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.