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.