thought I did pretty well at it... anyways, this is my first column that should be in next Monday's paper:

On my first day in Ghana, I had heard a local band engage the crowd in an enthusiastic chant: “When I say Barack, you say Obama... Barack!”

“Obama!”

“Barack!”

“Obama!”

By my third day in Ghana, several hawkers had tried to sell me “Obama” bracelets. On my fifth day I spent in this lovely country, I heard the Obama song playing on the radio.

I never expected to see a foreign candidate get so much attention in a country thousands of miles away.

As far as I have seen, it seems that the Obama fever here eclipses even the energy behind this year’s Ghanaian presidential elections.

Where are the Akufo-Addo bracelets? I wonder. Where are the Prof. Mills songs?

These are questions that perhaps only Ghanaians are able to answer... but still, I have my theories.

At first, I assumed the charismatic leader received so much attention here because he is the first black candidate to really have a chance in an American presidential election.

However, I have heard that when Bill Clinton visited Ghana a few years ago, he caused a lot of excitement, too.

This leads me to believe that the attention paid to Obama here is not because of his skin colour alone, but because of the attention Obama pays to Africa, a continent that is so often unjustly ignored by Western politicians.

Of course, Obama’s race and the attention he pays to Africa may be inextricable explanations for his popularity. It is undoubtedly because of his African heritage that Obama gives this continent so much attention.

Whatever the reasons may be for his popularity here, I am proud to come from the same country as Barack Obama. The world needs more leaders that understand and care about countries other than their own.

An American friend of mine staying with me in Ghana said that he thinks Obama’s popularity here is just more proof that the 2008 presidential hopeful lives up to his campaign slogan, “Change We Can Believe In.”

I only hope that the man that has inspired both Americans and Ghanaians can fulfil all of our expectations.

first day of work at the ghanaian observer

It’s been a while, but I’ve been busy…

Anyways, on the first day of my internship, Monday, I was asked to come in today at 9:30/10 am. When I got here, though, there was only one other person in the office, Hilda, who I hadn’t met. Then she told me there was nothing for me to do here, so I asked to use the internet, but for some reason it isn’t working and I’m not going to push it. I can always check Facebook/email/update this blog at a later date.

No one here seems to be aware that I was coming. When I arrived here on Monday, the editor, who technically hired me, asked me how long I was working here (!!!) “So you are here for a year? Or six months?”

Nononono… “Only five weeks,” I responded… (internally: “Aaaaah!! Why am I here!?!”)

Seriously, though, Monday was one of the most intense days I have ever experienced.

The Ghanaian Observer, where I am interning, is a small paper: seven people on staff. Maybe more though, whoever told me that might just have meant reporters…

Anyways, good ol’ Dr. Williams dropped Nick, Scot, Molly and I off at our internships. Molly’s paper, the Crusading Guide, is housed in the same building as mine – and when I say “housed in the same building” I mean a little one-story deal crammed with computers and fans and grimy brightblue painted walls and a general air of organizational chaos (stacks of file folders, old papers, cords, and when I checked under a desk today to find a power outlet, a few old, empty bottles of 7up and Guinness).

But when we arrived at our building, no one was there and it was locked up… mind you, this is at 11 am… Doc called several people until one says he is coming, one of my supervisors, Mr. Lartey. He got there maybe 40 minutes later. I’m starting to understand that that’s how things get done here.

Anyways, he let Molly and I in and Doc left. We chatted a bit, a couple other people arrived, then Mr. Lartey told me that I was going to go cover an event at the hospital later and gave me his phone to contact the woman I’d be meeting there, Esther, who I assumed would be the reporter I’d be accompanying. I was a little surprised to be sent on an assignment on the first day… it had been my assumption that I would simply be meeting people and hanging out at the office. But I wasn’t about to say no to my first journalistic opportunity!

So around 1:15, I asked one of the women in the office, Leticia, how I should get to Korle-bu Hospital, where I was meeting Esther at two. She said there was no way to get there by tro-tro on time so I should get a cab. We went outside and flagged one down, and she proceeded to bargain for a good price (no metered cabs here, it’s all done by pre-arranged agreement between cabbie and passenger). Just as I am about to get in the cab I asked her what Esther looked like.

“Esther? You mean Cynthia? We have no Esther that works here.”

Uh-oh. We went back inside. Mr. Lartey then explained that Esther is some kind of press aide to the NPP presidential candidate, Nana Akufo-Addo, who will be at the hospital. Bottom line: they were going to send me on an assignment BY MYSELF. To a place I have NEVER BEEN. To cover something about a PRESIDENTIAL CANDIDATE that I knew NOTHING about.

I shot Molly, Leticia and Mr. Lartey such a look of complete terror and shock that Mr. Lartey furrowed his brow and asked me if I would like to be accompanied.

“Yes, please, that would be wonderful, you know, I am just a little intimidated, it’s my first day…”

Obviously an understatement!

So Cynthia arrived and we went together, with two reporters from other papers that are housed right next to the Observer and the Guide. They chattered in Twi and sauntered along (We are late, I thought, why are we dawdling?!). Though I have introduced myself, I don’t think they remember it. Instead, they called me Oburoni whenever they (rarely) felt the need to include me in the conversation, at which points they switched to English.

This might be a good time to mention that Cynthia is the most beautiful Ghanaian woman I have seen yet, and was dressed impeccably. I was wearing the most professional internship outfit that I brought and felt like an A-class slob next to her.

So we caught a tro-tro, which took us to the downtown Accra station. At this point – 2:30 - Cynthia began to show some concern about the time. She called ol’ Esther, who told her that nothing had started yet. Still, the other women decided that we’d better catch a taxi to the hospital from there, rather than catching a different tro-tro

When we got to the hospital it was nearing three and nothing had happened yet. Media and loud NPP supporters were gathered about in clusters; the NPP people shouting chants about Addo.

I stuck close to Cynthia, who was mingling with various reporters. Then, Addo and some 20 different government officials arrived. Suddenly we were all ushered into the press room of the hospital, where opening remarks were made. I was definitely the youngest person there. And the only white person. I was one of the last to get into the room, so my seat was behind Addo, who was being filmed and photographed everywhichway… I was probably on television and in the papers, a shining beacon of whiteness overshadowing the short, round, chocolate presence of the possible future president of Ghana.

After some political mishmash, only a third of which I think I might have understood (though I took copious, furious notes), we were led on a tour of the hospital; Addo leading the way. The first ward we visited was the children’s ward. From what I could tell we were in the room where the sickest of the sick children were. To get in Cynthia waved her press pass, I waved my notebook like it was a press pass, and I was dragged through security by Cynthia’s hand. (How the hell would I have done this by myself?? I wondered.)

The room was full of single beds, and little, toddler-sized ones. There were mothers everywhere, and just a few nurses. This room was meant to hold 15 children, we were told, and it is now holding 52. Single beds had three or four children to a bed. Most all of them were lying silently, sedately with various tubes leading into and out from them. A few were crying uncontrollably in their mother’s arms. I felt like crying. None of the other journalists paid attention; all eyes were on Addo. I smiled unconvincingly at the children who were awake and they stared. No happy smiles and cries of “Oburoni, oburoni!” from these ones.

I threw myself closer to Addo to avoid thinking about my other surroundings. Cynthia asked questions as I furiously wrote the answers. She pulled out her cell phone and started to take pictures with it. Suddenly, I understood why the pictures in my paper are so ridiculously bad. So I pulled out my (average, inexpensive, digital) camera and offered to take pictures, and Cynthia’s face lit up like Christmas. Suddenly I was the obnoxious journalist in the movies, pushing my way to the front. Addo gave me a few sideways glances, like, why’s this crazy oburoni girl all up in my face, but the shameless white movie journalist could not be stopped, at least until her camera battery died in the middle of the photo shoot.

So then we were ushered out of that room, in and out of corridors, stairways and hallways. I saw one white girl about my age, probably a patient, and nearly grabbed her arm, but composed myself. I had never felt like more of an outsider/imposter. Hell, I have never even reported before! No professional experience and here I was with a huge crowd of black reporters, parliamentarians, and about a zillion nurses and patients and randos swarming around the third-largest hospital in Africa.

We tour a few places, mostly uninteresting, then pop into the maternity ward.

(At this point in my blog I stopped writing. Molly and I decided to go get lunch. It turned into an hour and a half thing. It’s now quarter to two and still only Hilda is here. Am I even going to work at all today or just blog? Molly hasn’t done anything but read her book since she got here… )

Anyway, continuing: So we go into the maternity ward, where of course there were many women in various stages of labour. Most of them were just sort of lying around on their sides, I guess in the early stages. Addo went up to one of them and started chatting animatedly. Two beds over there is a woman SERIOUSLY in labour, who keeps yelling at the nurses to close the curtains around her bed. Meanwhile some thirty journalists and officials are crowded around this one woman and Addo… is this not weird to anyone else? Noooooo. Just the oburoni is left standing awkwardly at the back trying to figure out what to do. (Can you imagine being in a similar situation with McCain or Obama? I still can’t believe I was standing so close to a presidential candidate, nevermind that other madness!).

Anyway, things got more normal from there… another little press conference thing and we were free to go. Cynthia asked me if I wanted to keep along with her or go back to the office. I was tired and hungry, and it was five, so I said I’d go back to the office and write the preliminary article, which she would edit later. Miraculously, I figured out how to tro-tro it back to the office by myself. Then it was getting dark. I spent an hour writing the story, figured it was decent enough to leave for Cynthia to work on, and left –by taxi, I was too tired to brave the tro-tro.

In today’s paper my name was on the article, with Cynthia’s. They hadn’t used the pictures because I didn’t get to an internet café in time to email them for deadline (and the internet at my office never works anyways, as I found out later). And maybe there were five words of my story in Cynthia’s. But I got my very first byline. And it’s a start.

various ghanaian things

So much happens here that I don’t even know where to begin. After skipping two days of blogging I feel like I’m weeks behind.

I guess I can start with today and work backwards.

Today we met at the University of Ghana (which is a 20 minute walk from our house) and listened to a couple people speak to us about the media in Ghana. It was interesting, but we were all kind of drowsy from last night (which I’ll get to later) and a lot of what they talked about we had heard before… Ken was falling asleep across the table from me and I was struggling to maintain any level of concentration.

Then Leslie gave us a little tour of UG’s School of Communication: the little library and the school’s radio station headquarters. I think the plan was just to pop in to RadioUnivers to check it out, but the man who was running the thing in there got really excited to have visitors so it turned into more than that. There were a few people sort of hanging around in there already, but this guy insisted that we all come in and sit down. Then he proceeded to give us an oral history of the station. We all sort of sat there smiling dumbly as he explained the name of the station. “Univers is short for University. We drop the i, t, and y and you have Univers. Not Universe like the planetary configurations, or stars, you see.”

Then he introduced us to this guy who had been sitting on the side smiling as well. He had a rather fixed expression, and I have to admit, I’d been kind of staring at him this whole time, trying to figure out what was strange about him. I think the kid’s name was Soma, or something like that. Then I felt bad when I realized that he was blind. His show was on next, so RadioUnivers man insists we join them in the broadcast room. So there’s 14 oburonis and these two guys in there, and Soma starts his show.

He has a great radio voice, this guy… he knew what he was doing, too. Confident. The first song he plays is “Candle in the Wind” (or maybe that was the guy right before him?). Then something else cheesy, then Celine Dion (for how much music I’ve heard since I arrived, Celine Dion seems to amount to a disproportionate amount of it) and then Vanessa Williams. (“Did you know she was Miss America?” Soma asked us.) Soma dedicates Vanessa Williams to us, “the Oregon University students from US of A.” Then he conducts a short interview with us, live on air (How long have we been in Ghana? What are our impressions? Have we tried any Ghanaian food yet?) , or rather, with Molly, Nick and Josh, who handled themselves very nicely. Lots of medase’s. I don’t know how to spell that but medase means thank you in Twi, the main language around here.

Anyways, I’ve never had an experience quite like that at RadioUnivers. I can’t even explain how awkward it was, although thankfully the Ghanaians didn’t seem to notice. Some of us couldn’t help giggling at the musical selections, and honestly I’m surprised that no one did notice and get offended – thank God.

Then we went to Bonjour, the fast food place across the street from UG. Chicken Inn, Pizza Inn, and Creamy Inn (ice cream, and, seemingly, booze) all housed under one roof! We knew that Tuesdays at Pizza Inn were not to be missed. “Terrific Tuesdays” mean double the pizza for the same price. So we bought four and got eight, and eleven of us devoured seven of the pizzas – we were huuungry. Pizza here is better than you might expect.

That’s pretty much it for today so far. It’s kinda overcast, though, and it’s probably only about 75 degrees… which is AMAZING after the rest of the weather this week.

Sooo, let’s see, yesterday:

Leslie and “Doc” (Dr. Michael Williams) gave us a tour of Accra, which is enormous: 4.5 million people. And scratch what I said before about nobody living in huts/shacks – that’s our rich suburb, although when I got here it didn’t seem rich. After yesterday, it does. We drove past huge shantytown neighborhoods that smelled terrible, and past slightly nicer shantytown neighborhoods that smelled slightly less terrible… and, for the most part, didn’t see any houses anywhere near as nice as ours… and even though the water pressure at our house is miserable, thank God we have it: 80% of Accra doesn’t even have running water. I have pictures of some of this stuff, which hopefully I can put up here.

In the Muslim neighborhood we drove past, a pack of kids was so excited to see our bus that they ran next to it for a while. “Oburoni! Oburoni oburoni!” All we have to do is smile and wave and they completely lose their beans. It’d be so easy to start a television show for kids here: just hire some white people to smile into a camera. The kids are honestly so cute though. I think every one of us has said at least on one occasion that they want to take some home with them.

We went to a craft market: think Eugene’s Saturday Market, except most stalls carry nearly the same thing. I haven’t gotten used to the bargaining thing yet, and I’m a sucker. I know that these people need my money more than I do so it’s hard for me to be mad even if they are overcharging me. I’m getting better at it though, although not better at not buying things. They sell a lot of beautiful things. My favorite is a silver pendant I got with an Adinkra symbol on it. Adinkra symbols are from the Ga people (I believe – perhaps the Akan, I don’t really have my tribes straight at all) and they used to go mostly on funeral stuff – shawls and things. Now they use them on a lot of stuff, sort of just culturally dominant. Most of them seem to be religious – and Ghanaians have integrated them into their new religious traditions: Christianity and Islam. The pendant I got means “God’s tree” and it connotes something like dependence and reverence to God, which I like quite a bit. I just really like the idea of “God’s tree,” it’s a really nice sounding metaphor.

Then we stayed up laaaate. Investigated the weird local bar across the street, Wazuu, where alcohol is cheap and the bartender is approximately fourteen. Thus the tiredness today.

Ciao for now…

chez ghana

Something is not agreeing with me this morning. I’m slightly nauseous. I can think of several possible reasons for this:

A) A) I have accidentally ingested some tap water and it is coming back to haunt me.

B) B) The oatmeal I had for breakfast was too heavy.

C) C) The Ghanaian “bitters” I drank last night was a Bad Choice… sort of a whisky-rum thing, but really strong… the main reason I even bought it was because the label said it “promotes vitality… ESPECIALLY in men” which I thought was hilarious.

D) D) The heat, which makes me feel like my skin is melting off (I’m already at least one shade darker, it’s only been two days, and I really haven’t even been in the sun much).

E) E) All of the above.

Ah, well. I’m drinking a lot of (clean) water to try and flush this thing out, whatever it is. I have to be ready to go soon, for the excitement of the day commences at 2: we have managed to acquire 13 tickets to a World Cup soccer match: Ghana Blackstars vs. Gabon’s team. The game doesn’t start til 5 but we want to try for decent seats. I know next to nothing about soccer but Ghanaians get so excited about it that it’s contagious.

The last two members of our group, Scot and Josh, arrived last night and we went yet again to Chez Afrique. Some Ghanaian man pulled me onto the dance floor, which was fine… until a couple other guys appeared out of nowhere and wanted to dance all close within seconds of their appearance. Ahh! I just pulled away and probably looked really awkward and they kinda got the message. The funny thing was, Ken was dancing nearby with some other Ghanaian guys who were also trying to dance all closey-close with him. Ken was really laid back about it; probably less awkward than me. Kind of weird. Apparently that kind of thing isn’t an indication of homosexuality here at all, and is totally culturally acceptable. Cool, I guess, I just haven’t adjusted yet.

I think that’s it for now. I need to just lounge for a bit to get past this nasty nausea thing.

akwaaba

After a long lapse in blog entries, mostly because I felt like my life wasn’t interesting enough for a blog and because I was too busy with school to even think about a blog, I am going to resume posting things, because both of these assumptions seem to be incorrect at the moment.

Because, A), I am not in school, not really, and B), because I am spending the next two months in West Africa…

I’m in the dining room of the house I share in Accra, Ghana, with my fellow University of Oregoners: Sheena, Katie, Molly, Ryan, Elon, Michelle, Ken, Nick, Logan, Jessica, Josh, Scot. We don’t have internet access here but it would be silly to write blogs at an internet café when I can just write them here and post later. I’m eating breakfast: Laughing Cow cheese and Ghanaian chocolate, both of which I found at a grocery store we went to yesterday. Not the best breakfast, but I can’t figure out if we have the right converters here to plug in my water-boiler thing, and I’m scared of our stove, which runs on propane and you have to light it manually. So oatmeal for breakfast today ain’t happening. And admittedly, the chocolate and cheese thing is a pretty awesome breakfast.

I came in yesterday morning on a direct flight from New York with Sheena, who coincidentally is also originally a Spokanite. A (presumably Ghanaian) woman across the aisle from us had a baby about ten months old: oh my god, so cute. I’m pretty sure I spent a good half of the flight smiling at her, which made her smile a huge, mostly toothless smile. Her mom let me hold her for a minute, but when she started looking at Sheena, she freaked out a little and I gave her back to her mom. Probably too many unfamiliar faces… Sheena isn’t the sort of person that would freak out babies, as far as I can tell.

Another woman across the aisle from us was Liberian. Her name is Nessie, and she was going back to Ghana for her daughter’s college graduation. She asked me to help her fill out her disembarkation card, and I thought she needed to borrow a pen, or that she didn’t understand the instructions on the card. Then I realized that she couldn’t read or write at all. Liberia is a disaster of a country, at least from what I hear… lots of Liberians are in this huge refugee camp in Ghana, which is where I had considered volunteering for a while after my internship is over. So Nessie was going there. When I understood all of this, I felt so sad for her. But her daughter was graduating from University. It’s hard for me to understand such a combination of things. Obviously, I helped her fill out her card. I don’t think I’ve ever talked to anyone before that was illiterate… or at least that I knew was illiterate. It didn’t stagger me so much that she was, more how that would get in the way of doing things as simple as filling out disembarkation cards… I’m so, so lucky.

The airport in Accra is nice; but festooned all over with soccer things… or, should I say, football. I don’t know the first thing about sports, but apparently I will by the time I leave. Ghanaians are pretty much obsessed with soccer.

Leslie, the professor from UO that runs this program, and Dr. Michael Williams, who lives here in Ghana and helps her run it, picked us up from the airport and took us to our house – which, according to Ghanaian standards, is somewhat of a palace. It reminds me of the condo my family stayed in in Mexico when we went: shabby and weird by American standards but luxurious to locals. I feel bad staying here when I see the kinds of places my neighbors are living in. Not exactly huts, but not exactly real buildings, either. That said, there are other nice houses around, sort of thrown in like ours is.

The house is kind of dirty, though, on the inside. Or maybe it’s not, maybe it’s just old. It’s hard to tell. But the kitchen and the bathrooms freak me out. Enough that I might even clean them. The water pressure sucks, but there’s a French shower head in one of the showers, so that kinda makes up for it. Also, the water is exclusively cold, but that’s actually nice considering how freaking hot it is here.

Temperature-wise, it’s not that bad. Maybe 85, 95 at the peak of the day. But the sun is scorching and it feels like 80% humidity. My hair, regardless of the fact that I blow-dryed it this morning and put gel in it, is not pleased. Really frizzy… maybe I should just dread it. J

We went to Chez Afrique last night, Dr. Michael Williams’ wife’s restaurant/bar. The food was really delicious, or perhaps I was just really hungry. I had my first (probably first of many) African beers. Ghana has two main beers, Star and Club, and it seems that everyone has a preference. They’re both light. I think I’m more of a Star person; Club has a pretty strong aftertaste. They’re both a lot like American beer, though definitely a step up from, say, Miller High Life. Definitely drinkable.

On Fridays and Saturday nights Chez Afrique has live music, which is pretty excellent. A stream of stuff I’ve never heard of mixed with Bob Marley. Lots of reggae, which is great for dancing, so no complaints here. I was exhausted when we went out last night, but there was no way I could avoid dancing. Everyone just seemed to be enjoying themselves so much, and there were other oborunis (white people, think gringo without the offensiveness) who were worse dancers than us, so it wasn’t intimidating.

Other than that, the music here is an amusing blend of mostly American stuff. The very first song I heard, a car playing it outside our house, was Celine Dion’s My Heart Will Go On. No shit. Since then I’ve heard James Blunt, more Celine Dion, some good ol’ 90s classics, and a lot of abrasive American rap, with no bleeped out words. Ghanaians as a whole seem pretty nice, and I haven’t heard any swear yet, but they definitely don’t censor their music. I don’t recognize much, but then, I’m not really a rap girl, so that’s to be expected. Lian would know most of it, probably. Leslie says that Ghanaians think that Americans (especially black Americans) talk like our rap songs sound, which is rather amusing, and to a degree, probably true, at least among my age demographic. Be slappin that ass, gonna f*** that bitch tonight. Okay, so probably not so much. But apparently Ghanaians also love country music, so I guess my musical horizons are going to be broadened a tad here…

p.s. "akwaaba" means "welcome" in Twi, the most used tribal language here.