Ghana Way

Big game in Africa, part 2

2008-12-29T17:12:00.000-08:00

Wallace Kwaw, the master of the house in which we lived outside Cape Coast, retired last year after more than two decades as a tour guide at the Elmina Castle. A self-made man, he had worked hard, making a very nice life for his family.

As a side note, I should mention that part of his efforts included building the book shop at the castle. If you happen to find yourself in Elmina, the store boasts perhaps the best selection of books on Ghana, and slavery in particular, that you’re likely to find anywhere in the country.

When it came time for Wallace to step down and assume the life of a country squire , he decided he would henceforth devote himself to two things: his goats … and soccer. Not keen on animal husbandry myself, but wanting to get to know the man with whom I would be living for three months, I decided to commit myself to learning more about the sport.

Wallace proved an excellent guide, and endlessly engaging companion, for my crash course on the Spanish La Liga, the UEFA Champions League, Ghana’s national team (called the Black Stars), and the single abiding obsession of most Ghanaian men, the English Premier League.

“I suppose my favorite team is Manchester United,” Wallace conceded, “but I like the style of play of the Spanish teams. The British use a more physical approach, more brute force, but the Spanish play with more style.”

And so they did when I had a chance to compare. And I had plenty of chances. If the TV was on, which it typically was at night, it was showing soccer. Outfitted with a satellite dish, Wallace tended to watch only those channels showing soccer ― any game would do. Breaking it up, when they were no games, with a visit to CNN. Mostly we would toggle back and forth from a Barcelona game, say, to the Arsenal game to some obscure French league game with guys who looked like they’d had their hair done for the match.

In less time than I would have ever guessed it possible, I found really enjoying the games. I quickly grew to look forward to our evening constitutional. We would enjoy one of Aba’s wonderful meals, and then I would retire to the living room, sometimes with a cold beer, to watch the game with Wallace.

Over the months, I learned the teams. I learned the names of the principal players, even settling on certain favorites (Lionel Messi and Samuel Eto’o for Barcelona, Wayne Rooney for Manchester United). I started checking the standings in the newspaper. I even regretted when circumstances prevented me from seeing an important match. And incredibly, for the first time since I’d idolized Phillies third baseman Mike Schmidt, I thought about buying a jersey.

I will take a great many things away with me from Ghana. There are Aba’s yam chips, the country’s groovilicious highlife music, the smiles of the kids and my uncanny resemblance to one of Ghana’s presidential candidates. But I will never forget those evening sitting with Wallace at the end of the day, his leg hanging over the arm of his lounger, and watching soccer. Thank you, Wallace.

(Picture: Wallace and I at Cape Coast Castle, which is conspicuously absent a book store...)

Big game in Africa, part 1

2008-12-29T15:06:00.000-08:00

I have to confess that when I considered soccer at all I considered it not really worth considering. What, after all, could be the appeal of a game in which a tie of 0-0 could be a satisfactory conclusion?

Admittedly, I never played the game. Growing up in northeastern Montana in the 70s, soccer wasn’t even available. I remember hearing about it, but it seemed as exotic a sport as elephant polo. Surely no one in the U.S. played it.

Since then I’d only watched it when required to to support my stepdaughter or nephew. The game was no more a part of my life than Posh Spice is.

And then I went to Africa.

Africa is mental for soccer. The game is just barely edged out by God in their pantheon. Take the recent case in Morocco. In that North African country, the phrase "God, The Nation, The King" is a common expression, encapsulating the three priorities for all Moroccans. Few mess with the inviolability of that triumvirate.

Enter soccer fan Yassine Belassal. An 18-year-old student and rabid Barcelona fan, he was recently inspired to alter the above phrase, which had been written on the blackboard in his class, to read "God, the Nation, Barcelona.” It got him arrested.

You don’t trifle with King Mohamed VI. And when you do, for your soccer team, then that’s being mental for soccer.

In Ghana, as well as neighboring Togo, Cote d’Ivoire and Burkina Faso, you’re just as likely to see kids playing soccer as you are to find plantains in your next meal. In other words, it’s unavoidable.

On one level it’s not difficult to understand why. Unlike golf, say, or midget car racing, it’s a versatile sport that can be played virtually anywhere and often is, from open fields, to empty lots, to narrow alleys.

There is a similar lack of pretense when it comes to soccer accessories. If a ball is not at hand, or at foot as the case may be, one can be easily fashioned from rags, plastic bags, a slow chicken. Almost anything will work. As for extravagances like cleats or shin guards, who do you think you are, Steven Gerrard?

(Picture: A homemade soccer ball)

Back to Cape Coast

2008-12-22T05:09:00.000-08:00

After nearly two weeks on the road, returning to Cape Coast feels like coming home. I recognize its chaotic streets, its open sewers, its roaming goats. Well, I don’t recognize the goats, but you get my meaning. It’s a familiar craziness and after so much that has been new it is comforting to be surrounded by people and places you know.

At the top of the list is our Ghanaian family, the Kwaws. I’d missed them more than I expected. And they seem to have missed us at least a little, too. Normally taciturn Abu welcomes us with big hugs. Desmond, the youngest son, whose moods are as unpredictable as the weather is predictable, seems positively overjoyed to have us back, embracing us both with a lot of feeling.

Wallace takes a relaxed approach to such things. Over 20 years working with and getting to know visiting obronis, their comings and goings are just a part of life. But he seems happy to have us back and back safely; I know he feels a responsibility for our welfare, even if we’re dragging it to Burkina Faso. A smart man, but one who has done little traveling outside Ghana himself, he takes great interest in our adventures, asking lots of questions.

We’ve also missed our room, which we’ve come to call the “blue” room due to the light blue paint that distinguishes it from the white walls elsewhere in the house. It is airy, open, private, comfortable and the perfect place to escape to each evening and now after many days in hotels and even one on a chilly rooftop.

The next morning I’m surprised to find that the staff at Global Mamas seems equally enthusiastic at our return. This is a warm group of people and though we are barely more than strangers they make us feel missed. George, friendly, ambitious George, is the first to shake my hand.

“You’re back. Mr. Greg.”

“We’re back. How are you, George?”

“I am fine. I hope you had a good trip.”

“We had a great trip. But it’s good to be back.”

“We are happy you are back. This week there are big games in the Premier League.”

George has become my source of European soccer information.

Each of the others does the same in turn, offering nothing but smiles and gentle, endearing expressions of welcome. It does not last long; these are not effusive people. But it is unmistakable and for the first time I begin to think how very hard it is going to be to say goodbye when it is finally time for us to leave for good.

(Picture: Outside Kotakaraba Market in Cape Coast)

Up the Mole River

2008-12-22T05:03:00.000-08:00

A little over two hours later we return a bit dejected, I won’t lie. Not only had groups in previous days seen multiple elephants, they had even been mugged poolside by baboons. So far we had only succeeded in paying too much for beer at the hotel restaurant.

OK, we did see a warthog cooling off in a puddle of mud near our room. And while this would’ve been cause for much excitement if it had happened at home in Portland, it suffered by comparison when encountered in Africa in a park famed for its elephants.

In the afternoon, Shawn and I join a small group of Swedes for what is billed as a canoe safari. It is, in truth, just a pleasant, if abbreviated, tour up the Mole River. There was never any promise of spotting wildlife on this trip, that is, beyond the bird variety, which, no disrespect meant to birders, is really the CSPAN of wildlife viewing.

Our guide: “Do you see that bright blue bird just there?”

Us: “Oh, yes. That really is a bright blue. What kind of bird is it?”

Our guide: “I don’t know. It’s just blue.”

We just enjoy the sound of the paddle in the water, the movement of the light through the leafy jungle canopy.

That night, after a nice meal around the pool with new friends from Sweden, England and Holland, we turn in so as to be up at 3:45 a.m. for the 4 a.m. bus. Though abominably early, we soon learn it’s fortuitous for us that we’re the first to get on. Being the only bus from the area into Tamale, it is soon packed, with even the aisles occupied with passengers and bags.

By about 8 a.m. we find ourselves once again waiting in the Tamale station, this time for a bus to the second largest city in Ghana and capital of the once-great kingdom of Ashanti, Kumasi. We will spend one night, and then point ourselves toward Cape Coast.

(Picture: Our awaiting canoe "safari")

Looking for elephants

2008-12-22T04:59:00.000-08:00

We’d arranged the evening before to take a walking “safari” with one of the park’s guides. Shawn, who is not feeling well, elects to forego the march in favor of a canoe trip later in the day. The rest of us are up at 6 a.m. for the 7 a.m. departure into the bush.

Jeanne and I learn that close-toed shoes are mandatory so each rent a pair of rubber Wellington boots for 1 cedi. Our guide, Abu, is wearing them, so I figure they must not be too cumbersome should we need to escape a charging elephant or baboon attack.

During our pre-walk briefing we’re told that groups in the previous three days have had good luck finding elephants. But we are reminded that the elephant is a private and rather peripatetic beast and could just as easily feel overexposed after three days in the public eye and steer clear of us. Abu assures us he will try to root them out.

It is a beautiful hike. We see a variety of antelope, including the Kob, bush bucks and water bucks. They are shy bunch and most are spotted at a fair distance, at least once in a dramatic, springing escape into the deeper brush.

We learn the sad story of the male Kob, which, if defeated in battle by another male, must then live alone and apart from the herd for the rest of its life. So bereft are they, we are told, they no longer even care about their own safety and will not run if approached. Sometime later we come upon just such a sad case. I point and chant “quitter” in hopes that tough love will be the difference. Sadly, it is not.

The hike takes us through fields of high grass, and then into open country that smells of the wild mint that is everywhere. We cross a few small creeks and follow the edge of a couple of drying watering holes. Along the way we see monkeys and more antelopes. We watch crowds of gray egrets move gracefully across the sky. And we see evidence of elephants, including footprints, but, alas, no actual elephants.

At one blind overlooking a favorite pachyderm bathing spot we sit in silence for 10 minutes in hopes that they will appear. Antelope can be seen bounding in the distance. Monkeys move about in loose groups in the trees. It is a striking scene, truly like something from National Geographic, but the big game refuse to cooperate.

(Picture: Our guide Abu finding elephant tracks, but no elephants)

On our way to Mole, part 2

2008-12-21T10:02:00.000-08:00

The final two hours to Mole is traveled on dirt road so pitted and rutted one suspects it’s intended to bounce the memory of asphalt from your memory. It is like we are driving on square wheels. You have to hold on to the seat back in front of you to keep from falling into the aisle. Clouds of red dirt billow into the bus. Shawn ties her bandana around her nose and mouth like a bandito.

In the village of Damongo, we drop off all but the obruni on our bus, which, including us, number maybe 10. The town is a patch of swept dirt at the side of the road encircled by a loose arrangement of a dozen mud huts.

It’s dead dark by now, and we watch goats scatter before our headlights. We are all hoping to happen upon some wild animal that’s wandered to road and squint into the distance out the windshield.

At one village, free of electricity, our arrival is the evening’s entertainment. A group of 20 gather as the bus removes some bags. They peer into the windows, one boy saying, “Give me 1 cedi.” When we leave, the entire lot of them is plunged back into complete darkness.

Finally, about 8 p.m., we reach the gate to Molé. A guard enters to collect the park “fee.” This amounts to 4 cedis (about US$4) per person, with an additional 2 cedi charge for those expecting to use their camera in the park. An excellent memory is apparently free to bring in.

The bus stops here for the night, we learn, with the driver staying at the hotel as well; he will return to Tamale in the morning at 4 a.m. It is really the only way out of the park each day.

We check in, Shawn and I getting a double room for 35 cedis. As we make our way to the room in the dark, we find a family of wild antelope dining and reclining in the strip of grass to the side of the one-story bank of rooms. They are far less interested in us.

All settled in the simple, rather institutional room, we join a group of others for a late dinner in the hotel’s restaurant; the Molé Park Hotel is the only accommodation option in the area. It’s a nice group made up of visitors from England, Holland and Finland. They explain that they saw three elephants that day, one only a couple of hundred feet away.

“And then we’re sitting around here later and a baboon stole my camera,” says John, a Brit.

“Excuse me?” I say.

“Yeah, I was sitting over there by the pool and I had my camera on the table and he just came up and took it. It was rather frightening to be honest.”

“Just … came over and took it?” I’m stupefied.

“Yeah. Simple as you like.” The rest of the group is laughing.

“That’s amazing,” I say. “Did you get it back? Had he taken any pictures with it?”

“No. But the batteries were new, so he has plenty of time I reckon.”

It’s an incredible story. We keep our eyes to the short wall separating the hotel grounds from the wild. In the distance stretches the vast park, dramatically illuminated by a bright, white moon. I keep waiting to see if I see a camera flash in the distance.

(Picture: One of the warthogs fond of roaming about the grounds)

On our way to Mole, part 1

2008-12-21T09:57:00.000-08:00

The 4.5-hour ride from Tamale in northern Ghana to the entrance to Mole National Park in the NW of the country is not recommended by the American Chiropractic Association. On the list of things to be avoided it falls just between stage diving and falling out of a tree.

The first couple of hours of the ride you’re just happy to be free of the Tamale bus station. You’re distracted by joy. After four hours waiting for the one bus to the park, captive to the heat, the dust, and the welter of vendors, buses, tro-tros and people, the simple act of moving, anywhere, is a kind of intoxication.

You’re also putting distance between you and the station’s public bathroom. It’s a simple business arrangement: You pay the surly man in the sunglasses 10 pesewas, and you are permitted to pass through the screen door into what can only be described as a crapatorium. The row of eight or nine stalls look to have been without the custodian’s loving touch for much of the millennium.

The first half of the drive affords you the myriad benefits of asphalt, most notably, speed. Bikes and motorcycles keep to the shoulder. We pass a man who, far from any town or sideroad I can see, moves along in the waning afternoon light on crutches. He stops momentarily to watch us as we drive by.

A truck thunders by in the opposite direction, piled 10 feet high with bags of yams on top of which sit a dozen men. On the tailgate of the truck has been painted “Justice.”

As it is election season, there are political posters and billboards everywhere. They are plastered to every surface that will permit glue or nail, sometimes four or five for the same candidate right next to each other. We pass a woman collecting firewood at the roadside. Another is pounding her staff in its wooden pestle making the evening’s fufu.

As the sun begins to set, they all turn to dark smudges, backlit by a sky that is the brilliant pink of that Chinese pork they serve with hot mustard and sesame seeds.

(Picture: A taste of the pandemonium of the Tamale station)

Missing in action

2008-12-17T07:45:00.000-08:00

Apologies to all those who have been following the blog, and to any who may have, due to the long absence of new posts, begun to worry. We are fine. We have not contracted ebola, run afoul of crooked cops or been abducted by rebel forces. The Internet has been down.

In fact, it is still down. I had to brave the African heat, which is, incredibly, getting hotter as we move deeper into the dry season, and venture over to an Internet café to post this. Unfortunately, it’s not a convenient arrangement and until they can remedy the connection here posts will, I’m sad to say, be sporadic at best.

And there is so much to talk about, including trips to Abidjan, Cote d’Ivoire and Lome, Togo, and our sad, teary departure from Cape Coast. Since leaving the Kwaws and the staff at Global Mamas on Friday, Dec. 12 we have been in Accra, weathering a broken Internet connection and a string of departures.

Alice was the first to leave on Monday morning. In late January, after a month seeing friends in Manhattan and spending time with family in Michigan, she will return to Ghana as she has agreed to take over management of Global Mamas’ Cape Coast office. Somehow it makes leaving feel not quite so permanent to know one of our group will be going back.

This morning Ally left. Her flight will return her to the waiting arms of family in Minnesota, who will then whisk her away to family holidays in Montana. We sent her off last night with a Lebanese dinner and a couple of rounds of cold beers at a roadside bar.

Haley is scheduled to leave tonight at 8:30. Haley arrived in Ghana the same day we did and is a fellow Oregonian. Given the blizzard conditions currently frosting over our home state, she’s nervous that her parents won't be able to navigate the roads from Eugene. We keep our fingers crossed.

We are scheduled to fly out on Dec. 22. We attempted to change our ticket to leave early but have been stymied by British Air. We are considering a couple of days at the beach outside Accra, especially given what the weatherman warns us is waiting.

I'll try to update our activities as possible. In the meantime, stay warm everyone.

(Picture: On a moto-taxi in Lome, Togo)

Goodbye, Ouaga, part 2

2008-12-10T04:03:00.000-08:00

The music is at the Jardin de L’ Amitie, which turns out to be just next door to the restaurant at which we’d had lunch earlier in the day. An open, inviting skirt of grass with tables faces a good-sized covered stage. Though the traffic can be heard on the other side of the wall, the grounds manage to give the feeling of a cool, relaxing oasis.

On stage, two men, one on acoustic guitar and one on a drum, play some understated music, the singer sounding a good deal like Louis Armstrong. Despite the fact that their version of “Let It Be” is truly inspired, I have to admit to some disappointment that what Ghislain thought I’d meant by music was the Burkinabé equivalent of a hotel lounge band.

But we were all together, and that is enough. The principal stop of our journey is nearly over, which makes the trip seem like it is nearing an end. I order a cold Castel and settle in to the adult contemporary rhythms of this West African Simon and Garfunkel, happy.

Ghislain, who I should mention had clearly “taken” a few beers earlier in the day, is eager to confirm I am comfortable. It had been important for him to give me what I’d wanted, some music, and it was important to me for him to know that I appreciated it very much.

“This is great,” I assure him.

“Yes, you like it?” he asks.

“And such a great spot.”

“OK, OK,” he nods, smiling.

I’m just getting in the swing of it when I notice that other musicians are beginning to arrive, taking up a spot offstage. They carry drums and peculiar-looking stringed instruments, one with a deep hollow body and a long neck. I keep an eye on them as we all discuss the events of the last couple of days, and how we are best to get to the border the following morning. Ghislain makes it clear he’d like us to stay another day.

“I can make a plan for you for tomorrow,” he says.

But we’re set on going, and we try to convince him and the bishop that we don’t have to have a bus, that a tro tro will do. Even in this they are committed to our comfort and try to convince us that an air conditioned bus is better.

Meanwhile more musicians arrive. Things are looking up. After ordering another beer, Ghislain speaks to the waiter, having obviously seen the musicians himself.

“Another band is going to play,” he informs us. “Diaulo music. From Mali.”

“Yes? Really?” I ask.

“From Mali.”

The eight-member band takes the stage and for the next 90 minutes they fill the air with the most incredible funky desert blues you've ever heard. This kind of music can make you do strange things. It has a insidious beat that works on you like a drug. Mix it with cold Castel beer and one might, just might, find himself being pulled on stage by the lead singer to dance.

(Picture: Me standing with my new favorite Malian singer)

Goodbye, Ouaga, part 1

2008-12-10T03:59:00.001-08:00

Ouaga is famed for its live music. After Ghana, where it is virtually nonexistent, we were excited to get out and finally see some in person. So I had been bugging Ghislain almost from the first minute we met that I had to see some music while we were in town. On this, our final night, he promised he would arrange it.

We breakfasted at our de facto breakfast spot, a collection of four or five tables called Cafétte Restau Somkieta. And though the flies favored it as well, the coffee was real coffee and the omelettes were a mere 150 ceefah (about US$3).

Though only perhaps our third stop at the place, the ladies made a point of saying goodbye and wishing us a safe journey as we prepared to go. It is these little things, these simple gestures of kindness and friendship, despite our myriad differences, that truly fuel you on such trips.

While Alice and Maria return to the SIAO, Shawn, Jeanne and I decide to explore the downtown a bit, with plans to cool off later by visiting the pool at one of the nicer hotels. Our wanderings lead us to Le Verdouet, a pretty, shaded outdoor restaurant not far from the Ghanaian Embassy. It may rank as the best meal we’d had at that point in Africa. And the place is so pleasant, we linger until it is all but empty before heading back to the Hotel Splendid, where we are to meet the others. We never do get around to swimming.

Arriving right on time, Ghislain inform us that he’s worked out the evening’s music. He can’t tell me who’s playing, but he assures me it’s a popular spot. Aline and her sister will be joining us, as will, we learn to our great surprise, the bishop. I am overjoyed that we are being given such a perfect way to say goodbye to these incredibly warm, wonderful people.

The evening’s first stop is to pick up Aline, or so we think. As it turns out, cold beers and snacks are waiting for us and we spend a very pleasant hour on Aline’s parents’ porch, the five us: Ghislain, Aline and her sister, Edvish talking and laughing. Again I found myself genuinely moved by the kindness of these people who were, only a couple of days earlier, complete strangers.

(Picture: Ghislain and Aline in front of Aline’s parents’ place, exhibiting the African habit of not smiling in pictures)

Surviving SIAO, part 3

2008-12-10T03:55:00.001-08:00

When we meet up with the others, we agree we should cut Ghislain lose. He does not even attempt to fight it. We agree to meet the next afternoon.

And then the rest of us split up again, and Shawn and I venture to another pavilion, but it’s merely hotter and more packed than the first. On display is an avalanche of embroidered African shirts, bolts of fabric and hotel-quality paintings in a style as ubiquitous in Africa as the malarial mosquito.

The only vaguely interesting section is that peopled by those who could not secure a booth inside and so are left to sell their miscellany on blankets outside. These tend to be Nigerians peddling leather goods and silver jewelry.

At about 9:30 p.m., we convince the others it’s time for dinner. We try the bustling outdoor eating area, which is a football-sized area populated by an uncountable number of grills cooking an uncountable number of skewers of mostly unidentifiable meat.

While my non-red-meat-eating companions shudder, I indulge in a couple I take to be beef. They’re rolled in a dry pepper spice and wrapped in newspaper and quickly become the best creation I’ve found at the SIAO.

Without a ride now that Ghislain is gone, we decide to take a taxi to a place highly recommended in our guide book (West Africa, Lonely Planet, 2006). Unfortunately, it quickly becomes clear that none of the taxi drivers in Ouaga have read our guide book. Not a one has heard of the place.

Meanwhile, Maria is getting worse and has taken to kneeling while the negotiations drag on. Her face, normally very expressive, has gone blank and it’s clear that despite her protestations to the contrary she needs to get back to the hotel. We change gears with the taxi drivers, and after another 15 minutes of haggling secure a ride for 2000 CFA (pronounced “see-fah” and the equivalent of about US$4) to our place, which is not far.

Just as we get in, a couple of young men come tearing by the car and disappear down the dark sidestreet. When we pull out onto the road, we see why. The crowd of thousands has cleared to make room for a policeman to club a man he has on the ground in the middle of the road. The others in the car see a second man with a machete.

Incredibly, rather than turn around, our driver makes right for them as calmly as if pulling up to a drive-thru window. We are within perhaps 20 feet when the victim manages to get up and escape into the crowd, which has collected in two shouting, cheering audiences, one on either side of the street.

With the fight removed to elsewhere, we are the only thing on the road and the only subject of interest to the two shouting groups. Passing between the staring and chanting rabble, I feel like a toppled leader attempting escape to Switzerland. It is thrilling and just a bit frightening, and we all permit ourselves a sigh of relief when we exit the grounds and reach the main street.

(Picture: Two Nigerian vendors at the SIAO. Andrea Hand, these are the guys from whom we bought the Christmas tree decorations we sent.)

Surviving SIAO, part 2

2008-12-09T08:07:00.000-08:00

Inside the SIAO venue it is, to quote a Scottish friend, full as an egg. You’re only able to really move if those against whom you are mashed are of like mind. At other moments you find yourself carried in some unwanted direction as if tethered to a capering goat.

To put it plainly, it’s way too packed. And as we navigate our way to yet another line, this one to get into the first pavilion, it is clear from Ghislain’s face that he’s so unhappy as to almost be in pain. Maria, meanwhile, is suffering from some debilitating stomach ailment that forces her move bent over like an octogenarian. This is not an auspicious beginning.

When we finally wheedle our way into the building, my original fears about the event are confirmed: This is a trade show. It doesn’t even have the generosity to try and be something more interesting. The building is merely a collection of booths staffed by eminently bored representatives selling, in large part, the same sorts of things we’ve seen elsewhere.

The only upside is that because the building is air conditioned it requires a modest entrance fee (200 CFA or about .40 cents), which means it is not quite as packed. We split up and agree to meet back in about 30 minutes. Shawn and I explore the pavilion, even buying a thing or two. Here’s a sample of what we see:

· Wood carvings from Burkina Faso
· Woven baskets from Algeria
· Woven wall hangings from Mali
· Cocoa powder from Ghana
· Pineapple juice from Benin
· Textiles/clothes from Senegal
· Carvings from Nigeria
· Stone sculpture from Pakistan (What are they doing at an African arts event? Got me.)
· Clothes from Cote d’Ivoire
· Baskets from Niger

Despite the variety, the mind-numbing effect of the Trade Show is simply too powerful. I’m now convinced that there is no collection of items, not beer, not even naked people, that can overcome the soporific delirium brought on by the Trade Show.

Still, I remain hopeful that the other buildings, perhaps those without air conditioning, will be more like a public market, more bazaar-like, with artisans selling their own work, rather than benumbed salespeople handing out business cards.

(Picture: Nigerian vendor outside the SIAO)

Off to Cote d'Ivoire

2008-12-04T06:23:00.000-08:00

Let’s call this an intermission. Those that need to can get up and go to the bathroom, replenish their coffee, stretch their legs may do so now. For interstitial music, let's try something like Ghana's Highlife All-Stars, or the local Cape Coast band, the Cooking Pots.

For us, we are off for a couple of days to Abidjan in Cote d'Ivoire. By the time we return on Monday or Tuesday Ghana will have a new president, and we will have only a few short days left in Cape Coast.

So stay tuned. Back soon.

(Picture: The Cooking Pots "tour bus." More about the band later.)

Surviving SIAO, part 1

2008-12-04T06:21:00.001-08:00

All of West Africa is at the SIAO. No, I mean everyone. All of them. I imagine all the empty villages across the continent, tumbleweeds rolling by. The street outside the venue has been closed off, or is supposed to be. In Africa, there are always exceptions.

Men, women, children and packs of carousing teenagers are everywhere. It is like a very subdued riot. Vendors move through the crowd selling hats, t-shirts, and, for some reason I can’t figure out, socks. A man puts a wooden snake on my shoulder, having failed to learn the first rule of business: Do not scare the customers.

We weave our way through this menagerie for 10 minutes before realizing that there is, within the chaos, a line. And it is a long line.

“Are we supposed to be in that?” I ask Ghislain, who has taken on the responsibility of shepherding the five of us through this mess. He is hung over and is clearly wondering if there is possibly a worse place to be with a headache.

“No,” he says instinctively. But then he stops and actually considers the lengthy queue. “Shit,” he says, which manages to sound all the more pathetic with his French accent. It’s altogether conclusive to me that if he weren’t such a stand-up guy, he would’ve abandoned us then and there. “Have fun. I’m out of here.”

Instead, he says, “I will check. Wait.” And he moves up the long line and out of view.

While he’s gone, two small girls appear out of the crush of people and without a word each takes my hand. They are eight or nine maybe, and smiling.

“Bon jour,” I say. They giggle, look at each other and tighten their grip on my hand. It’s not an uncommon occurrence in Africa and so I don’t think much of it. We stand there like that for a few minutes, me feeling vaguely like Brad Pitt.

Ghislain returns a few moments later and seeing the girls spits something at them in French and waves them away. They disappear back into the crowd.

“They are robbers,” he explains, shaking his head and making a pinched face that illustrates his distaste.

We see that Ghislain has brought a man back with him. As it conveniently turns out, this man has tickets to sell, asking 600 CFA (about US$1.20) for the 500 CFA ticket. We conclude that paying an extra .20 cents would be OK.

Feeling buoyant at having dodged the line, we move confidently through the sea of black faces, nearly all of which take great interest in our presence. Ghislain, ever the caretaker, worries after us like a mother hen at its string of aimless chicks.

The entrance to the venue is still some distance farther on. And we try to get a glimpse into the forecourt of the venue. We start to devise an attack strategy for seeing the various exhibit halls.

Then we see the ticketholders line.

(Picture: A couple of vendors selling, well, I don’t know what. Note that the spots in the image are not on the lens; they are reflections from the flash hitting all the dust in the air.)

Ghislain’s favorite bar, part 2

2008-12-04T06:19:00.000-08:00

Ghislain proves to be a great and charming host, making it clear that he expects to be at our disposal for the duration of our stay in Ouga. But either by design or due to the limits of his English, and our French, he maintains a sense of mystery. We can’t, for example, discern what he does for a living. And his relationship status is unclear, that is until a woman pulls up on a scooter next to our table.

“This is my fiancée,” he offers plainly.

We laugh, thinking of course that he is joking. But then he stands and embraces the pretty women. There is an awkward moment as he fetches her a chair and we nod dumbly at each other. “Hello,” we say. She is nervous and shy and can only mumble something, laugh and look away.

Her name turns out to be Aline, and she turns out to indeed be his fiancée and she turns out further to be the sweetest, warmest secret bride-to-be you could ever hope to meet. In a part of the world in which smiling is raised to a bona fide art she establishes a new gold standard.

Ghislain leaves her with us briefly to go and pick up Alice and bring her back. We remain a short time more, everyone now fully and most satisfactorily adjusted to being in Burkina Faso.

We then climb back into the car, Aline following on her scooter, and head for dinner to a place downtown with a name perfectly suited to my childish sense of humor: Le Titis. It’s a happening spot with a busy patio and cool, comfortable interior lit by a couple of large plasma-screen TVs. We order an array of dishes, all of which are good, if poorly remembered.

By midnight, me having had just enough Castel to almost accept Ghislain’s invitation to a party across town, we quietly and somewhat clumsily retire, sure not to wake the nuns.

(Picture: Fitting five passengers into Ghislain’s car. And no Shawn has not gone insane.)

Ghislain’s favorite bar, part 1

2008-12-03T05:56:00.000-08:00

Venture onto the side roads in Ouagadougou and you’re likely to leave both lights and pavement behind. En route to Ghislain’s favorite neighborhood bar, we bounce down a road it would’ve been difficult for a mountain goat to traverse.

At one corner, Ghislain points, saying, “That is my house.”

Unlit and hidden behind a wall, it is impossible to see the place, but he seems pleased to show it to us. He drives past it and then without warning stops half way down the block, scanning the street.

“My neighbor,” he says, “he is a bad man.” At this declaration, he promptly puts the car in reverse and proceeds to back up the 50 yards or more to the corner we just passed. “Every day we have fight. Every day, every day. I don’t want to drive over there. This way is better.”

I take it he’s not talking about having his newspaper stolen or finding the guy’s dog crapping in his yard.

“You fight? Like, fight?” I ask.

“Yes,” Ghislain says, flashing a bright smile in the unlit interior of the car.

The bar is nearby occupying a dark patch of an adjacent dirt road. To call it a “bar” is to vastly expand the definition of that word. It is more accurately a closet that sells cold beers and then permits you to sit at its couple of outdoor tables to drink it. Think adult lemonade stand.

There is no light, so we use our flashlight to gather up enough chairs for our group. Ghislain is clearly happy to have been able to bring us here. He seemed dubious when we assured him we wanted to go to his favorite place.

“But it is small, and quiet,” he warned us.

And so it is, but after departing that morning from our rooftop in Paga, having a run-in with one very unhappy bush taxi driver at the border, being harangued by a fledgling revolutionary and learning no one wants our cedis, we could not be more excited about a cold beer in a dark, quiet spot.

I take Ghislain’s advice and start with a bottle of Castel, which he assures me is the only brand that won’t give me a headache. It is so cold and I am so thirsty, I wonder for a moment if it isn’t the best beer I’ve ever had. He seems quite pleased by this.

Still, we have to try them all. Over the next couple of hours, we sample bottles of Flag, Brakina and the most peculiarly named beer I’ve ever encountered, So.b.bra (pronounced so-bay-bra). The latter two are true Burkinabé beers, So.b.bra really being the signature brew of Ouagadougou. All, of course, are lagers.

At one point, getting up to venture up the road to pee, there being no bathroom, Ghislain says, “Greg, don’t go far. There are robbers on this road.”

Thanks to a couple of big bottles of beer, and a genetically inferior bladder, I’m willing to take my chances. The girls, for their part, are forced to water the weeds behind a concrete wall across the street. Viva la Africa.

(Picture: Sitting at our first Ouaga bar, from left, Jeanne, Shawn, Maria and Ghislain)

Why Ouaga?

2008-12-03T05:46:00.000-08:00

We’ve traveled this considerable distance to Ouaga, over 1,000 km from Accra, to see the Le Salon International de L Artisanat de Ouagadougou (SIAO), a biannual arts festival that attracts artisans from all over West Africa. Known for its renowned film festival, Fespaco, which runs on odd years, the city apparently determined it needed something for the even years.

Running a close second on the list of enticements is, admittedly, the promise of cheese and good coffee, which we have been forced to suffer without in Ghana. The French, whatever their failings in music and haircuts, were kind enough to leave behind in their colonial wake a taste for some of the finer things.

The British, alas, can only be credited with bequeathing to Ghana a penchant for bureaucracy and the chip, which being the English name for the “French fry” may not be theirs to take credit for anyway.

It is a long way to go for cheese and coffee, it is true. But I ask those who would criticize us for it to deny themselves those vital, life-affirming resources for two months. I suspect they will feel different after having done so. Lactose-intolerant sufferers are simply too bereft to be considered here.

With regard to the SIAO, I should mention that I’d been unable to visualize what such an event could look like. While loving art, and hoping to pick up an item or two for our evolving mask collection, I was concerned that it would prove less a “festival” and more a glorified trade show. And I’ve been to trade shows, and even glorified they are usually to be avoided.

On this our first night in the city, we left Alice to catch up with the bishop, and piled into Ghislain’s car for the short drive to his favorite watering hole to, as he so therapeutically put it, “take some beer.” After turning off the main paved road and onto a dark, dusty track, he pointed straight ahead to a constellation of lights in the near distance.

“There is the SIAO,” he says.

“Right there? Those lights?” we say.

He makes a distinctly French gesture that means “yes” but with more than a hint of “What other lights are there?”

The SIAO had started a week earlier and would run another two days. Looking at it now, the only lights in an otherwise pitch-black landscape, I conferred on it a kind of carnival atmosphere that fed my excitement. Whatever it turned out to be, I looked forward to our visit, which we’d planned for the following afternoon.

In the meantime, the culturally sensitive thing to do was to undertake a rigorous sampling of Burkinabé beers.

(Picture: The road outside our hotel)

Obroni: A postscript

2008-12-02T06:40:00.000-08:00

By way of an addendum, I should concede that some white travelers don’t go in for the whole “obroni” thing, thinking, I suppose, that it is intended as some kind of slur. This is errant thinking in my view, and is only going to make that person’s stay here seem like a daily fusillade of abuse.

All things considered, it’s better to embrace it for what it is, an impulse of surprise and wonder little different in intent than that of a person spotting a man wearing a cape or a monkey smoking a cigar.

(Picture: Another shot of my doppelganger)

A case of mistaken identity

2008-12-02T06:30:00.000-08:00

Ghanaians have made an art of calling things what they are. A young man who wants to get the attention of an old man is likely to simply say, “Hey, old man.” Women are commonly referred to as “sister,” men as “brother.” I have more than once been called “father,” which I assume is due to the wisdom I exude. Shawn, meanwhile, doesn’t care what motivates them to call her “mother;” she would just rather they not.

Based on the same theory, as a whitey in Ghana you will hear one word every day, all day, from children, adults, men and women, from doorways, open windows, passing cars, storeowners, bus drivers, policemen, people with stuff on their head. And that word is obroni.

Meaning “white person,” the word serves as a description, a greeting and a kind of surrogate name. There is, I have to admit, a kind of undeniable elegance to the simplicity of it all. When I hear it, I know that I’ve been spotted. So I’ll usually wave and smile, which always rewards me with the same in return.

They had probably been using the second word long before I was aware of it. When I finally began discerning that “nduom” was also following me around everywhere I went, I guess I just figured it meant “hairy” or “mustache” or “strikingly handsome.”

As it turns out, I was apparently not already conspicuous enough; I had to go and bear an unmistakable resemblance to one of the four principal candidates for president of Ghana whose picture is everywhere. A successful hotelier from nearby Elmina, Paa Kwesi Nduom does indeed have a certain Greg quality. I can’t deny it.

Ghanaians are unanimous in their opinion that we are doppelgangers. Not a day goes by when upon passing a group of people I do not hear, “Blah blah Paa Kwesi Nduom blah blah blah.” Or it’s merely called out to me. I’ve lately begun responding with “Vote CPP,” Nduom’s party, which always triggers big laughs and cheering.

Months into the campaign now, there are certain shops, certain corners of town, where we have been playing this game for so long that “Nduom” has effectively become my name. They greet me that way, I remind them to vote CPP, we laugh and I move on. The other day, while buying food in the market, no fewer than half a dozen market women turned into a riot of clapping and laughing after I told them to “Vote for number 6.” (Nduom’s party is the sixth on the ballot.)

After the first debate, which Nduom was widely credited with having won, I felt like Augustus riding back into Rome after defeating the Gauls. I was bigger than the Beatles. Hiding inside the Global Mamas store, for some minutes I could still hear a group of people outside calling me/him: “Nduom! Nduom!”

There have been the odd days, I won’t lie, when, like a beleaguered Brangelina, I just wanted to be a regular obroni again. But the vast majority of the time I’ve greatly enjoyed the connection with Ghanaians this unexpected situation has afforded me. We are together in thinking it hilarious that I, this visiting white guy, should happen to look so much like this prominent black guy. It’s just funny.

But if he wins on Sunday, I may have to be secretly shuttled out of the country or shave the mustache. Or maybe I should just start working on an inauguration speech just in case.

(Picture: CPP candidate for president, Paa Kwesi Nduom)

Who will win in Ghana?

2008-12-01T04:44:00.000-08:00

The election will take place on Sunday, Dec. 7. The popular opinion seems to be, in a case of “if it ain’t broke,” that the current ruling party, the New Patriotic Party (NPP), will take the day again. They have the advantage of name recognition, recent successes to point to (even seeming to take credit in ads for the national soccer team, the Black Stars, earning its first World Cup visit) and a great deal more money.

Meanwhile, there is the belief among the opposition that the NPP didn’t fulfill promises, including, among other things, free education, which remains a dream for many Ghanaians. Others are concerned that a third term for the party, this early in the evolving democracy, could help bring about what most fear almost as much as violence, namely, the installation of a de facto oligarchy. After two decades with its previous leader, Flt. Lt. Jerry John Rawlings, Ghanaians are on alert for the signs.

Rawlings came to power by military take-over in 1981 and then again in 1982. In 1992, pressure from inside and abroad forced him to undertake a referendum on a new constitution and end the prohibition of opposition political parties. But the groups were at the time deeply divided, too divided, it turns out, to be very effective campaigners, and Rawlins was elected with 60 percent of the vote. He was reelected in 1996.

Today, there are eight parties vying for voters’ attention, but only four major parties, and only two of which are given much chance of winning: the aforementioned NPP of Kufuor and the National Democratic Congress (NDC), Rawlings’ party.

For the first time in the country’s history, candidates from the top four parties, the NPP; the NDC; the Convention People’s Party (CPP), the party of Kwame Nkumrah, the author of the country’s independence in 1957; and the People’s National Convention (PNC), met in two highly anticipated debates. And just last week, Cape Coast hosted the one vice-presidential debate.

It remains to be seen if the election will unfold as peacefully as these high-profile meetings. There has been scattered violence over the past few months, principally in the north. And there were the occasional fights even in Cape Coast during the NPP rally last week. But thus far serious conflagrations have been avoided.

As one editorial writer wrote, “When the election is over, let us put away the party flags and fly only the flag of mother Ghana.”

(Picture: The candidates for president in Ghana)

A brief Ghanaian interlude

2008-12-01T04:43:00.001-08:00

Given some important developments in Ghana, I hope you won’t mind if I take the liberty of temporarily suspending discussion of Ouaga to return to Cape Coast for a couple of posts. We’ll get back to Ouagadusty shortly.

Today is Monday, Dec. 1, a significant day as it marks the final week of the months-long campaign for president of Ghana. And you can tell things are ramping up. The billboards are getting bigger and the boosters louder. The parties’ respective colors are so ubiquitous one wonders if they were dropped from a passing plane. You cannot walk down the street without seeing someone in a t-shirt or hat or wearing a party scarf tied around their neck or head.

Last week, the ruling party, the New Patriotic Party (NPP), brought its candidate, Nana Dankwa Akufo-Addo, to Cape Coast for a rally at Victory Park, a large concrete slab occupying some prime beach real estate just a couple hundred yards from Cape Coast Castle. It is common for the parties to truck in supporters, and the streets were filled with tens of thousands wearing the red, white and blue of the NPP.

Music blared from stacks of speakers in the back of trucks. Cheers went up and rippled across the crowd. Vendors selling NPP shirts, hats, fans, flags and even, inexplicably, cowboy hats did a brisk business. One would’ve thought by the singing and dancing and carrying on that the election had already been won. And those inclined to believe election fraud is unavoidable may assert just this.

The truth is this is serious business. Only the fifth election in the country’s young democracy, a lot is at stake. On the one hand, the two terms of President John Kufuor’s administration are largely considered a success. He has initiated various infrastructure improvements, including an ambitious road project, begun a public health program, discovered oil off the coast, and done it all while promoting democracy and transparency.

President Kufuor has also enjoyed high-profile visits in 2008 by U.S. President George W. Bush, a man not distinguished by his love of travel, and the UN Conference on Trade and Development, among others. This has further contributed to the country’s rising reputation as not only a star of hope in Africa but a new, contributing member of the brotherhood of nations.

On the other hand, Ghana is no stranger to political violence. Since gaining independence from the British in 1957, the country has more than once been the victim of bloody coups, military putsches and political assassinations.

And with the first two elections going to one party and the last two to another party, many see this election as the true test. As Kufuor cannot be re-elected, will Ghana continue down the road toward peaceful democratic rule, or will it slide back into a morass of corrupt petty dictatorships?

The posters one sees with the headline “Ballots not bullets” illustrates how nervous some are about how that question will finally be answered. The Daily Graphic, Ghana’s longest-running newspaper, is full of articles referring to the election in terms like “do or die” and “the mother of all elections.”

Editorials, meanwhile, run virtually every day in which the writer calls upon his countrymen to choose the path of peace during the election. Let’s hope, for the sake of Ghana, that readers take this request to heart.

(Picture: Voting directions)

Wild & woolly Ouagadougou

2008-11-28T07:07:00.000-08:00

Ouagadougou. Pronounced waga-doo-goo, it is shortened to Ouaga for the initiated. As a name, it must rank among the most mellifluously conceived on the planet, up there with Timbuktu and Beaverton. It is, simply, fun to say. Ouagadougou. Where are you going? Ouagadougou. You contracted dysentery where? Ouagadougou.

As a city, Ouaga occupies a stretch of dusty plain on the central African plateau not too far from absolute nowhere. Already the first breath of the harmattan, the annual West African trade wind from the Sahara, has arrived. Many of the streets are either dirt or so covered with dust as to seem dirt, and this is forever being stirred in the air like an upturned snow globe. We take to calling it Ouagadusty.

Though employing a Los Angeles-like city planning approach, the center of town is surprisingly compact and easy to navigate. It revolves around the Grand Marche, a big block building that once housed the main market until it was gutted by fire in 2003 and is, like so much in the city, left to decay in its own good time.

Bicycles and motorcycles command the streets here, unlike in Ghana, where until one gets to the north you only rarely encounter a two-wheeler. Crossing the street at the busy Place des Nations Unies circle in Ouaga is a challenge and may be enough to have your health insurance suspended. How the vendors selling phone cards and napkins work the passing vehicles is a wonder on the order of those levitating Indian yogis.

Of the city generally there is a sort of derelict air. Everything is worn and weathered. It seems barely sustaining itself against the sun, the ravages of the dust and the general disinterest of its military dictatorship. As many of the 1 million population came from simple villages one questions if the city returning to a more primitive condition is not a perfectly acceptable outcome to them.

The sections that appear to have made the greatest attempt at modernity seem the roughest. Passing the old Palais de Justice, desks and chairs, as if tossed from the windows, lie here and there in the yard amid other debris and garbage. A man sleeps on a piece of discarded planking at the top of the steps.

But somehow the presence of French on signs and billboards adds a soupcon of character that cancels out some of the other. I can’t identify what it is exactly, but despite the general state of disrepair, the dust and monumental heat, I like Ouaga. But maybe it’s just the name.

(Picture: The Grand Mosquee in the central district of Ouaga)

Ghislain & the bishop

2008-11-28T07:03:00.000-08:00

Our first mission once in Burkina Faso is to get to, of all places, the Ghanaian Embassy. Jeanne needs to secure a new visa for our return in a few days’ time. The rest of us have multiple-entry Ghanaian visas and can come and go as we damn well please.

Being at the embassy is unexpectedly comforting after the journey from the border. It is especially welcome after the taxi ride from the Ouaga station, which finds all five us and our bags crammed into without question the most battered, most beat up, ricketiest, most run-down car in all of Africa. The inside of the doors is just exposed rusting metal. The floor is all uncovered frame. What is left of the dash is largely collapsed and covered in dust. To get going a few of the driver’s friends have to push us down the road a piece before the engine catches.

Learning that the Ghanaian Embassy does not in fact take Ghanaian cedis, and none of us yet has ceefah (having dismissed the enthusiastic moneychangers at the border), Maria and I agree to go find a bank. We take everyone’s leftover Ghanaian cedis to exchange.

We soon find a bank, but learn to our surprise that despite being neighbors, Burkina wants nothing to do with our cedis. No one, it turns out, will take them. Luckily, they do accept U.S. dollars, which we change for Alice. And it does have an ATM that accepts VISA, so Shawn and I can get cash. But the others are, for the time being, ceefah-less.

Returning to the embassy, we find that our group has grown by one. Ghislain Kabore is a dark, handsome Burkinabé of about 30 with more than a passing resemblance to the actor Don Cheadle. He is the nephew of the bishop to whom Alice’s family has a connection. It is unclear how he got tasked with being our welcoming party, but by the time Maria and I return he has already been instructed to deliver us to good coffee.

Our first stop, however, is our hotel, which Ghislain has taken the liberty of arranging for us.

“This is nicer,” he says matter-of-factly, explaining why he doesn’t take us to the place we’d pointed to in our guidebook.

Stuffed into his car, he drives us down a bumpy side road in the eastern part of the city and then through a wide gate. Scattered around the large, quiet compound of sun-baked scrub grass sits an arrangement of low, concrete buildings. Called the Centre Polivalent, it was established by a local cardinal, Paul Zoungrana, and is operated by a group of resident nuns. It is small oasis hidden from the dusty chaos of the streets outside.

The rooms themselves are quite nice. They are very clean and equipped with two single beds with mosquito nets (the cardinal wanted, apparently, to discourage any shared-bed hijinks), a fan and air conditioning. The bathroom is also clean, with a nice overhead shower.

Admittedly of a miserly turn of mind, I’m still surprised at the price, about US$34. Isn’t this Burkina Faso, the third poorest nation on earth? If I can’t get a steal of a room here, where in the Ouagadougou can I?

Once we’re comfortably set up, Ghislain makes good on his promise and drives us back to the city center to a French-run patisserie. Even using the word “patisserie” has us swooning in anticipation. And Patisserie de Koloubo south of the Grand Mosquee doesn’t disappoint. We gorge ourselves on fresh pastries, baguette sandwiches and the richest, creamiest café au lait this side of Montmartre.

Full and fueled we return to meet the bishop, who is also staying at the hotel. He turns out to be a quiet, impressive man in dark-rimmed glasses and white vestments. He has about him the gravitas and bearing that I imagine coming in handy mediating some African election gone wrong or writing a line of self-help books.

Ghislain, for his part, does not strike me as the devout type. Dressed in a crisp, white shirt and black slacks, and sporting the air of someone with some money in a culture with little, there is clearly more to him than meets the eye. And then, almost on cue, he leans over to me and whispers in my ear, “I would like to take some beer.”

When I start to respond enthusiastically, greatly preferring this plan to the card game now being discussed between the girls and the bishop, he coolly turns his back to his uncle and puts a finger to his lips. “Shh.”

(Picture: Me and Ghislain)

Bye bye safe journey, part 5

2008-11-26T08:09:00.000-08:00

Despite Lumumba, the trip from Paga to Ouaga manages still to be very interesting. This is flat, hot, dry country. Aside from the small clusters of simple conical huts that are traditional in this region, it is home only to spindly shrubs and hearty, brittle-looking trees. At intervals, dusty paths lead off into the bush. I wonder who takes them and where they lead.

Since crossing the border, vendors don’t approach our bus here when we stop. Few people seem to be about at all. Even the highway is largely empty and we go long minutes without seeing another vehicle that is not pulled by a donkey.

We pass a number of marshy areas dotted beautifully with white lilies across the surface. We peel our eyes for hippos but see only a man pulling in his fishing net. On the shore, his wife collects a pile of charcoal while a couple of naked kids entertain themselves on the small, muddy beach.

Later, passing through the town of Kombisiri, I see a group of boys playing on not one, not two, but three foosball tables. It seems a mirage or perhaps I now have some brain-stewing fever. No wood in the buildings, but foosball tables? Then I see another table some miles farther. I can’t even imagine how they find their way here.

Lumumba said nothing more during the trip. He took no notice of us at all. As Ouaga finally looms in the distance like a worn and dusty Oz, I think again about how to handle the ambush he’s surely organized for us. But then, about 10 minutes before the station, he all of sudden has the driver stop and let him off. We don’t see him again.

(Picture: A shot of the main Ouagadougou bus station)

Bye bye safe journey, part 4

2008-11-26T08:06:00.000-08:00

Lumumba is a young man, in his mid-20s. He wears aviator sunglasses, a Quicksilver baseball cap, baggy jeans and flip flops; he wouldn’t be out of place hanging out in the parking lot of some high school. At first, he seems to take no notice of us.

We’re on the road about 15 minutes when he calmly ventures back, wearing his salesman’s smile. He even removes his sunglasses. I expect him to ask what happened, why we decided to abandon the taxi. But he doesn’t, and the fact that he doesn’t only fuels my suspicions about him.

“Nice tactical move, obroni,” I imagine him thinking. “But rook takes castle, I’m afraid. Here I am. Your move.”

Instead of asking about our abrupt change in plans, he says, “Your friend, the one with the motorcycle, they said he didn’t have the proper paperwork so they wouldn’t let him cross the border. But I helped him. I led him to the place to get the papers.”

“Oh … OK,” we say.

He stands in the aisle, a hand on the back of the seat on either side, and nods confidently, as if everything is falling nicely into place. There is a long moment of awkward silence. When he doesn’t return to his seat, Jeanne speaks up, “I’m sorry, but we just want to be left alone. We don’t want to talk.”

Fire, meet tinder. In an instant, his mood changes. He stiffens and his face goes hard.

“Who are you?” he demands. “You are no one. You cannot speak for everyone. Who are you? Did you ask the others what they think? That is rude. I was talking to Mr. Greg. I don’t care what you think. Who are you anyway? You come to my country and be rude? You can’t come here and act that way. Why don’t you leave?”

There is a pause. He is waiting for an answer, but we remain silent, as do the rest of the passengers. This seems to anger him further.

“You think you are so important because you travel to all these countries. I have traveled. I have been to many different places outside. Just like you. So you are not special. I am as good as you.”

Still no response. So he picks up steam, adding new energy and new historical dimensions to his tirade.

“You come here and treat people like that. You are racist. You are a racist. This is my country. Not yours. Why don’t you go? Get out. You are racist. You come to Africa and you steal all of our resources. You come and take and take. Because you are white you think you can take whatever you want around the world. That is why we are poor here. You enslave our people. You don’t think we remember but we remember. We will never forget. Now you try to put chains on our minds but you cannot. We won’t let you. We are strong. We are just waiting. Now you have a black man as president. In the Black House. We are just waiting. And then we are going to rise up. We are going to control you to the max. Who cares about you?”

By this point, he seems to have finally talked himself out. A few more words sputter free, but without a response from us he soon seems to have lost interest. It is a startling rant, but revealing about a guy about whom we all had misgivings. Can a person embrace notions of the kind he just spouted, calling himself Lumumba, while also being truly the chummy, glad-handing helper he set himself up to be? Seems unlikely.

He finally resumes his seat and no more is said on the subject of plundered resources or chained minds. For the three hours to Ouaga I do, however, imagine scenarios in which we will greeted at the bus station by his friends. I try to prepare for the inevitable dust-up.

(Picture: Scene from a typical village in northern Ghana/Burkina Faso)

Bye bye safe journey, part 3

2008-11-25T07:29:00.000-08:00

Before the taxi driver can reach us, one of the officers from the border station pulls up beside us on a scooter that is comically too small for him. He wants to ensure that we know where to go for the bus. It helps having French speakers in our group; it really helps having women French speakers.

The taxi driver, who surely had planned to treat us to a string of angrily delivered French epithets, which admittedly still sound more beautiful than, say, German epithets, chooses instead to gun his engine and tear by us, kicking up dust. Somehow his response confirms his nefarious intentions. He’s lost our fares and the money he’d make selling our limbs to local fetish priests.

Either appointed by the officer or just self-appointed in hopes of some commission, another man appears who leads us to the bus. We are walking briskly, keeping our eyes out for the car, which has now disappeared. The bus, it turns out, is the 7:30 a.m. bus to Ouaga. This is tremendously good news. We thank the officer who putters away on his scooter.

In another 100 yards, we’re on board the bus. Safe! The bus driver greets us warmly as if he’d been waiting the whole time for us to arrive. “Sit where you wish,” he says. We exhale, smile and find seats. Never has a bus been more welcome.

We’re busy congratulating ourselves when the white Peugeot screeches to a stop next to the bus. In seconds a yelling match ensues between the driver outside and the bus driver and a few people on the bus. It turns into a chaos of shouting and enthusiastic gesturing. As it’s all being conducted in some local language, we simply stand dumbly, watching.

“But we had a deal!” I imagine the taxi driver yelling. “Now who am I going to drive an hour out of town, empty of their valuables and then dump on the side of the road? I had my whole morning planned!”

Finally, amid all the yelling, the man who led us to the bus says, in English, “No, the police officer sent them here!” Almost instantly, the arguing stops. This important detail appears to have sealed the deal. There is still grumbling and the occasional interjection from the driver outside, but the tone has changed.

In another few moments, the atmosphere on the bus has returned to normal. Passengers who got involved in the back and forth turn from the window and take up their seats. And then much to our joy we see the taxi driver slam the door of his car and speed off.

And then I catch a glimpse of the front of the bus.

“Oh crap,” I say.

“What?” the others say.

“There’s Lumumba.”

And there he is, having appeared at some point in the confusion to take a seat a few rows back of the driver. And is that the other man from the taxi? The one in the black shirt?

(Picture: A little premature, but this is across the street from the entrance to our hotel in Ouagadougou.)

Bye bye safe journey, part 2

2008-11-25T07:24:00.001-08:00

The Burkina Faso border office makes the Ghanaian effort seem like the finely appointed, well-oiled working of a Swiss bank. Take the two border agents from their broken-down desks and you wouldn’t be crazy to have dismissed the entire place as abandoned.

In one dark corner sits a couple of mothballed fans, a discarded bicycle, a dust-covered scooter. On the walls of chipping plaster peels an old Burkina Faso tourism poster. It looks so old I wonder that it doesn’t bear the country’s former name, Upper Volta.

The man who first takes our passports is wearing green, military-issue pants, flip flops and a soiled white tank top. He scribbles something in a large, weathered ledger. We then move to a position before the second man. A taciturn older gentlemen in a disheveled uniform, sunglasses and a black beret, he’s straight from central casting: This is an African border agent. As if to seal the deal, once he’s completed stamping our passports he lights a cigarette and leans back in his creaky chair.

Just then the tall American enters, nods coolly at us and takes a seat. He is wearing a motorcycle jacket and carrying a helmet. Perfect, I think.

During the 20 minutes or so it has taken us to go through the process, we’ve discussed our waiting transportation and decided that we will break our arrangement with the bush taxi. Something about it just doesn’t feel right.

Jeanne and Maria, both French speakers (we’re out of the realm of English now), explain the situation to a couple of the uniformed guys lounging in the shade in front of the office. They point out the car on the off chance that the men might recognize the driver or Lumumba from some recent Interpol warning. We ask if there is a bus. The men point in the direction of the station a few hundred feet down the road.

We decide that I will give the bush taxi driver 2,000 ceefah (about US$4) for his trouble and then we will make a beeline for the bus station. Lumumba had earlier assured me that the morning bus for Ouaga had already gone and that the next one didn’t leave until noon. But it seemed worth a try.

“This is going to be ugly,” I say, thinking of the response we’re likely to get from the driver after all our earlier negotiations. “He is not going to be happy.”

“Nope,” Shawn says. “We just need to keep walking once we tell him. Just keep walking.”

We make a small huddle to focus our resolve. And then as if it had been our purpose all along we stride confidently toward the driver who, seeing us, moves to open the trunk of the car for our bags.

Once beside him, I say, “We’ve decided that we’re actually going to take the bus. But thank you very much.” I tuck the 2,000 bill in his shirt pocket.

He is totally and completely dumbstruck by this turn of events and stands frozen and speechless. This gives us the window we need in which to escape and we quickly start moving up the empty street toward the bus.

When after about 20 feet nothing has happened, I say, “Well, that was easy,” wiping my sweaty palms on my shorts.

But in another 30 feet, I hear his car engine kick into action. In another second, I hear him charging up the road toward us.

(Picture: A shot of roadside near the Burkina Faso border)

Bye bye safe journey, part 1

2008-11-24T07:21:00.000-08:00

The Ghanaian border station is less a station than a place to sweat while the three bored-looking guards whack your passport. It’s not exactly a formal sort of process. Being issued a receipt at the grocery store has more emotional heft.

As we file through, another American joins the line behind us. He’s way too tall for anyone’s good and is either Southern or an arrogant ass. A short conversation reveals he is guilty of both. He affects an exasperated air like African border crossings are a chore, yes, but just a natural part of life for guys like him.

Outside the border station things get interesting almost immediately. The same moneychangers, who we put off 50 yards earlier, are waiting. They are apparently permitted to move freely back and forth as they please. Each one offers the exact same rate as the next and none seem the least bit inclined to haggle. Certain subtleties of free-market capitalism have not yet made it here. We thank them but pass again, sure we’ll get a better rate in Ouagadougou.

By this time another group of men has taken a great interest in our little group. These are the bush taxi drivers, and they want to drive us to Ouagadougou. How generous of them. Enter Lumumba. You may recognize the name as this overly nice, way-too-familiar and altogether shifty guy shares it with Patrice Lumumba, the African anti-colonial leader who helped the Republic of the Congo win independence from Belgium in 1960.

Lumumba is not a driver. He is, he explains with a wide, solicitous smile, going to Ouagadougou just like us. He is Ghanaian, he tells me, and makes frequent trips to Ouagadougou. For a reason I can’t discern, he insists on showing me his passport as proof of this fact.

“I have a friend who works in the Ghanaian embassy in Ouaga so if any of you need to get a new visa I can help you do that,” he says. As it happens, Jeanne needs to do precisely that, and I wonder if he had overheard us talking. It is strange, but undeniable truism that when away from home, a facility with English becomes a kind of red flag when toted out by a certain type of person.

“OK,” I say, trying to put him off. We’re in the middle of a complicated negotiation with one bush taxi driver and I feel like I should help. The problem is the car can comfortably fit seven people, but they want to fill the car with our five and three more, plus the driver, for a total of nine. We might as well travel inside our own backpacks.

The back and forth goes on for 20 minutes, attracting an audience of some 15 men, all of whom have something to say in the proceedings. This is a ragtag bunch for whom this scene must serve as a kind of theater.

Finally, we seem to agree that it will only be us, Lumumba and another man for a total of seven. We stow our bags in the trunk and climb in. We will first be driven the short distance to the Burkina Faso border station.

I notice that Lumumba has taken the front seat and that as we drive he is feverishly texting someone on his phone. I can’t help but wonder, of course, if he is alerting his colleagues that he has a few tasty white fish on the line.

(Picture: The road to the Burkina Faso border)

Making the crossing

2008-11-24T07:15:00.000-08:00

We’re up with the sun. And the caterwauling of the roosters. And the complaining of the donkeys. Some of these sad, forlorn beasts we discover, with the benefit of light, live just behind our hut. They are common in the northern region, used to pull simple carts heaped with all manner of things. This is one of the many differences from the south, where the only place you could encounter a donkey is on your dinner plate.

Though none of us slept especially well, it having been much colder than we expected or were dressed for, it’s nice to be up early. From our rooftop we can look out over the broad expanse of land behind our hut. Everything is cast in a bluish morning glow as we watch a farmer and his family prepare for the day.

On the other side we see for the first time in the light of day the compound into which we wandered blind last night. It’s an unusual feeling to see a place for the first time 10 hours after arriving there. I’m pleased to find that it’s not as bad as I’d feared.

Sapotay and his family are already up as well. One daughter is sweeping the compound, another stoking the morning cooking fire. Sapotay and his sons, meanwhile, are collecting and displaying on a patch of ground everything they have that we could possibly be interested in buying. It’s a motley assortment of items. There are a few baskets, a couple of leather pouches, a wooden walking stick, some colorful things I can’t identify and a helmet decorated with bull horns. Unfortunately, none of it goes with what I’m wearing.

We thank him for his rooftop hospitality, especially the mattresses, which we learn were purloined from his children’s beds for our use. The light of day has revealed that Achala Village, the name of the place, does not see many visitors, or at least has not for some time. I wonder if each driver out of Bolgatanga “knows” a different guesthouse in Paga.

Moving to the road for the short walk to the border, we step over the blockade of sticks at the entrance to Sapotay’s place. This we’re told is intended to keep out any wandering crocodiles from the lake across the street.

By this early hour, perhaps 6:30, the street is already alive with people. A pair of men pedals by on bikes. A woman stares from her seat behind a clip-clopping donkey. A man steps from his house to wash his face from the bowl he is carrying. A naked child watches us pass, mouth hanging open in wonder, one hand covering her delicate bits.

As everywhere in Ghana, the looks an obroni is likely to get can seem severe: pinched brow, narrowed gaze. But this is only shock, surprise, wonder that here you walk, just feet away. A simple wave, hello or good morning and the face is instantly transformed by a broad, toothy smile and a warm returned greeting. I fear that an African visitor to an all-white neighborhood in the U.S. would not be so generously welcomed.

It takes only 20 mins to walk to the border. Amassed off the road to the right is a platoon of semi-trucks waiting to cross in the early morning. Goats wander the street. The moneychangers see us coming and in moments we have half a dozen men asking to change our Ghanaian cedis to Burkinabé ceefahs.

As the negotiations proceed, I see over their heads the border gateway sign into what is the third poorest country on the planet: It reads “Bye Bye Safe Journey.” It occurs to me that without the comma after “safe” the message is much less encouraging.

Arrive late, sleep on the roof, part 2

2008-11-21T04:55:00.000-08:00

“Let’s go, let’s go,” the driver says with an unmistakable urgency.

Alice and Maria climb into the back seat just as one of the other drivers steps between Shawn and the open passenger seat in the front. He’s waving his hand and going on about “space by space.”

“We saw him first,” we say again.

“No, no, it’s space by space, space by space,” he insists, refusing to allow Shawn to sit.

“Let me sit down,” she says. “Please move. He won’t let me get in.”

“No, he only goes to Navrongo,” he says. “It goes space by space.”

There are at least half a dozen men now at the car, and our driver has become conspicuously quiet.

Another steps forward into the light made by the open car door. “He means that this man was not next in line. It is not his turn. It is for this man,” he says pointing to the car of the shouter.

The driver at this point, seeing his cherry picking effort has been bungled, gives in. Apparently good relations with his fellow drivers are more valuable than a car full of obronis. He starts to remove our bags from the trunk. “Go with this car,” he says, dejectedly.

The only problem is now it is fully dark, and this second car, which looks to have been fashioned out of discarded tuna tins, has no headlights. Agreed to ditching the first guy, we insist on a replacement. For their part, the men seem happy merely to have diverted us from the first man and a third car is whistled for.

As it turns out, our new driver is named Smiler. And it’s a fitting name. As we pull out of the station and join the pitch dark highway north to the border, his teeth work like a cab light. He knows a guesthouse in Paga, he says. And after a 30 minutes traveling through a landscape made nearly featureless by the night, we are dropped at a dark door.

“Wait,” he assures us, and disappears through the gate. By now it’s nearly 8 p.m. and we don’t much care how nice the place is. We’re ready to drop our bags and have some dinner, if any is to be had. The only visible lights are some distance down the road.

Smiler returns with Sapotay, the warm, toothless owner of the “guesthouse,” which as it turns out is really no more than a couple of huts for rent. After inspecting the empty, dusty interior of one with a flashlight (there is no electricity), and learning that the lake across the road is full of crocodiles that occasionally like to sniff out new visitors, we decide to, well, sleep on the roof. Of course.

(Picture: Alice, Maria, Jeanne and Shawn enjoying our luxurious rooftop digs in Paga for about US$5 per person)

Arrive late, sleep on the roof, part 1

2008-11-21T04:50:00.000-08:00

It’s about three hours by tro tro from Tamale to Bolgatanga, the regional capital of the Upper East Region. We arrive at dusk, or perhaps it’s just the dust, which constantly roils above the ground in this dry, arid region like the orbit around Peanuts’ Pigpen. Some 20 hours closer to the Sahel now, sand that started in the distant Sahara is looking for a new home in our ears and eyes.

Our arrival in the station, as it does everywhere we go, creates something of a stir as we alight from the tro tro. A legion of taxi drivers immediately greets us with urgent appeals to take us wherever we want to go.

“The Four Seasons, please,” I say. This stalls them a minute. “OK, the Fifth Avenue Suites. But the one on the marina not the other one.”

“Where are you going?” the most enterprising of the group says, stepping forward. “You go to Navrongo?”

We explain that we’re not going to Navrongo, wherever the hell that is. We tell him we’re staying in Bolgatanga, but will heading out tomorrow for Burkina Faso. This piece of information ignites the men into a raucous round of auctioneering.

“You will miss the bus,” the one man says. “You should stay at the border.” He has large, protuberant eyes that give him the distinct impression of being incredibly interested in our situation.

“What do you mean we’ll miss the bus?” Jeanne asks.

“Yes, the bus to Burkina leaves at 7:30. You must wake at 5. You should stay in Paga. There is a guesthouse right on the border. Very nice. Come, I will take you.” Believing his case sufficiently made, he makes a confident move toward his car.

This early bus business is news to us as we had assumed there must be regular transport from Paga onward to Ouagadougou in Burkina Faso. We whisper among ourselves, a confused white bundle amid the mayhem of arriving and departing buses and tros and taxis.

“There is a hotel there?” I ask.

“Yes! Yes!” they all assure me.

The first man says, “Yes, you just walk from the guesthouse to the border and catch the bus. It’s no problem. Come.”

We take an accounting of each other’s feelings about pressing on to the border. We’ve all been in Ghana long enough to understand it’s something of a gamble. There may be plenty of buses. There may be no guesthouse. It may be less than nice. He may not be as interested as his eyes suggest.

“How far is it?” I ask.

“Thirty minutes, not far,” the man says. “Let’s go.”

After a couple of shared shrugs, we agree and follow the man to his car parked nearby. What seemed like the welcome conclusion to the conversation does in fact trigger a bona fide meltdown among the other drivers.

“We met him first,” we try to explain.

But the other drivers are seriously bent out of shape at these turn of events. They surround the man’s car, shouting as we place our bags in the trunk.

(Picture: Shawn on board our tro tro bound for Bolga)

We merry band of travelers

2008-11-21T04:46:00.000-08:00

This trip north came about sort of accidentally, if eavesdropping can ever be considered accidental. Alice, a native of Kalamazoo, Mich., now calling Manhattan home, had a family connection to a bishop in Ouagadougou. (Let it be known now that I have already trademarked the title The Bishop in Ouagadougou for later use.) After keen surveillance, we learned that she was planning a journey north to see him. We figured she needed companionship.

As kind-hearted a clothing designer as you’re likely to meet, Alice immediately consented to the idea. Before long, two others joined the manifest, Jeanne, hailing originally from my mother’s hometown of Marblehead, Mass., but most recently of Ojai, Calif., and Maria from Barcelona.

All had in their separate spheres signed on to terms of varying lengths with Global Mamas. Alice has been instrumental in designing new garments for the organization, while resizing existing products to better suit the shapelier frame of the average American woman. Seeing her work, one wonders how they managed without her, and how they’ll fare once she leaves.

Jeanne arrived in Ghana after covering some 3,000 miles and passing through no fewer than 13 European countries on her bike. Having put her body to the test, she comes to Global Mamas to do the same for her experience as an operations manager at a fair-trade tea company. She has helped initiate an accounting system for the beadmakers in Odumase and is currently working on next year’s catalog. And she speaks French, which made her worth a juicy signing bonus on this trip to Francophone Burkina Faso.

Maria can also make with the oui oui talk, a skill which would play a critical role in a narrowly averted fracas at the Burkina Faso border. No stranger to the open road, she has lived around the world, including stops in Bangkok and Chicago. Her work at Global Mamas finds her helping organize and further the organization’s fair-trade certification program with its partner businesses. Best of all, she’s like a diamond mine of one liners: She’s not much of a gabber, but when she does talk it’s 24-carat hilarious.

The group formed as naturally as a carbuncle. Such is the beauty of traveling that one is afforded the exceedingly rare opportunity to join for a short time the life of a stranger, and then let them watch as you see how filthy, tired, frustrated and disagreeable you can get. Adventure is a sweaty business, and when you’re sharing it with the right people, as it was clear from the start that we were, it is a delight truly to be relished.

(Picture: Maria, Shawn, Alice and Jeanne on the road to the Burkinabé border)

Making shea butter, part 2

2008-11-20T04:14:00.000-08:00

Long processed for its oil, which is still used as a key ingredient in local cooking and for various medicinal purposes, shea butter has in recent years become a sought-after ingredient for up-market soaps, lotions and cosmetics. The CMA started their project about 15 years ago in hopes of helping women find a piece of this expanding market.

“All of these women were trained by their parents to make shea butter,” Georgina says. “But because they had no money and no market, they would sit idle all day at home. That’s why we started this project.”

With a loan from a German NGO and additional assistance from the Japan International Coooperation Agency (JICA) (Japan's equivalent to the Peace Corps), they were able to construct the few necessary buildings and purchase the grinding and milling machinery. At the project’s two sites, nearly 50 women work in “trust teams” of five.

The CMA, which operates as a kind of business manager, keeps the books and ostensibly helps find markets for the products. Any profits go back to the women. From this they are expected to replenish the site’s stores of water, firewood and raw nuts. A small portion is also set aside for machinery maintenance.

“They share equally,” Georgina says. “The harder the group of five works, the more money they can make. But only when there’s a market.”

For a recent order of two tons, each of the three trust groups involved in fulfilling the order earned an average of about 28 cedis (about US$28), or a little more than US$5 per woman.

But today, despite a brief flirtation from the Body Shop, buyers have not materialized and Georgina admits that they are frustrated by a lack of knowledge about how to market the product or reach new customers.

“It has changed their lives,” Georgina says of the project. “They could not have two square meals before and now they can eat. But it’s not enough, not like we expected. Our objective is a total change for their lives.”

After saying goodbye, the women so appreciative that we took the time to visit, and we so appreciative that they permitted us to do so, they go back to work. We sit silently in the taxi on the way to the bus station, each of us lost in thoughts about possibilities.

(Picture: Some of the women mixing the ground shea nuts with water)

Making shea butter, part 1

2008-11-19T03:47:00.000-08:00

The reason for our stop in Tamale, aside from breaking up the long journey to our northernmost destination of Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso, is to see the shea butter production process. Global Mamas has recently decided to offer the sought-after lotion and soap made from the shea nut, and the area around Tamale is one of only a few in the world where it is grown.

Georgina Adalibe of the Christian Mothers Association (CMA) meets us at the guesthouse and leads us a few miles out of town to the village of Vittim. We eventually leave the asphalt for a dirt road. After a few hundred yards, in a modest compound comprised of a few mud huts, a group of more than 20 women suspend their work to greet us with a song and a prayer.

It is an incredibly warm welcome, with much smiling and laughter. We shake their hands, which thanks to a lifetime working with shea butter are as smooth and soft as warm milk chocolate. Their faces manage in their manifold creases and wrinkles to resemble the nuts themselves. I am amazed yet again by how transformative a smile can be.

A spot in the shade is prepared for us and we are brought water, which passes for a cocktail in these parts. Georgina explains that the shea nut has been grown and harvested in this area for longer than she can remember. Virtually every family in the region knows its way around the small, dark nut.

For the next two hours we are given an up-close look at the laborious, time-consuming, hardly-seems-worth-it process. We count 12 discrete steps, from cracking open the nuts, to roasting and grinding them, to milling them and cooking down the result for the oil. The air fills with a smell that so resembles chocolate it’s hard not to toss a handful of the bitter nuts into your mouth.

When things are really moving, we are told they can product a ton a day. But I’m more staggered by the discovery of the process in the first place. Who first conceived that the nut was good for anything? And who was the consummately bored person who happened upon the Byzantine process for squeezing oil out of it?

(Picture: Alice, Shawn and Jeanne testing the shea nuts just out of the roaster)

Welcome to Nollywood

2008-11-19T03:41:00.000-08:00

Ghana’s love of Nigerian-made movies may only be bested by its love of English soccer. It seems that the word “movie” has almost become synonymous with “Nigerian movie.” Finally, another nation is doing its part to clutter up video stores and local theaters with brain-deadening dreck.

On our recent bus ride from Accra to Tamale, a marathon bump-a-long of some 13 hours, included, for our traveling pleasure, not fewer than four examples of Nigeria’s finest. By the final hour, I’d become convinced that certain hemispheres of my brain had sustained permanent damage. I’d developed a bothersome twitch, a persistent nosebleed and a recurring desire to instigate some random act of violence.

Having said that, there is nothing immediately objectionable about Nigerian movies, especially when compared to what one is likely to find in the local multiplex in the U.S. They even have certain things going for them, the absence of Adam Sandler and Sara Jessica Parker being one.

But trapped on a bus and forced to listen to them at deafening volume very quickly negates any upside. This is mostly because the dialogue really comes in two forms: hysterical shouting and hysterical crying. Let there be no question, these characters are truly unhappy with each other.

And then, of course, there is the ritual killing and the witchcraft. You’ve not heard hysterical screaming until you’ve heard it delivered from a woman who has just been struck with a snake that turns into a bolt of lightning delivered from a priestess hovering at about 12 o’clock.

Now cheekily referred to as “Nollywood,” the industry has literally overtaken Africa over the last decade. By using English rather than local languages and by relying on aggressive marketing campaigns its reach and influence has spread rapidly.

The sheer number of titles rivals our own beloved porn industry, with some 300 producers churning out somewhere between 1,000 and 2,000 films a year. Nigerian filmmaker Chico Ejiro, the creator of more than 80 films in eight years, brags he can complete production on a movie in as little as three days. Shoot high, Chico.

Given this, and that all are shot on digital video, can we be surprised at the quality? Hell, the first of the genre, released in 1992, was titled Living in Bondage.

A March 2006 article in The Guardian cites Nigeria's film industry as the third largest in the world in terms of earnings at approximately US$200 million per year. But to me, it’s what it costs unsuspecting bus passengers in quality of life that we should be measuring.

(Picture: A random Nollywood title)

Things we see out our window

2008-11-17T02:37:00.000-08:00

Out the window, the world has been reduced to two colors: the ochre of the earth and the rich green of the trees and grasses. But there is no shortage of distractions. At the shoulder, a large semi sits awaiting assistance. Large rocks block its back tires. Beneath its axle lay its crew on flats of cardboard to escape the sun.

We pass stands selling pyramids of oranges, piles of bananas and flats of fresh eggs. Woodworker shops, for some reason often situated just beside the road, are already busily at work, examples of the raw, unfinished bed frames that seem their principal product displayed casually near the roadside.

Unfinished buildings are a regular sight. The concrete skeletons left as a home to creeping vines and the wild grasses that grow up through their vacant windows. I’m told that buildings are often the best place for people to sink their money. And as mortgages are not commonly available, being considered too great a risk, people will start building and hope that additional funds can in time be found to finish it.

The same explanation does not explain the many abandoned vehicles one encounters in Ghana. Either twisted into a mess of metal by an accident or lacking some expensive repair out of the owner’s reach, the vehicles are left to rust and decay at the side of the road or tipped headlong in the ditch.

Schools are everywhere, which means students are everywhere. They fill the open grounds beside the schools. They line the roads, traveling home. I’m proud of myself at discovering that their two-tone uniforms, brown shorts, say, matched to yellow shirts, are duplicated in the painting of the simple school house with its brown border below a band of yellow.

The terrain changes gradually as we leave the tropical palm trees and green, leafy foliage behind for thicker forest that runs all the way to the horizon. We pass through busy Techiman and then outside Kintampo the landscape changes again, this time to flatter, barer ground and dry, austere-looking shrubs and trees. This is grassland, a different kind of Africa, and the development is exciting.

As the sun falls, cooking fires pop out of the gathering dark like stars, the smoke lifting in the sky and hanging over the villages. The people themselves recede to shadow, outlines, only occasionally and temporarily illuminated by the fires.

And then, after 13 hours, four Nigerian movies and three stops for food and the bathroom (10 pesewas to pee, 20 if you have other plans), we pull in to Tamale station. A throng of taxi drivers greets us and we swing a deal of 3 cedis with one for a ride to TICCS Guesthouse, which we’ve learned of in our book.

There is some confusion at the hotel. Shawn had called earlier and been told we could have one room for three people and one for two. But now we’re told we must take two rooms for two and a third for the remaining one, driving up our costs. It’s too late to argue so we relent. Our air-con room costs us 22 cedis a night (roughly US$22).

We have a late dinner in their pleasant open-air restaurant, named the Jungle Bar, that actually offers cheeseburgers, pizza and sloppy joes on its menu. By 11 we collapse into our beds, my head still ringing some from Nigeria’s contribution to the art of film.

(Picture: The weary travelers at the Jungle Bar in Tamale: Shawn, Alice, Maria and Jeanne)

The long ride to Tamale

2008-11-17T02:35:00.000-08:00

The bus from Accra to Tamale, the capital of the Northern Region, is scheduled to take 12 hours. Such crystalline timetables are just not how it’s done in Ghana. One would, in fact, be just as well prepared if one were to make plans based on an 8 Ball: “Signs point to yes.” Time is more elastic here, it’s relative. When someone tells you on the phone “I am coming” it is only the fool who assumes he means this instant. So we prepare for a trip of a long but uncertain duration, stuffing our bags with cookies, crackers, bread, PB&J and other provisions.

The bus, expensive by Ghanaian standards at 21 cedis (about US$21), is air conditioned and comfortable. Checking the posted numbers above the seats against those on our tickets, we find ourselves relegated to the very rear. Shawn delivers the perfectly timed bon mot, “Obama wins and we get sent to the back of the bus.”

We drive through early-morning Accra, a chaotic sprawl of a city that proceeds each day with all the grace and quietude of a one-man band jumping on a trampoline. On the radio, two men excitedly discuss the U.S. election results.

“For Africa,” the DJ says, “what it really means is, as Barack said, ‘Everything is possible.’”

The hours add one to the other and we relax into the rhythm of the road. Shawn makes conversation with a missionary who has just picked up his younger brother from the airport in the city. They are now on their way back to the village outside Tamale where the older brother has spent the past two years teaching.

She loses interest when he “unapologetically” concedes that he believes homosexuality is wrong, but still contends anyone is free to attend their church. Just keep your chaps and showtunes at home.

I learn that the younger has never actually been out of the U.S. And that seems to explain why in looking at him I’m reminded of the antelope on Animal Planet just before it’s devoured by the lion. I ask him about the recent election news.

“Obama is the Democratic Party and Bush the Republican, right?” he asks me.

This does little to convince me he is equipped to have ventured so far from the boundaries of his fundamentalist Arizona church. God’s speed, little antelope.

(Picture: A couple of yam sellers along the road to Tamale)

A very promising beginning

2008-11-17T02:30:00.000-08:00

It did not seem an auspicious turn of events that the eve before our departure on Nov. 4 the lights went out. In Ghana, it can get hot in a hurry without a fan or air conditioning. More troubling still was the thought that some evil juju could be at work that would, once again, cast a spell of unelectability on the Democratic candidate in the U.S. presidential race.

Our only recourse was to retire to a favorite restaurant in hopes that they had power. Thankfully, The Tasty Jerk, an air conditioned oasis of spicy chicken and crisp yam chips, was showing the BBC on its large flat-screen TV. We ate, drank cold beer and watched the election results.

Having to rise at 5 a.m. for our bus to Tamale, we reluctantly turn in before the results are known. Perhaps I dreamt. Perhaps it involved unprovoked war, the suspension of habeas corpus and the mandates of the Geneva Convention. Maybe it included more than 700 signing statements and the contravention of individual liberties. But I can’t say for sure.

I awake to find Shawn standing next to the bed. “He won,” she whispers excitedly, careful not to wake the others who are still sleeping.

“He won,” I say. It comes out with all the groggy excitement of a kid saying, “Santa’s been here?”

“He won.”

In the dark of the early morning, we listen to Obama’s acceptance speech huddled around Jeanne’s cell phone. Her sister has called and has placed the phone next to her TV. Everything else is quiet and there is a sense that we have woken to the real possibility of a new world.

Not until we reach the bus station at about 6:30 a.m. do we see it for ourselves on a small TV above a pile of bags. Along with a waiting room full of Africans, we watch the president-elect take the stage. One of the bus attendants chants “O-ba-ma! O-ba-ma!” his hands in the air. Another man is standing and clapping his hands above his head.

We are transfixed, at once sad to be so far from home on such a day, but glad to be in Africa on the occasion of this important step forward in the history of our own country. The reality of it makes me immediately feel closer to Shawn and those in our little band of travelers: Jeanne, Alice and Maria.

Unexpectedly, I also find that I feel closer to the Africans with whom we are sitting, and that, as a sign of hope restored, is the perfect kind of sympathy of spirit, it seems to me, with which to start our journey north.

(Picture: Waiting for the bus in Accra while watching the election results on BBC)

Off to the north

2008-11-04T01:16:00.000-08:00

We are leaving Wednesday, Nov. 5, for points north and will not likely have access to the Internet. So like other kinds of programming when the creators get lazy, I have to direct you some of this blog’s older episodes.

The itinerary of our trip includes the following:

· A visit to the shea butter makers near Bolgatanga
· A few days in Burkina Faso to see the SIAO arts festival in Ouagadougou (pronounced “wag-a-doo-goo” and surely one of the greatest city names in the world)
· A stop at Ghana’s famed Mole National Park where elephant sitings are apparently common

There are at the moment five of us, me and four women. (I plan to one day offer a class to other men on how to work such arrangements.) We expect to be back in Cape Coast on Wed., Nov. 12, when we’ll offer up some new blog episodes.

Until then, cue the test pattern.

Calling all beautiful people

2008-11-04T01:12:00.000-08:00

It can be a bit dispiriting actually. The Ghanaians may in fact be the most attractive people on the planet. And while I hate to admit it, this can take a toll on a short, preternaturally hairy, white-to-transparent visitor from Oregon.

The men are all lean muscle with square, angular faces that are equally at ease wearing a serious expression or a wide smile. They transmit a calm, physical confidence that were it not for their ready grin and warm manner might put one on alert. The result tends rather to just promote a sense of nagging inadequacy.

The women, well where to start with the women? They are composed of a combination of perfectly rendered individual shapes attached one to the other. To borrow an SAT form: They are to curves as bears are to shitting in the woods. Power this ridiculously complementary collection of parts with an unhurried gait, trained to straightness from years of carrying things on their head, and you may have the real reason behind the humidity in Africa.

Far from taking it for granted, Ghanaians treat beauty very seriously. Outside growing cocoa, it may be the biggest industry in the country. You can’t swing a set of hair extensions without hitting a salon or barber shop. Even in the smallest towns, there are numerous options for getting your do done.

And one is never far from the nearest seamstress. Requiring little more than a table and a sewing machine, they are as numerous as the locations of a certain purveyor of specialty coffee drinks in the United States. Global Mamas works with many of these businesses, all of which are women owned.

With so many competitors, it seems they’ve concluded that one’s sign can be the critical difference between success and obscurity. Shops devoted to beauty have the added challenge of conveying they know beautiful by displaying suitably captivating signage. The results, while not always pretty, rarely fail to be, at least, pretty interesting.

Many choose to call on divine favor for support, or at the very least advertise that God is a regular customer. God, Jesus or some other supreme power commonly figures in the name of salons and seamstresses. From His pictures, I can see He’s partial to what we’ll call the Black Crows’ look.

Not surprisingly, everyday dress is not chosen willy nilly. Apart of teenagers, who favor the same “just-slept-in-it” look so popular with their U.S. counterparts, the rest make sure that their shirts and pants are crisply ironed, their shoes nicely polished. They convey a sartorial sophistication that would seem impossible to maintain in the wilting heat. But they manage it with aplomb.

Even the children, down to the very youngest, if they are in school, wear a uniform that they are expected to keep clean and tidy. The little boys especially, in their collared dress shirts and creased shorts, look altogether like pint-sized accountants or mini UPS drivers.

The truly striking example of the nation’s relationship with beauty is unveiled on Sundays when the streets literally bloom with colorful dresses, coats and ties, and even the traditional toga-style garments still worn by some of the men. As they walk to or from church, it’s a like a bowl of fruit has just been spilled along the roadside.

God, we can conclude, digs dressing up.

Shawn's busy design life

2008-11-04T01:01:00.000-08:00

Wieden & Kennedy has nothing on the design powerhouse Shawn has been since landing on the African continent. Much as those who know her know, simply give her a problem to solve and she’s going to spare nothing, no hemisphere of the brain, no bendable digit, no bottle of cheap local gin in finding a solution.

Global Mamas is happy to learn this as well. She brings a seriousness of purpose, mixed liberally with a love of laughter, to her projects. I’m familiar with this standard operating procedure, but even I have been impressed both by her commitment to the work and the result.

I’m only sorry that the product of her labors is not yet available for viewing by the wider world. The packaging she’s created for the new black soap and shea butter products, the latter planned to be sold in a handsome calabash, are still in the production phase. Check the Global Mamas website for their eventual introduction.

The site should also be the best place to see the annual report that she just completed. It’s an interesting read as well, providing a good picture of the important work Global Mamas is doing across Ghana for women entrepreneurs. Her current project finds her working her magic on the new wholesale catalog. I just hope the Global Mamas artisans have bags enough for the money it’s going to make them.

As for her day, they start as a early as a prizefighter’s. Up at 6:30, she is at the office by 8 a.m., often beating the paid employees. Design engines are fired by no later than 8:30. From there it’s into her designer’s fugue, with temporary stops for a cup of coffee (well, Nescafe, which can’t rightly share the name with the stuff sold at Peet’s in Portland) and a lunch of red-red (red beans and fried red plantains) or jollof rice (rice with a spicy tomato sauce).

She keeps at it, shoulder to PhotoShop, nose to InDesign, until about 4:30 or 5, when she rouses as if from a long dream and shakes her head.

I place my hand supportively on her shoulder. “You’re in Africa,” I remind her.

She smiles. “I’m in Africa.”

(Picture: The Global Mamas office in Cape Coast. See Shawn working the computer in the background.)

Your crash course in Fanti

2008-10-31T08:24:00.000-07:00

There are approximately 75 different languages spoken in Ghana. This incredible variety is really only a challenge for visitors from outside West Africa as most who grew up here speak a polyglot of dialects. The most prominent languages are Twi, Fanti, Ga, Ewe and Hausa.

At the time of Ghana’s independence in 1957, Twi was actually put forth as a possible national language. Ethnic infighting took care of that, forcing authorities to seek a solution in the language of the most recent colonizer. Lucky for us. Because the native tongues are a bear to get a handle on.

For those looking to fill out their Fanti, I’ve culled a list of important words as identified in the “English to Fanti” translation guide published by Gospel Ambassadors Church and peddled by the busy vendors working the traffic lines throughout Accra. Happy bilingualism, everyone.

Ennui – Enyi haw
Leper – Ɔkwatanyi
Hunchback – Efu/akyakya
Pus – Kur-mu-nsu
Cloyed – Biribi afon wo
Enema – Asa
Iniquity – Emumuye
Concubine – Nwenwe/Mpona
Matrimonial troubles – Awarmu-Ntawa ntawa
Embalm – Rebo fun h o ban ho ban
Deceaded – Obi a w’ewu
Regicide – Ɔhen-kum

For those looking to go further, here are some sample phrases that you may or, um, may not find handy:

The tallest among us should squat.
Hɔn a wcye atsentsenfo wɔ henmu no mbɔ hɔnmu adze

My manner of walking is an inborn.
Me nantsew fi m’awosomu/wɔdze me nantsew woo me.

Let’s block our ears to any hearsay.
Mma yentsie akekasem biara.

The door has nipped my finger.
Abow no afew me nsa atseba.

Don’t covet my property.
Mma w’enyi mber m’agyapadze.

Don’t arrogate evil deeds to me.
Mma nfa bɔn nsusu me.

Are you here to ridicule me?
Ana ebae de rebeyi me ehi anaa?

Never in my life will I allow a woman to dominate over me.
Merentsie mma basia nhye medo da.

Why have you frowned your face?
Ebenadze ntsi nna aka w’enyim esi dem.

He has slobbered all over the pillow.
N’ano ekyi nsu taka egu sundze nodo nyinara.

There is a long queue at the standpipe.
Nyimpa pii atow santsen wɔ paap ano hɔ.

Look! The clothesline is sagging.
Hwe de ahoma no resian famu.

I have crunched some tiny stone.
M’akaw abobaa ketsewa bi mu.

Sniff at it and see whether it has gone bad or not.
Hua hew de nka aba mu anaa-de nka mmbaa mu.

The scent of the meat makes me want to vomit.
Nam no nenka ye me abofon/ ama mepe de mefe.

Don’t come and parasite on me.
Mma mbesi mekɔn ho/mma ngye mensamu edziban ndzi.

Too much water has made the fufu soggy.
Nsu dodow no ama fufu no egow/aye mberew.

I have a jaded appetite.
Me kɔn ndc hwee mpo.

Go and have the plates sponged.
Hew kitsa pretse ahorow nomu.

The shoes punch me.
Mpaboa no kyer me dodow.

Don’t sway your hips at me, you bad girl.
Ɔwo akatasia bɔn, hew na anwosow wo sisiw ankyere me.

I said I was celibate mere as a joke.
Mehyee da ara kae de menwar.

Janet is not a nubile girl.
Ewuraba Janet ɔnsoe awar.

Some people are too much saturated with nonsense.
Nyimpa binom dzi nsem gyangyan nkotsee.

(Picture: An Abompe beadmaker)

Ben and Boadu

2008-10-31T08:18:00.001-07:00

If Abompe is to achieve its goals of becoming an eco-tourist destination, it will be because of young men like Ben and Boadu. They are the developing leaders of their village, with one foot in the old ways, the traditions and cultural isolation, and one foot in the new possibilities. Theirs is a new and increasingly complicated culture, of the Internet, of cell phones, one in which the far-flung corners of the world have been stitched together more than ever before.

During our stay, both of them exhibited a commitment to their community that was based not on immediate benefits, but on the promise, at some point down the road, of advancement for all. It takes a certain kind of person, an openhearted, forward-thinking person , to agree to forego payment for work for a period of months, or years, for the sake of the greater good.

This, it seems to me, is the difference between a transaction and an investment, between stagnation and development. Both Boadu and Ben seem to understand this distinction. Their hard work, and they are tireless, is a kind of sweat equity. When not leading tours, working with beadmakers, helping organize a fledgling bamboo bike project or supporting a mother and two younger siblings, Ben studies mechanical engineer in a town some distance from Dwenase.

Boadu, for his part, is married and only months earlier lost his first child to complications at birth. He waves this off with a smile, as if it were no greater a tragedy than arriving a few minutes late for an appointment. He does what he has to to get by, be it leading tours or digging bauxite.

Incredibly, they make no requests of us. With a sincerity that nearly breaks one’s heart they want only to make a connection, a personal connection, share a moment, perhaps a laugh. They want us to know that our visit is appreciated, that we are appreciated. We have searched and of all the places in the world our resources could have taken us, we chose this little piece of jungle. That is significant. Perhaps, if one is inclined to think this way, it might also be fate.

After only a couple of days I feel a great affection for these two young men. I want so desperately for them what they want for themselves, and their community, that it nearly hurts to breathe. I’m sincerely sad when it is time to leave. As much as is possible, given the things that separate us, they have become friends.

So I say to them now, Ben and Boadu, thank you. Thank you for everything. And all the very best of luck.

Digging Abompe, part 4

2008-10-30T04:03:00.000-07:00

Ben informs me that bauxite falls fourth on the list of principal sources of income in the area behind cocoa, coffee and plantain. It’s difficult to tell where the illegal gold mining operation we passed earlier in the morning figures on that list, though I’m guessing the foreign bosses, who we are to encounter some hours later in their new Land Rovers, don’t much care.

Bauxite has nevertheless been a mainstay of the local economy since the early 1900s as the preferred material for the beads that are such an important part of the local culture. The brown rock, which to be honest looks a bit like dried crap, is said to take on an attractive sheen from its contact with the skin, turning a glossy brown over time.

After another half an hour of humping through the branch and brush, Ben points out the first of a series of abandoned pits. Largely grown over, they are not exactly what I expect. When I think mining, I think monumental gashes carved into hillside, big holes, Bob the Builder sorts of equipment. I expect a busy beehive of men.

But incredibly these pits are dug by hand, in most cases to a depth of only about 15 to 20 feet and then laterally as long as the vein of bauxite cooperates. And more incredibly still, I am informed that Sam, a one-time Nigerian tailor, is the only miner of the stuff in the area. Each of the dozen or more holes we passed were his doing and his alone. He does not seem to share my stupefaction at this news and only offers a passing smile with a mouth largely free of teeth.

We are sitting at his current site, a red hole in the ground, and he’s changing his clothes to get to work. By its simplicity, the spot could’ve just as easily been the work of some subterranean animal except for the little clefts that have been carved into the walls for hand and foot holds. He does not tarry long, every moment here being an opportunity to dig. So he quickly disappears, followed by Boadu, who has agreed to help him.

Ben remains up top to describe the process. I ask questions and he translates, shouting them down to Sam in the hole. Nearby sits a battered bucket attached to a line of raffia taken from a palm tree for pulling up the rock. A simple makeshift rack made of sticks teeters above a pile of ash; this is Sam’s grill where he smokes any bush meat he happens to kill.

And for his labor, the four-hour hike, an average of four hours in the dark of a 20-foot pit, that you must dig yourself, the chipping free of the rock and hoisting it up, and the ridiculously difficult job of then transporting the rocks, typically at a weight of 35 kilos to 50 kilos, on one’s head back down the mountain, for this, on a good day, Sam can expect to make no more than 10 cedis, the equivalent of US$10.

I ask Ben to ask Sam if this is enough. I do not speak Twi, but when I hear the answer echo up from the hole, I understand it clearly enough.

“But if Sam is the only miner, and therefore the only seller, of bauxite, can’t he dictate the price paid by the beadmakers in town?” I ask. I am stunned by the answer.

“No,” Ben says. “It’s not like that. People here don’t respect this work. People think that if you are not a farmer then you are lazy.”

(Picture: Boadu in the mine)

Digging Abompe, part 3

2008-10-29T06:48:00.000-07:00

Now we begin to climb. It is rocky, uneven ground and slow going. The surrounding brush does not permit much room on either side and at times it’s like tiptoeing up a steep, bumpy balance beam. Thankfully we’re largely in shade so saved the added insult of being squeezed dry by the sun.

It very quickly becomes clear that Calum’s flip flops aren’t going to suffice. Hiking boots they are not. By this point his feet look like a couple of yams just pulled from the ground. Boadu offers the rubber, knee-high Wellington boots that pass for hiking gear with him and Sam. Calum thanks him but declines.

Boadu then exhibits a resourcefulness that is truly inspiring, configuring a crude heel from a stray piece of cord cut from one of the bags. Calum is very appreciative. And we all express admiration for Boadu’s quick thinking.

“My name, Boadu, it mean to help someone 10 times without getting tired,” he says smiling.

“But on the 11th time you’re on your own,” I joke.

Everyone laughs, Boadu mostly hardily. Shaking his head, he says, “Mr. Greg, you are my funny father.”

And then we resume our climb. Conversation largely ceases, except for Suzanne who manages to belt out a line from this song or that, showing an incredible breadth in her catalog, before going quiet again. Our breaks for water become increasingly frequent, and a source of some curiosity to Sam, who we are to learn makes this trek three times a week. We agree that we would not undertake it three times a week if there were a gondola, and a Starbucks at the top.

After another hour we finally reach the cave. It is the home away from home for Sam and local hunters when in the bush. Situated beside a gurgling mountain stream, the accommodation is less a cave than a sliver of cover made by a rocky overhang. For beds, visitors use the wooden planks that have in some spots been laid on the rock. I ask if it comes with a continental breakfast.

As it happens, it does. And Boadu carves up the most delicious papaya, or pawpaw as it’s called here, I’ve ever had (I agree with Shawn that it typically tastes like some unidentifiable meat). Ben tells us that at times as many as 100 people sleep up here. It is sincerely hard to imagine.

Then it’s back to our new favorite pastime, climbing. Boadu and Sam try to encourage us by ensuring us it is only “30 minutes more.” By the third of these promises, they prove good to their word and the land flattens out. We now look down on a valley of the profoundest green. One feels that if he were to jump off the edge the thick leafy canopy would catch you.

(Picture: Boadu, left, and Sam Ofori)

Digging Abompe, part 2

2008-10-29T05:50:00.000-07:00

We awake at 5 a.m. for our hike. Our hope is that an early start will give us a jump on the sun, which can be brutal in the afternoon. Hell, it can be brutal in the morning, it’s Africa. But when you’re with the only obroni in town the simple 3K walk from Dwenase to Abompe can involve a lot of glad handing.

Abompe seems a slightly larger village than its neighbor, and is equipped with its own equatorial church shoehorned onto the end of town. We buy egg sandwiches from a woman for breakfast, and then a back-up for the walk. We also fill our packs with bags of water.

By 7 a.m., having connected with Ben and the other guide, Boadu, we set off just as the town is beginning to rouse for the day. People greet us warmly as we pass, nodding and pointing back toward the mountain. We follow the dirt road out of Abompe for a mile or so. In the distance, a thick veil of mist hangs on Mt. Bepobeng and the surrounding hills.

As we walk, I am struck by the total Africa-ness of it all. In my imagination, reading Sir Richard Burton and Graham Greene and watching Bo Derek’s “Tarzan,” this is the Africa I envisioned. It is lush and green and busy with birds and enormous swaying leaves. School children pass in their uniforms. Women move up the road with a baby on their back and a pot on their head. A man rattles by on a bike.

At some point we turn off the road onto a dirt trail that leads off into the jungle. Suzanne, looking at Calum’s and Emily’s flip flops warns us that this is a not a stroll; this is a proper hike that will take us deep into the bush and up a steep, uneven trail for hours. Hours?

But this first leg is easy and pleasant, leading us through rolling country and dense stands of maize and cassava. We could not have asked for better guides. Both Ben and Boadu are friendly, attentive leaders. At one point, Boadu stops us inside a shady grove of trees and cuts down a yellow football-shaped fruit. Cracking it open against the tree, he offers it over.

“Cocoa,” he says. “You can eat.”

We dig our fingers inside and scoop out the gooey beans that would otherwise go into making chocolate. They’re apparently too bitter to eat, but sucking on the covering of each bean makes for a delicious, sweet treat. We dispatch it in short order like a bunch of POWs.

From there, we cross swampy stretches from the recent rains and trickling rivulets originating high in the mountains. At one point, we hop the rocks across a little stream I’m told is named “Emaapenam,” which translates, inexplicably, to “Women Like Meat.” I’m too frightened to ask.

We also step gingerly over thick columns of ants. Some are large enough that we are forced run through them as if across a bed of hot coals, and that is precisely what it feels like on your skin when some inevitably find your uncovered foot or work their way up your pant leg to more juicier regions.

After an hour or so, the trail narrows. The surrounding grasses press right up against you and you have to move through with your hands in front of your face. Out of nowhere Sam, the bauxite miner who was to have met us in town, appeared. Wearing red pants and pink shirt, he moved to the front, where he wields his machete (or “cutlass” as they’re called in Ghana, which has a swashbuckling flavor I like) to clear the way.

Boadu uses his own a short time later to cut down a papaya for us.

“For later,” he says. “When we get to the cave.”

Cutlasses? Caves? Have I died and gone to “Goonies”?

(Picture: Boadu feeding Suzanne some cocoa, with Emily watching)

Digging Abompe, part 1

2008-10-27T09:07:00.001-07:00

In Osino, we told the taxi driver, “The obruni house.” He nodded as matter of factly as if we had said, “Take us to the house that is on fire.” When you stand out as much as Suzanne, the resident Peace Corps volunteer, does in the small village of Dwenase, you might as well be on fire.

Dwenase is a small, one-street town with a dusty central roundabout. In the middle of the circle stands a mile post pointing you to the four nearest villages. It seemed a comical attempt at worldliness for a population that typically spends its entire life within a few miles of home, but I appreciated their nod to big-city ways.

At the end of the main street, just before the jungle starts, sits a small church that looks altogether like something out of a Conrad novel. One can almost hear the Ennio Morricone score in the background. These people take their God seriously. They name their stores after him, mark their taxis with his name and fear him with all the intensity of community of penitents.

Calum, Emily and I found ourselves in Dwenase, after no fewer than four vehicle changes, to visit the bauxite mines from which Global Mamas gets the materials for a line of necklaces and bracelets. Suzanne was our contact and had kindly set up the trek that would take us high into the surrounding mountains the next morning to see where the material is quarried.

An enthusiastic hostess, she greeted us with great warmth to the small compound she has called home for the last 1.5 years. Her mission has been to help Abompe establish itself as an eco-tourist destination. For our hike, she explained, we would be joined by two local young men she was training to be tour guides.

But this first afternoon we contented ourselves with relaxing and getting to know each other, and at Calum’s urging, to finding some local spirits. We ditched our bags, and after collecting Ben, one of the guides who would join us the next day, we hoofed it out into the bush to find a local palm wine tapper Suzanne new of.

We found the tappers, but unfortunately there was no wine to be had; the tree, alas, was dead. The keg was dry. The leader of the group of five or six men, who informed us of this sad fact, had but one eye and sat absently playing with a machete. I’m no forensic scientist but it seemed easy to put two and two together.

So we walked back into the village to a small, unnamed “spot” (see post of Oct. 24), delightfully adorned with creeping vines and flowers. The real attraction was they had electricity. To us, that meant cold beer. To the kids peeking through the fence from the road, it meant they had TV, which was showing a bloody Ghanaian movie at high volume when we arrived.

We had picked up George, a local beadmaker, by this point. The six of us had a few drinks, bought some more to go, and found some provisions for dinner. We then returned to Suzanne’s house. By this time, the sun was setting and the first of the symphony of night creatures had begun to sing.

As we sat on the porch, beneath a brilliant sky and facing the rocky escarpment rising in the distance, Ben worked a pair of charcoal braziers like Ghana’s Iron Chef to make us a delicious dinner of rice balls and ground nut (peanut) soup. We ate and laughed, and I was struck by how sometimes the simplest pleasures are easiest to find in the dark.

The Shalom Spot, part 2

2008-10-27T09:03:00.000-07:00

Alas, we’d had just enough to drink to make commandeering a taxi from its reluctant driver seem like a good idea. So that’s how Renae ended up behind the wheel and the dumbstruck, and no doubt slightly scared, driver in the back seat. We would find a bar that would have us and that’s all there was to it.

Kpong, the next town over, had no idea what do with us. It was midnight, and we milled around its darkened streets, all the businesses closed by this hour, asking everyone we encountered if there were any place to get a drink. We did this for longer than you might think. We were persistent.

Then I met Elvis. Who knew the King had departed Graceland for this decidedly more rustic African backwater? But there he was. An incredibly kind and gentle man of indeterminate middle age, he took on our problem with as much earnestness as if we were searching for penicillin or the Arc of the Covenant.

He knew of a place, he said, and pointed back up the road we’d just come down. Alone now, as the abducted taxi driver had wisely escaped, we started walking. Elvis explained our predicament to each townsperson we met along the way. He would listen, nod and then point us farther up the road.

At some point, I don’t know when, a woman joined us and took the lead. So, of course, we blindly followed. After a few hundred yards, we turned down a dark dirt sidestreet. Scrofulous dogs skulked off into the shadows at our approach. The moon gave everything a silvery luster it could never match during the day. We finally stopped before a small wood structure that would’ve stored garden tools at home. Welcome to the Shalom Spot.

A small light behind the makeshift bar revealed a row of bottles. Never have five drunken fools been so happy to find more things to drink. All we could get Elvis to take for his time and trouble was a Coke. This gentle, sweet man was content merely to sit with us, listen to our nonsensical ramblings and drink his soda.

After an hour, it was time to leave and he insisted on walking us much of the mile or so back to Odumase. On the dark road, in the moonlight, we shook hands, snapping our fingers in the Ghanaian style.

He smiled. “I’m happy to meet you,” he said to Calum and me.

“We’re so happy to meet you,” I said. “Thank you for your help.”

Pleased, his smile broadened. “OK, bye bye.”

“Bye bye, Elvis,” we said.

(Picture: Calum and some of his friends, and me and Elvis, with his dukes up, in the Shalom Spot)

The Shalom Spot, part 1

2008-10-24T08:39:00.001-07:00

Rather than venture back to Accra, which had been our plan, we returned, instead, to the Odumase house so we could keep an eye on Jeanne for the night. After suffering through the multi-hour drive in a fevered trance, she immediately took to her bed clutching a copy of The Big Book of Horrible Tropical Diseases. We all felt for her.

As we unloaded our bags and wiped off the layer of red dust that had collected on us during the drive, Shawn actually began to feel sick as well. Mostly just tired, she claimed, she took up a post in bed with a book. The rest of us, perhaps sensing our number could be up at any moment, did what any reasonable person would do: We went out for drinks.

To use the word “bar” to describe the typical drinking establishment in towns the size of Odumase is really an insult to actual bars. Usually referred to as a “spot,” as in Kwame’s Spot or Chicago Spot, they are often little more than just that, small, spartan, interchangeable nothings that are barely a step up from a lemonade stand.

The place at which we had first stopped, only to find it closed, is little more than an old shipping container that has been outfitted with a couple of crude tables. The “bar” is a Rubbermaid cooler that manages to make the beer only slightly colder than it would be if simply stacked at the foot of a nearby palm tree.

We had intended on one beer. By our third, at around 11:30, the sleepy proprietress, having weighed the relative benefits of sleep and a group of five increasingly intoxicated obronis (whites), inexplicably chose sleep. And so it was that we found ourselves bounced back into the night.

(Picture: Laura and Calum enjoy the cheap seats during our journey.)

Talking kente in Tafi Abuife

2008-10-24T08:36:00.000-07:00

You know you’re in Tafi Abuife when you see the enormous tree at the side of the road. It looks like a frozen waterfall and seems unfortunately in an advancing state of death.

There’s nothing to immediately distinguish the village from any other. It is composed of a scattering of mud and thatch dwellings baking in the sun, wandering bunches of goats, stray chickens and the ever-present jungle, which crowds close by seemingly in wait to reclaim the patch of clear ground for itself.

Kids in shirts but no pants, or pants but no shirts, appear and look on in wonder as seven whiteys pile out of a car. Word of our arrival travels quickly and we’re barely all out and stretched when Aikins, the resident guide, appears.

The village and its evolving tourist-minded consciousness is the work of a Peace Corps volunteer who is unfortunately traveling the day we arrive. So the work of explaining the famed Ghanaian kente cloth and accompanying us around the village to see it made falls to Aikins, and his sister, Paulina. “She is just learning about be tour guide,” he tells us.

A short distance from the car, one can already hear the distinctive clack clack of many looms at work. Everyone in Tafi Abuife learns how to weave kente cloth. It is a birthright, a responsibility and a lifelong enterprise. Before a child is 10, they have already committed many of the complex designs to memory. When I asked Aikins, age 22, how many designs he knew, he puffed up his face and shook his head.

“More than 100?”

“Oh, yes, more than 100.”

“More than 200?”

“Yes.”

“More than 500?”

He waves off continuing our fun guessing game. “Too many to count,” he says.

We stroll through a cluster of mud huts as the rhythm of the weavers gets louder. In a clearing a group of six or seven work with the kind of calm speed and precision that only comes from practiced expertise. Beside the dull brown of the huts, the yellows and reds and oranges of the thread seem of a different order of brightness.

The weavers glance at us out of the corner of an eye. One, a boy of 12 or 13, sneaks a peek at me from inside the hood of his sweatshirt. Meanwhile, their feet move, their hands move, and line by laborious line the cloth is weaved. Incredibly, the looms, which to me seem no less complex than the human endocrine system, are fashioned from sticks taken directly from the surrounding forest.

Each of the numerous designs has a story. Back at the simple “visitor’s center,” which can only be called that because we happen to be visitors and happen to be inside it, Aikins describes the background of a half a dozen of the designs. Shawn and I end up buying two, one bearing what’s called the “small eye” design and a second using “the hunter’s path.” They cost a mere US$5 each.

It is many minutes after leaving the village, rumbling down the dusty road, before the pleasant, percussive rhythm of the looms begins finally to recede.

Monkey fun in Tafi Atome

2008-10-23T08:23:00.000-07:00

The ride out from Mountain Paradise was not nearly as spine-jarring as the ride in, and our first stop proved only a short distance away. We arrived to find the guides lolling beneath a sprawling, leafy tree. It was quiet. Not a lot of monkey watchers today, it seemed. We paid our fee, secured a cluster of bananas and then without much fanfare set off for the nearby jungle.

At a shady spot on the dirt trail, our guide, Kofi, offered up the story of the sanctuary’s history. It was, he told us, the project of a Canadian named John Mason, who, upon learning that the forest’s rapid disappearance could take the resident Mona monkeys with it, worked with local authorities, communities and conservation groups to establish the small refuge. Today it is home to about 500 Mona monkeys, while providing some much-needed additional income to local residents.

At a bend in the trail Kofi called into the dense foliage and in moments it was a monkey party in the trees over our heads. Out of nowhere they appeared, bounding from branch to branch, achieving in their reckless enthusiasm a passing resemblance to our annual party in college we called “50 Ways to Lose Your Liver.”

Kofi showed how if you held out a banana, making sure to grip it tightly, a monkey would approach and then very fastidiously unpeel it, remove a piece with its small, delicate fingers and eat. We did this until the entire bunch was gone. It was thrilling to be so close and to have made this connection, separated only by a single banana. I could’ve repeated the process all day and was sorry when we were empty handed.

Unsure if these larger, walking brothers could produce more, the monkeys stuck close until we tossed the last peel into the forest and carried on down the trail. A short walk through sunlight-dappled jungle brought us finally back to the car.

(Picture: One of the littlest, and most coquettish, of Tafi Atome's residents)

On the road, part 6

2008-10-23T08:17:00.000-07:00

It turns out Jeanne’s malingering crud is, well, malingering. When she’s out of earshot the word “malaria” is bandied about. I’m struck by how pleasant sounding a word it is. It could be a Latin dance or a tasty Italian fizzy drink. Here, in a part of the world where it continues to devastate communities, it is about as common a topic of conversation as “Brangelina” is in the states.

The trouble is malaria can apparently be a difficult thing to diagnose as the damnable disease shares symptoms with a host of other ailments, including the flu and the run-of-the-mill hangover. Even the blood test can return false or misleading results.

A long way from a physical exam, Jeanne elected to press on with the day’s schedule: visits to nearby Tafi Atome, home to a monkey sanctuary, and Tafi Abuife, a working kente village. She spends the drive sitting blankly staring out the window, only occasionally digging her hand into a bag of corn flakes.

(Picture: The nasty malaria mosquito)

On the road, part 5

2008-10-22T08:11:00.000-07:00

Having added Jean and Laura from the Odumase house, there were now seven of us traveling in Renae’s Mazda SUV. This translates to exactly 231 damaged vertebrae courtesy of the road, or what passes for a road, that takes you to the Mountain Paradise Hotel.

To get to this idyllic hilltop spot, which sits alone above a spectacular expanse of dark green forest, you must first bounce along for an hour, long enough to nearly jar your teeth loose from your head. I have never driven down a flight of stairs, but it cannot be much different.

And if you happen to make the trip during the funeral of three local teachers, you must also pass through long processions of enthusiastic mourners who will crowd your vehicle like flood water, singing, banging their drums and dancing. Do not request “Freebird”; they don’t know it.

The place is worth the trip. A refuge from the heat of the valley, it is well looked after, comfortable and inexpensive. And even though you can wait nearly two hours for dinner, you’ve ordered spaghetti Bolognese and it will be better than you expect. Though it likely benefits some from being eaten in the dark as the Mountain Paradise has no electricity.

Whether due to the food, the washing machine of a drive or some local bit of misdirected voodoo, Jeanne falls ill. It seems to come on all of sudden and she goes pale as the oatmeal that she can’t be bothered to eat the next morning. We go to bed hoping it is temporary.

(Picture [from left to right]: Shawn, Laura [England], Jeanne [U.S.], Carmen [U.S.], Renae [U.S.], Calum [Scotland])

On the road, part 4

2008-10-21T07:36:00.000-07:00

Where to start with a city called Ho? I mean, come on, it’s like naming your kid Dick. Despite, or because of its name, we next ventured to this capital of the Volta region, opening up a million comedic possibilities in the process.

We had actually come to visit Global Mamas’ northernmost production “facility.” This is a slightly more grandiose word than is called for to describe the simple one room that the four seamstresses occupy. But they, along with a nearby team of batikers, are just getting started and have high hopes of growing, having already begun to eye a neighboring building as a likely next move.

The madam, which is what one calls a lead seamstress in Ghana, even outside cities called Ho, is a beautiful young Togolese woman named Asana (right in picture) whose dress is bested only by her smile. This she uses, and to great effect, to fill in the holes of her halting English. Despite the language divide, she and the other women manage to convey a sense of great optimism for the future of their fledgling partnership with Global Mamas.

After an hour, we thanked them and departed. As they stood and waved, I tried to send them whatever good luck I might have to offer. They seemed so alone standing there in the door of their small shop. But the reality is they represent a great many; their success could be the difference not only for them, but for their children, their parents, their nieces and nephews, and who knows who else. So sew away, you Hos, I say, sew away.

(Picture: The seamstresses of Ho, the madam on the right)

On the road, part 3

2008-10-21T07:31:00.001-07:00

Having seen the beads, we spent the morning learning about how they are made. It is a laborious, multi-step process that seems wholly out a scale with the price they fetch. We start at the home of Grace Adjimir.

You can find her by leaving the dirt road and following a narrow path through a field of corn and cassava until you come to a grove of stunted palm trees. You know you’re getting close when you begin to notice on the ground bits of broken glass and pieces of the clay forms used to make the beads. You also see discarded razor blades. These, we are to learn, are used to cut the cassava stalks that make the holes for the beads.

Grace’s office is a patch of red earth beneath a simple thatch roof. Here she and her nephew spend their day pounding bottles into powder, pouring the powder into forms and stoking the earthen kilns that then fire the powder into beads. When done, the beads are polished by hand against a stone. It is a process that can hardly have changed for generations, which is borne out by the deep groove in the stone.

It is hot, and the ovens spew out the acrid smoke made by the melting bottles. But no one seems to mind. They go about their business with an unhurried precision. Everything is fine. They have orders. Against the wall sit sacks full of bottles. They are healthy enough to work. This is success.

Edna Kwame, the first of the women to partner with Global Mamas six years ago, is doing well for herself. She is young and carries a confidence in her stride as she moves from the oven to the small stool where she sits to paint the cooled beads.

We make more of all this than she does. To her it is just making beads; it is what she does. It is, very likely, what she will always do. In this way, it is little different than getting up in the morning or eating fried plantains or laughing, which she does often.

“Edna is an industry all on her own,” Renae says. “She can fill orders no matter how big and is always on time. I don’t know how she does it.”

Edna pretends not to listen as paints tiny suns on a row of beads, but I can see that she is smiling.

(Picture: Edna Kwame at work)

On the road, part 2

2008-10-20T06:39:00.000-07:00

Koforidua seems suspended, like so many Ghanaian cities, between the village life from which many of its inhabitants come and a noisome encroaching modernity. Cars move up and down the narrow streets beside farmers sitting sleepily beside a pile of dirty yams. Wandering goats stop long enough to stare dumbly at their reflections in a row of televisions in a shop front.

We had come to the city for its popular Thursday bead market. This busy collection of artisans and merchants is the principal source for the beads that go into Global Mamas’ line of jewelry. In the hour- plus we walked the market, we were stunned by the variety, dropped some more cedis and had a chance to meet a handful of the beadmakers.

Florence is a large woman with a small voice. She and her husband, Ellis, have built a successful business and these days look after the largest table in the market. It boasts beads of every conceivable design, color and size. One particular strand looks suspiciously to me like old Knicker Knockers.

Lizzy’s English is better than she lets on. At Renae’s urging, she tells us a story about how six months earlier her house had been burgled and she’d lost many strings of beads and about $300, a princely sum for a beadmaker. But when we gasped and asked what she did, she merely shrugged and smiled. “Make beads,” she said.

Happy proved to be aptly named and responded as if every question I put to her about her business tickled her to no end. Why does she make beads? (Laughter) Because her mother made beads. Why did her mother make beads? (Louder laughter) Because her grandmother made beads. This combination of practicality and good humor is as artful a cultural distinction in Ghana as the cuisine is in Italy or the impoliteness is in France.

All the women see Global Mamas as a lifesaver. By paying on time, keeping the beadmakers busy with regular orders, and offering classes on free trade and bookkeeping, the organization has enabled the women to save money and invest in their business.

The beads themselves come in two varieties: transparent and powder. Both are created largely from discarded beer bottles. I felt proud that in our short time here we’d already contributed mightily to their raw material stockpile. If you’re Irish, might I recommend the black beads: They’re taken exclusively from Guinness empties.

We spent the night in the Global Mamas volunteer house in the town of Odumasi. It is a simple, and in fact unfinished, cement block structure that despite being short on modern comforts, like a working refrigerator, proved a very nice stop. Thanks go to Jean and Laura, the two volunteers staying at the house, who greeted us with snacks and a surprisingly complete array of booze options.

(Picture: Florence’s table at the Koforidua bead market)

On the road, part 1

2008-10-20T06:27:00.000-07:00

At 239,000 square kilometers, Ghana is just about equivalent to the size of Oregon. Over the last week and a half, we nibbled off of a corner of it. And let me assure you it’s packed with flavor and more than your daily allowance of tasty nutrients.

Carmen Iezzi, the executive director of the Fair Trade Federation, was in Ghana to meet some of her Ghana-based federation members. Renae, the Ghana half of Global Mamas and one of those members, played tour guide and kindly invited Shawn and I, as well as a couple other GM volunteers, to join them on a whirlwind tour.

We departed Accra on Thursday morning and ventured northeast toward Koforidua in the Eastern Region. Along the way we stopped in Aburi, a woodworking village where Shawn and I did our part to invigorate the local economy. I wouldn’t call it a buying frenzy, but whatever the step is before frenzy would be accurate enough for Fox News.

The road is surprisingly well maintained and takes you through some stunning country. Close your eyes and imagine “Africa” and you are likely, without perhaps being aware of it, conjuring up images of Ghana. It is green. It is lush. It is hot. The sun is as bright and insistent as a nuclear detonation. People follow the roadside, some on their way to sell the things on their head and others on their way to gather up things to deposit there.

Thirsty, we stopped for palm wine. Should you find yourself on the road between Aburi and Koforidua, and have a hankering for the sweet, frothy spirit, simply look for a table or pole with an upturned calabash. This is your sign that the “bar” is open. We filled up an empty water bottle’s worth, 1.5 liters, for 1 cedi, 50 pesewas, or about US$1.50. Think of a less fizzy wine cooler mixed with warm bathwater.

Warning: If you do visit the local palm wine vendor, and you do fill up a water bottle, keep in mind that it continues to ferment all by itself. So if you cap the bottle and, say, stop for lunch somewhere and leave the bottle in the car, and then return an hour later and look to enjoy post-meal pick-me-up, point the bottle away from your face.

(Picture: One happy wood carver in Aburi)

Out of office

2008-10-08T02:36:00.001-07:00

Due to a trip out of town, we have to hang the "Gone fishin'" sign on the blog for a couple of days. If you just can't live without your African fix, I recommend Ryzard Kapucinski's Shadown of the Sun. It is an incredible collection of reportage from across the continent by a man with a keen eye for the telling detail. Though I warn that returning to our blog on Monday will be like pushing aside that perfectly grilled filet mignon for a return to a bowl of Fruity Pebbles.

You can also enjoy another tantalizing photo from the Kotakaraba Market butcher's shop. Bon appetit!

The man in the gold robe

2008-10-07T04:01:00.000-07:00

I was relieved to discover, once free of the Ramadan parade, that the pictures I’d taken had, in fact, turned out. They were actually pretty good. Even though the chances seemed a bit remote that I would ever again be able to find the man who’d asked me to take them, I decided there was little harm in trying.

I learned that just upstairs from the Oceanview Internet café, which is actually a café only insofar as it offers warm bottles of Coke, a photo service could print my pictures for 1 cedi (US$1) each. I got two copies of each, and then ventured to the market.

Kotakaraba Street is the principal thoroughfare in Cape Coast. It is a busy, bustling corridor of cars, trucks, men pushing carts, goats, pedestrians, people with stuff on their heads. It can be a distinct challenge to walk as the street is narrow and what passes for a sidewalk is nothing more than a narrow strip with the honking taxis on one side and an open sewer on the other.

To make matters more complicated, as you walk this tightrope fellow pedestrians and those in the shops regularly call to you: “Obroni!” This is actually one part greeting, one part simple identification as the word means “white person.” Respond with a wave and smile and you are sure to receive the same in return, likely followed by “How are you?” But you also put yourself in jeopardy of tumbling into the trough of odiferous muck.

After passing shops selling cell phones (they are everywhere), stores peddling piles of colorful plastic tubs, hanging racks of flip flops, the occasional pharmacy, a mosque, booths selling what I take to be chicken parts, others selling banku (fermented corn meal) wrapped in banana leaves, you reach the entrance to the market.

It doesn’t look like much from the outside, but this rabbit warren of narrow paths takes you into beehive of commercial activity. Beside a stand offering hair brushes is one selling fabric beside another with piles of yams on display. And it goes on and on, around this corner, down that blind passageway.

At first I just walked, scrutinizing those in the booths for the man in the gold robe. But very soon it was clear that that approach would’ve taken forever, and likely without ever finding him. So, as everyone does when faced with a difficult situation, I approached a woman selling wigs.

“Do you know this man?” I asked, showing her the picture.

This instantly attracted a group of her fellow merchants. Inspecting the picture, they gabbled away in Fanti, each pointing off in different direction. I felt a kind of pleasant release at actually interacting with them while not being the center of attention.

“The mosque,” the woman said, pitching them again into excited Fanti.

“Out there?” I asked, confused.

They had now reached agreement and confidently gestured to, I presumed, the mosque I’d passed before reaching the market. So I thanked them, exited and chatted up a couple of sleepy guys in long robes. They pointed me back up the street toward the market.

What followed was half a dozen similar stops, each inciting different recommendation. Finally, at a store called, and I’m not kidding, God Says Phones, the young man I’d approached took a long look at the picture.

“What is your problem with this man?” he asked protectively.

“Oh, no problem,” I assured him. “I just want to give him this picture.”

This seemed to satisfy him. “He is a butcher. In the market.”

So I returned to the market. After another couple of inquiries, a young man led me to the butcher’s shop. And there he was, the man in the gold robe, only now he was holding a goat head in his hands.

You would’ve thought I’d delivered him a pile of diamonds. A greater welcome and a more appreciative recipient I could not have found. The butchers, at least 10 men, all crowded around and, amid the swarm of flies, inspected the pictures and kidded their colleague, who I now knew was called Igual (in red shirt).

I took some pictures of the guys posing with their favorite carcass and then departed with heartfelt thanks. Never have I had such fun in offal house.

Fun with fufu

2008-10-06T08:45:00.000-07:00

The national staple across much of West Africa is cassava. This unsuspecting tuber is combined with plantain turned into a gooey, flavorless glop of starch called fufu. Its relative solidity and texture can best be compared to, well, nothing pleasant.

And it’s no easy transformation. Women toil at this time-consuming task for hours every day, mashing away in a large stone mortar using a piece of wood as big as a fence post. Sitting on low stools, they bring this monster pestle down time and again until the contents are turned into a dense, creamy mass. Walk through a Ghanaian village or town and you are nearly certain to hear that metronome of hammering.

Eaten with the hand, fufu is not intended to be chewed, but, rather, swallowed like a clot of phlegm. To chew it, or to scoop it with a spoon, is to open oneself to the jeering and ridicule of your Ghanaian friends. It is akin, perhaps, to drinking your whiskey with a straw.

Fufu is served actually dropped into bowls of soup to sit like a goopy island in a sea of ground nut, palm nut or something called “light” soup, which is largely a vegetable broth. It’s intended to give some heft to the dishes, which at most include a few pieces of okra.

Aside from the obvious drawbacks of plunging your hand into a bowl of hot soup, it can be exceedingly hard to get to your mouth without some falling and splashing into your lap. And when you do succeed, it slides down your throat, landing in your stomach like bread dough dropped from a second-floor window.

It is, in short, not a dish for a first date.

The Ramadan parade

2008-10-06T08:21:00.000-07:00

Approximately 12 percent of the Ghanaian population is Muslim. The religion predates the arrival of all others, brought to West Africa by North African traders long before Christian missionaries decided the souls of those in the region required saving. One wonders of course at the contradiction of protecting their afterlife while deeming their current life of such inconsequent value.

Cape Coast includes a number of mosques. And while its adherents mix naturally with and blend into the pool of other faiths, they were on full and raucous display on Sept. 30 to celebrate the end of Ramadan.

After 40 days of fasting during which only tea or water is consumed from sun up to 4:30 each day, it was time to celebrate with music, a parade and lots of food. Shops were closed. The very best clothes were retrieved from the closet. Instruments were tuned.

Sitting in the Oceanview, the Internet café we use, which despite its inviting name could not view the ocean with the help of the Hubble telescope, we heard the music. At first I took it for a passing car radio or perhaps a local shop; music is as ubiquitous as the sun in Ghana.

But soon it became clear that what we were hearing was live, and it was getting closer. It grew louder and louder until many stood from their computers and hurried to the café’s two large open windows. There, on the streets behind the building, passed an enormous procession in a blur of incredible color.

Some carried instruments. A band played from the bed of a truck. Recorded music blared from speakers. And meanwhile the hundreds making up the parade throbbed like they were trying to wriggle out of their clothes. Everyone danced, clapped their hands, cheered and sang.

I hurried out the room and down the stairs with my camera and moved quickly down the street to try and catch them. But they caught me. As I tried to determine which sidestreet would get me there, the parade burst around the corner and in seconds I was swallowed up in it, a sea of grinning, sweating faces, a whorl of color and motion.

After some moments a man dressed in a gold ankle-length gown with a matching headpiece (on right in picture with red scarf) grabbed my arm and dragged me into the mass of bodies. “Come! Come!” he said. It was clear I had little choice in the matter and allowed myself to pulled forward. People danced by me. Some shouted to me and smiled and a man to my left pounded on a drum that I felt in my stomach.

“You take picture!” the man in gold shouted.

“Take picture?” I asked, unsure I’d heard him and somewhat hesitant as Ghanaians can be shy around cameras.

But by this point the man had already brought the procession to a stop. Stray bodies flowed around us like froth at a logjam. A group of perhaps 20 men formed in the middle of the road facing me. The old graying gentleman in the middle I took to be someone important and the purpose of the photograph.

I quickly directed the camera and took a picture. Or believed I had; with our camera it can be hard to tell. Already the weight of those coming up the street behind was beginning to dislodge them.

“One more!” I shouted. I snapped a second just as they gave way and the dancers gathered up my subjects and I, too, was overtaken.

“You come to the market with pictures!” the man in gold said, a smile on his dark, wet face. Then he said something else but it was lost in all the noise and he was carried down the street. I jumped free and watched it all go by and panted as if having just been spat out by a set of rapids.

Meeting the chief

2008-10-03T10:06:00.000-07:00

Nana (not pictured at left), the Paramount Chief of Cape Coast, sat as heavily, as solidly as if carved out of a bulk of mahogany. His head is large and bald and very black against the burst of yellow and orange in his kente cloth robe. On his face he wears an expression of supreme calm that given his large size, in excess of 200 lbs and 6 feet, translates easily to power.

Despite the line of people waiting, he has agreed to see us because, well, he needs money. And, as it happens, we have it, thanks to a group of Oregon-based supporters for whom we have played messenger. The money, we surmise based on a few clues, is to go to a refurbishment of his “palace.”

Looking at it, it’s hard to imagine the place was ever actually furbished. Time and the sea air have had their way with it, giving it less a look of royalty and more the appearance of a derelict inner-city high school.

Wallace, along with Aba, joined us for the visit, their first ever to the Paramount Chief we learn. According to Wallace, the chief needs upwards of $500 million for his project. I want to ask if he’s hoping for an appearance on Pimp My Palace.

After some pleasantries, Shawn hands him the small package. He opens it to produce a stack of photographs from a recent visit to Ghana by this Portland group, which is working on developing a sister city relationship with Cape Coast, and an envelope. From this he pulls a small wad of cash, which he counts out in front of us all: $350.

The rest of the visit is awkward and somewhat stilted, with Wallace describing the chief at one point as “a kind of god on Earth.” I’m surprised to hear Wallace speak this way given earlier remarks he’s made about religion, including an especially sharp accounting of the Mormons.

As for the chief’s otherworldly status, there is a definite presence to the man. But sitting as he is on a dilapidated, soiled couch it’s hard to see much divinity on display. One thing is certain, however, and that is that the importance of his role in the community really renders that distinction beside the point.

In a culture still very much steeped in tribal tradition, and in community in which so many are illiterate and who feel little considered by the government, the chief is the most committed advocate of the common man. The line of citizens at his gate as we exit 20 minutes later attests to that. They collect there every day, all day, even following him to his house when he returns home in the evening.

As one doesn’t ask to photograph an emissary from God, I don’t have a picture. The accompanying shot is of Shawn and our Ghanaian family, Wallace and Aba Kwaw, standing before the palace gates, unrefurbished as they are.

Grasp, grin, repeat

2008-10-03T09:37:00.000-07:00

The French have their double-cheek kiss, the Eskimos their nose rubbing and the Japanese their bow. But the Ghanaians have them all beat in the greeting category with their signature handshake. To practice it at home, follow these simple steps:

Step 1: Engage a friend, acquaintance or unsuspecting fellow obruni (white person) on the street.

Step 2: Smile and extend your right hand. Mistakenly offer the left hand and you’ve done the equivalent of handing the other person your used toilet paper.

Step 3: Clutch the other’s hand firmly in the traditional style, palm to palm and you exchange hellos. This can go on for some moments into your pleasantries about the weather or $700B bailouts.

Step 4: As you separate your hands, press your index finger against their index finger and by applying mild pressure with your thumb create the snapping sound just as if you snapping your own index finger and thumb.

And then repeat when saying goodbye. (I don't have an accompanying photo, so please enjoy this shot of some grinning kids.)

Beer in Ghana

2008-10-02T05:38:00.000-07:00

Ghanaians love beer. I’m inclined to think that this accounts for their incredibly friendly, life-affirming manner. Wine and liquor are also available, but beer seems the national drink of choice. If you sit at a restaurant or bar and order one, it is understood that you desire the large bottle. If you prefer the standard, unambitious 12-oz bottle you must submit to the disgrace of ordering a “mini.”

As for the choices, like so many hot climates, the styles tend toward lagers. The principal brands to be found in Cape Coast, and Accra, include the following:

1. Star – This may be the de facto national beer, at least if one judges by the number of signs. It is a typical lager with nothing special to recommend it except that in large quantities it brings on a pleasant drunken feeling. But like most lagers or pilsners, it can rival the best beers in the world when served frosty cold on a 90°-degree day with near 100° humidity.
2. Club – Another predictable lager and probably the second most popular beer in this part of the country. I’m not sure a taste test could distinguish between Star and Club, or Coors for that matter. This is a beer meant for drinking in large quantities and with a hammock nearby. The shamrock logo makes me think that luck somehow figures in its appeal.
3. Stone – See #2.
4. Gulder – Though not quite as popular, I think this is probably the best of the lagers. Your mouth doesn’t forget it’s drinking it quite as quickly as it seems to with the others. It's also just a tad darker.
5. Castle Milk Stout – If you’ve followed the blog, you know this is not the first mention of this delectable brew. Though not quite as prevalent, it has nevertheless become our go-to. It has a nice rich, full flavor that doesn’t suffer as terribly as the lagers if it not available cold.

I don't include my purchase the other night of Friends Beer. This one, served in a can, is for those without a lot of time to get drunk. At 12.2% alcohol per 500ml, it only makes a brief stop in Happyland before pitching you headfirst into Passedoutville.

The Axim Beach Resort

2008-10-02T05:33:00.001-07:00

The Axim Beach Resort had been recommended to us by a couple of the other volunteers, and they didn’t oversell it. Occupying a beautiful hill overlooking the ocean the place, built and managed by a German, offers a range of different accommodations.

We treated ourselves to a “chalet.” For US$60/night you get your own very comfortably appointed place, complete with solar-heated shower, TV, refrigerator and, incredibly, air conditioning. And a great deal of time and attention has been paid in décor and design.

We had dinner at the beach restaurant, not to be confused with the hilltop restaurant, and then relaxed with a Castle Milk Stout on the beach until the sun went down. There is nothing else here but beach and ocean, and the place seemed to have few other guests.

We whiled away the rest of the evening in air-conditioned splendor, watching a battery of horrible movies before calling it a night.

The next morning, after breakfast, we explore the rest of the grounds to see the other (read: cheaper) room options on the off chance we might return. Upon checking out, the clerk returns our change, minus 8.50 cedis.

“We don’t have change,” she says, smiling, as if this were the most natural thing.

“OK,” I say, assuming, of course, that the rest of the change will be secured through some other means. But when they casually go about their business it becomes clear that she believes her explanation is sufficient to short us the remaining money.

“Excuse me, so are you going to give us the rest of the change?” I ask.

This seems to confound them and after we remain firm on this little piece of business they rather reluctantly agree to go and try to scare up the extra cash. After nearly 20 minutes, the woman returns with 3 cedis, still 50 pesewas short. And she seems quite happy with the result. We are not as much, especially when she informs us it will cost 1 cedi to call us a tax (the hotel is a good distance from the main road). This is when Shawn loses it. This does not seem to trouble terribly either.

We then wait another 30 minutes for the taxi and begin the trip in reverse. We conclude that the transportation from place to place is equally if not more interesting than the destinations themselves. On the return, we ride with people coming from church, dressed up in their Sunday finery.

We also learn that if you catch a tro-tro on the road rather than the station you agree to as many stops as the driver can make. On our final ride from Takoradi to the Pedo station finds us sharing seats with 27 other people and a few large and unfortunately situated bags of who knows what under my feet.

The road to Axim

2008-10-02T05:19:00.000-07:00

Axim seems relatively close on the map. What the map doesn’t reveal is the series of exchanges one must undertake to get there. We started about 11 o’clock on Saturday morning, believing the trip would put us at the beach at about 1 p.m. The least prepared travelers in Africa are surely those who remain slavishly committed to their pesky timetables.

To get anywhere, given the location of the Kwaws’ home, we must first walk the quarter mile of red-dirt road to the main road. It’s barely a road under good conditions and I wonder at its passability in the rainy season. One might be better served by an innertube.

At the main road we catch a shared taxi to the Pedo station. This costs about 50 pesewa (50¢) per person and takes maybe 15 or 20 minutes. This is not a station in the way, say, Grand Central or Gar du Nord is a station. This is a station, as far as I can discern, only because it has a handful of stationary vehicles and isn’t a car junkyard. We buy two tro-tro tickets for Takoradi, the largest city in the Eastern District of Ghana. This runs us about 2.20 cedis (about US$2) a piece.

There is no timetable; the tro-tro departs when it is full. Until then, you occupy your seat and study the head of the person in front of you. You discuss the overlooked joys of motion. You debate if the bites on your arm are from mosquitoes or some other brand of vermin and what that might mean for your prospects of continued good health.

The ride to Takoradi is comfortable and, not surprisingly, very interesting. The woman sitting next to me is transporting two chickens in a cardboard box. Every once in awhile the animals share their dissatisfaction with their travel accommodations.

Meanwhile, we pass villages of a kind we’ve not seen yet. These are bare, simple encampments of mud or thatch huts, with the occasional squat brick structure thrown in. The small network of homes is connected by uneven red dirt paths rutted and scoured over time by rain. Women bend to smoking cooking pots. Chickens peck about in the brush. Barefoot children chase a soccer ball around.

Everywhere the jungle looms, prepared, it seems, to consume any inch not diligently managed by the residents. It waits behind and bends overhead and is full of malevolent spirits.

It takes about an hour or so to get to Takoradi. In typical Ghanaian fashion two men kindly point us to the Axim station for our next connection. Tickets here are 1.80 for a large tro-tro and 2.10 for what is referred to as a small tro-tro. We splurge on the “small” and take up our seats, and wait. A string of vendors selling everything from muffins to razors to some items I can’t confidently identify stop by the open door.

This ride takes us another 1.5 hours farther east. The road begins to deteriorate some, and there seem to be more police check stations, though the purpose of these stops eludes me. At one, the policemen actually relax in stuffed armchairs sitting incongruously beneath a ramshackle thatch covering.

By now our two-hour excursion is approaching closer to four hours. As we pull into the somewhat derelict-looking Axim station, it’s about 3:30 p.m. Now we get a taxi to the hotel.

Straddling two worlds

2008-09-30T04:09:00.000-07:00

Everywhere there is evidence that Ghana is in the midst of change. A country it seems still very much of villages, it is being forced to find a place for the modern world alongside the old. The two coexist everywhere, reminding me of that awkward age at which our daughter Lily started carrying a purse but only as a place to keep her candy.

Passing a village of mud huts, one sees sprouting from between the crude structures, like stray dandelions, bamboo poles on which have been fastened simple TV antennas. On the road, like a metaphor for the country itself, a truck carrying shiny, brand-new Caterpillar tractors honks at the slow-moving truck in front of it whose bed is heaped with piles of green bananas.

Dogs and stray goats wander the street beside boys talking on their cell phones. A woman hacks open a coconut with a machete below a sign extolling the convenience of the BlackBerry. The examples abound.

Perhaps this is nothing new for Cape Coast. The first to be colonized and long-time hosts to a series of foreign visitors from the developed world, its residents are not strangers to the strange and miraculous. Such things have been arriving from outside for generations, be it the Gatling gun or the MP3 player.

This experience has also nurtured a tireless entrepreneurial zeal among the city’s residents. Everyone has started a business or is searching for capital to get one started. And many do not limit themselves to a single enterprise, pursuing opportunities for economic advancement on the one hand, while making room for community-minded projects on the other.

Yesterday alone I met three young men who claim to have foundations in the works designed to benefit their own. One also makes jewelry, the other coffee at his coffee shop near the Cape Coast Castle. A third is an artist who assured me he is a man who “wants to take care of himself like any man.”

A colorful history

2008-09-30T03:48:00.001-07:00

Global Mamas, the fair-trade cooperative with which Shawn is working, was begun in 2003 as part of Women in Progress, an NGO established by two Peace Corps veterans, Kristin Johnson and Renae Adam.

Kristin was stationed in Cape Coast in the late-90s, and helped establish a credit union that today boasts more than a 1,000 members. She currently manages the state-side half of the business, living in Minneapolis, Minn.

For her Peace Corps assignment, Renae lived a short distance outside Cape Coast and helped her village build a water pipeline system to save the local women from the long, hot walk to collect water. It was at the time of its construction the most successfully funded project in Peace Corps history. The system bears her name to this day. Renae, who lives in Accra, manages the production portion of the operation.

Starting with six women, the cooperative now boasts more than 300 batikers, seamstresses and jewelry artists scattered across Ghana in Accra, Cape Coast, Krobo, Ajimako and Ho. Many of the local producers, which started as one-person operations, have now taken on employees, extending the economic lifeline made possible by Global Mamas.

Among the first to join the cooperative in 2003 was a small batiking shop called Eli Emma after its two creators. Today, Eli and Emma have a staff of eight young local women that each week helps design, dye and batik a range of patterns for Global Mamas. Their fabric is then cut and sewn in shirts, skirts, dresses and other articles of clothing.

We visited the shop, which sits literally steps from the beach. Cool ocean breezes blow in the large open windows, rustling the fabric. The plain room is dark and makeshift and smells of the melting paraffin, which bubbles in a pan over a brazier. The stamps used to design the fabric, once carved from wood, are today cut from foam, a much more convenient tool as it holds more wax.

It is a cramped workspace, with a low ceiling and no electricity or running water. The weathered walls are dark from smoke and are lined with a multitude of old stamps in a dizzying array of designs. It all seems less an artist’s studio than a secret backwoods still.

But the women tend to their tasks with smiles, patience and incredible good humor, all looked over on this day by Emma, who is firm but loving in her direction. Emma is probably in her mid-50s. She is round and quick to smile and bears the confidence that here only comes from knowing that your next meal is assured.

“Are any of these girls your daughters?” I ask her.

“They are all my daughters,” she says. This she repeats, but more to herself than to me.

The fishermen at work

2008-09-29T05:44:00.000-07:00

The other morning, we watched, and as it turned out, listened to the fishermen bring in the day’s catch. It is a monumental process for scant reward. They push out to sea in darkness, captaining crude, basic crafts hewn from enormous trees cut mostly in the eastern Volta region.

I’m no boater, and I’m certainly no fisherman, but to the untrained eye it’s actually something of a wonder these behemoths float. When idle on the beach they sit dumb and heavy on the sand like an abandoned parade float.

Some do employ basic sails that look like something cooked up by Tom Hanks in “Cast Away.” But most seem to rely on human power, attested to by the physiques of the fishermen themselves. These men are specimens, bodies hardened and chiseled like the very wood of the boats they navigate. It’s hard not to feel like a fillet of cod when standing beside them.

At about 8 a.m. the boats come and the herculean task of bring in the lines begins. This takes upwards of 30 men or more, with most manning the lines as if in a pitched tug-of-war with the ocean, which is, in fact, what it is. Meanwhile, other men at varying depths do what they can to guide the net still in the water. And during the entire process, which drags the men down the beach, they … sing. This is “Graceland” kind of stuff, songs to give you chills. “Come in, fish. Yeah, yeah. Come in, fish.”

This goes on for perhaps an hour, tugging and singing, shouting, moving down the beach. When the net is finally beached, hopefully as full of fish as this one was, it is shared among all who participated. A line of men with large metal bowls forms, removing piles of wriggling fish to a safe distance. Piles are dispersed as a retinue of gleaners scurries about to retrieve any scraps left behind.

And then just like that it is over. The fish are on their way to the market, while the men gather up the hundreds of feet of net over their shoulders to make their way back to the boats, where they prepare to do the same thing tomorrow.

The Kwaws

2008-09-29T05:36:00.001-07:00

We are now very comfortably set up at the home of Wallace and Aba Kwaw about 20 minutes outside Cape Coast at the turn in a bumpy dirt road. Wallace, a tour guide at the Elmina Castle for over 20 years, is now a retired man of leisure. Possessed of great charm and wit, and the owner of perhaps the most mellifluous accent in Ghana, Wallace now devotes his energies to reading and watching as much soccer as his satellite dish can deliver.

On the advice of Kristin Johnson, along with Renae Adam one of the brains behind the creation and success of Global Mamas/Women in Progress, we brought Wallace a stack of books about American politics as well as a cache of magazines. Kristin lived with the Kwaws for three years during her Peace Corps years in Ghana and assured us this would be a most welcome gift.

Reading of this kind has made Wallace an astute observer of American politics and he is not the least bit shy about sharing his feelings about the same. As we drove into town together the other day, passing a shop peddling an array of rather weathered looking appliances, he said, “There’s all the garbage you sent us.” This was followed by his trademark laugh.

Our first night we spent asking and answering questions. When Shawn finally turned in, I stayed up and watched some soccer with Wallace, figuring it was time I educate myself about what is the world’s most popular spot and an absolute obsession in Ghana.

Aba, his wife of some 30 years, is a school teacher and cook and caretaker for the three kids still at home, Desmond, Mavis and Gifty, as well as the revolving array of volunteers and other short-time residents living temporarily in her large home.

For Aba, we brought a cookbook of American dishes, a pair of kitchen knives and some thin cutting boards. The arrangement is she will cook for us if we ask, charging 2 Ghanaian dollars a meal, which is equivalent to about US$2 and a steal.

The patriarchal nature of Ghanaian culture means Aba is not as open in conversation as her husband, preferring short answers and smiles to our questions. She largely concentrates on her chores in the house, with help from the kids, and then quietly retires to some other part of the large, rambling house.

The drive to Cape Coast

2008-09-29T05:30:00.000-07:00

As we climbed into our taxi in Accra, our driver, Kobe (see left; I'm on the left), explained that his car had been chronically breaking down. He had come from Cape Coast that morning and very matter-of-factly stated that the engine had unceremoniously stopped at least 10 times en route.

“The trip will be long today,” he explained to Renae, who regularly uses him to transport new volunteers to Cape Coast and to move Global Mamas materials between the two stores.

So we set in for a long day in the un-air conditioned cab. I, for one, was looking forward to it as it would be our first glimpse of certain sections of Accra and then of the countryside. I was not disappointed.

While the traffic getting out of the city was at times slow enough to actually really get to know the vendors that approached our window, there was never a shortage of things to look at. It could be a tro-tro full of people pulling up beside us, a couple of guys taking a whiz at the roadside (so common a practice “Do no urinate here” signs are a regular sight), a group of laughing uniformed students or some new thing being carried on a head (e.g., a sewing machine, a bucket of fish).

Frequent sources of amusement were the shop signs along the way. Ghanaians love a catchy business name and as a largely Christian nation seek to shoehorn in mention of God or Jesus wherever possible, making for some very funny results. Others appear to be the product of a break down in translation from the native language into English. Here are just a handful of the signs we saw heading west:

· Oops Night Club
· God First Spare Parts
· Peculiar Child Academy
· Doctor Jesus Prayer Ministry
· Abundant Grace Plumbing
· Near Glory Oil Filling Station

Once out of Accra traffic opened up dramatically and we rattled along in the taxi with all the abandon of an empty can rolling down a flight of stairs. Kobe, our driver (see picture above), proved a pretty taciturn sort. We briefly touched on the upcoming U.S. election and he shared his support for Obama.

When I asked about the Ghanaian presidential election, scheduled to take place on Dec. 7, he dismissed it, saying the New Patriotic Party would win. He seemed resigned to this and the fact that, as he told me, taxis drivers would not benefit from the new administration. This seemed to put him in a disagreeable temper and he remained quiet from then on.

Luckily for us, the car only broke down once, and after just a few minutes under the hood Kobe had us back on the road. We made good time on what was a beautiful drive. We passed through long stretches of lush jungle of palm and bamboo on either side of the road broken up by busy little towns.

Commerce clung to the roadside. From plain thatch coverings to just a spot of dirt, people sold pineapples, tangerines, bananas, piles of coconuts and the occasional grilled grasscutter (think nutria) splayed on a stick. Men, women and children walked along carrying their machetes from or to something that needed hacking or pushed ramshackle wooden flatbeds or merely stood, arms behind their backs, and watched the cars pass.

I could’ve comfortably continued for hours and was actually a bit sad when we finally pulled up in front of the Global Mamas store in Cape Coast. This was all forgotten moments later with the warm welcome we received from the staff at the store. It struck me that this group of perhaps 10 Ghanaians, two Americans and one Japanese would likely become good friends over the next three months, and I felt restored by that idea.

Taking a walk

2008-09-26T11:02:00.000-07:00

When you’re walking down the street, especially a street on which there are numerous stands peddling t-shirts or sandals or CDs, do not, and I repeat do not, even cast a passing glance at their wares. To do so is to tacitly ask – nay demand – to be beset by the eager vendors. And once you stop for one it is like a wounded gazelle has fallen, calling every hungry animal from the bush.

I thought he had asked me if I would take his picture. I’d felt photographically handcuffed by the Ghanaians’ sensitivity about having their picture taken, frustrating given their beauty and the sheer abundance of incredible picture opportunities. So I’d stopped. This was my undoing. Instead of picture I was treated to a team-delivered description of his entire t-shirt inventory. And I’m not kidding, every one.

This all attracted the attention of the guy selling leather sandals, which he deemed superior to the ones I was already wearing. Before long I was being shown sunglasses and soccer balls. One especially persistent salesman walked with me for a full block, the necessary time and distance to get the preliminaries of my nation of origin, length of stay in Ghana and name established. The latter he promised to embroider on one of the handsome bracelets he produced as if from thin air.

Just when I thought I had swum free of the current and was in open water again, a nicely dressed man, likely in his mid-50s, fell into step beside me. With all the rehearsed urgency of a telemarketer, he unfolded a story about being a Sierra Leone refugee with inheritance money back at home that he needed some help to liberate. I’m afraid he didn’t last a full block before realizing we were not destined to be partners. He may have been the 10 or 12 times I very generously wished him good luck.

Going to university

2008-09-24T05:04:00.001-07:00

We decided to postpone our departure for Cape Coast by a day to visit the University of Ghana about 8 km outside of the city. Shawn’s professor at PSU, Kofi Agorsah, generously gave us names of colleagues of his in the Department of Archaeology.

After navigating traffic, which compares to any that might develop in the event of an approaching natural disaster, we landed at the school. The campus occupies acres and acres of land, stretching off in every direction like it has been pressed down and flattened by the sun. Luckily for us, as we didn’t know where we were going, the Department of Archaeology stood just inside the main gate.

With a bit of wandering and a question or two we tracked down Dr. Ako Okoro after making our way down a flight of stairs, through a door marked “Archaeology Annex,” and down a hallway cluttered with large bags of rocks and other specimens presumably gathered during recent field work.

A knock on the office door was answered by a hearty welcome. Dr. Okoro is a man of definite professorial bearing wearing a crisp shirt, glasses and graying goatee. His office is what one might expect of man of numerous interests and parallel research projects. Every surface is covered in stacks of paper the organization of which is hard to discern. Bookshelves are full to overflowing, and the floor covered in more paper, dusty bags, and boxes.

“I am so glad to meet you,” he said, offering as well a rough, hearty laugh that it was soon clear was the most natural thing to him. He welcomed us with incomparable good will, dismissing it as the common practice of Ghanaians.

For the next hour we discussed Dr. Okoro’s two principal projects, one devoted to fighting what he calls “water poverty” in the villages and the second to building a cultural program in which visitors to Ghana are allowed to experience first-hand various facets of Ghanaian life. We were both inspired by his passion and very appreciative of his hospitality.

When we left, we promised to come again when we returned to Accra. Shawn hopes to seek his advice about her PSU-based classwork on slavery, a specialty of Dr. Okoro’s, and I hope to take advantage of his invitation to sit in on a lecture.

Chance encounters

2008-09-24T04:51:00.000-07:00

Shawn began her work in earnest on Monday. As part of Global Mamas’ new line of shea butter, she met with Renae and Comfort, a local woman who makes the shea butter, to discuss possible scents and packaging. We enjoyed spending much of the rest of the afternoon and evening brainstorming names for the products. A blood oath forbids me from revealing the contents of these discussions.

From there we ventured to the waterfront and the Osekan Restaurant for lunch. The Osekan overlooks the Gulf of Guinea and the scattered fishing boats bobbing a few hundred yards offshore. The boats resemble small galleons, powered by teams of oarsmen, who, working in tandem with other boats, draw in large fishing lines, all of it done without benefit of cover from the sun.

The Osekan is simple place with plain wooden tables and chairs and a nice breeze. Almost immediately we began chatting with the man at the next table, who introduced himself as Manny. Born in Tema just up the coast, but now a U.S. citizen, he lives with his wife and a small daughter in Connecticut. He had spent the previous week unsuccessfully trying to arrange visas for his two older children.

“It is very hard,” he said. “We have been apart for eight years now. My daughter doesn’t even know me and wouldn’t really talk to me.”

Despite his disappointing news, he treated us to nothing but smiles and the boundless good humor that we’re quickly learning is a national trait among Ghanaians. We thank him for introducing us to shito, a popular if unfortunately named condiment made from dried pepper, smoked dried fish, and a variety of species, and helping us get a good price on a couple of towels we bought to take with us to Cape Coast.

From the restaurant we walked the nearly gridlocked main streets past the National Court of which our taxi driver had said, “You go and they save ‘Come back tomorrow.’ And you come back and they say ‘Come back tomorrow.’ They love the word ‘tomorrow.’” My attention, it should be said, was divided between this story and the vendor who approached my window with a string of desiccated rats for sale.

It had grown hotter since we’d sat down for lunch, and Shawn’s washing down her food with a Ghana Guinness, which we later learned is made here with a 7.5 percent alcohol content, made the sun seem very close.

Our plan was to visit the nearby art center and then venture over to the sprawling Makola market. Something about the combination of the heat, the beer, the shito and the assault of stall vendors at the art center proved too much for Shawn. I offered to secure her a tincture of desiccated rat but she preferred an early return to the house and a nap.

For dinner she and I and Renae and Callum, a volunteer from Scotland, enjoyed a fantastic dinner of Lebanese food before taking in a few nightcaps at a nearby pub. We attempted a few games of pool but had more success with the drinking.

A busy place

2008-09-24T04:43:00.000-07:00

Accra is a busy place. With a population of nearly 2 million, the city is teeming with activity, from the legion of taxis, to the tro-tros (mini-buses) bursting at the rivets with passengers, to men pushing, pulling and sometimes dragging simple wooden carts, to a parade of those on whose heads sits a supermarket’s worth of items. For the curious, here’s a short list of things I’ve seen carried hands-free:

· Tangerines
· Towels
· Tables
· Tree limbs
· Apples
· Water bottles

It has occurred to me that adopting a similar practice in Portland would give busy urban sorts the flexibility to enjoy their iPhones, Blackberries and iPods while also drinking a specialty coffee drink, all the while knowing that one’s head is protected from the rain.

Traffic is a challenge, both in the number of vehicles on the road and the decidedly laissez-faire approach to movement. Drivers generally keep to their side of the road, but only while it’s convenient. Meanwhile, those without wheels weave through this unpredictable mess with all the aplomb of a first-rate Frogger player, never dropping a single pineapple from the pile perched atop their head.

See more pictures

2008-09-21T12:07:00.001-07:00

Oh, and if you want to see other pix, take a look at our evolving photo album.

Readying for Cape Coast

2008-09-21T10:10:00.000-07:00

Volunteers from Global Mamas’ Krobo and Cape Coast locations regularly find themselves at the Accra house to gather provisions, or upon exiting or entering the country. Assignments vary from working on the batiking effort that takes place in Cape Coast or the beading work that takes place in Krobo.

Shawn has been assigned to the larger office in Cape Coast, located about four hours east and up the coast from Accra. We are scheduled to make our way there on Tuesday, giving us tomorrow to finish any final preparations and to give Shawn a chance to meet with some manufacturers as part of Global Mamas’ developing shea butter and “black” soap production.

We also hope to see a bit more of Accra.

Talking to the other volunteers has only deepened our excitement about seeing Cape Coast and meeting our host family, whose hospitality has received rave reviews.

Haircuts and karaoke

2008-09-21T09:56:00.000-07:00

One doesn’t go to Africa to find a Filipino karaoke party. But sometimes it just finds you. More on that in a moment. In the meantime, I can relate that tropical heat is, in fact, hot. Upon stepping outside the air seems to have a kind of mass of its own, like yogurt, say, and it lays on you and drips off. And this is, by all accounts, the cool season. So I had no choice but to liberate my head of hair. Goodbye Hardy Boys hair, hello free top.

I can also confirm that both the chicken and the pork are deliciuos, and the hot sauce bona fide, at the Tasty Jerk. They are well matched with a large Gunder beer. I can’t tell you where it is or how to get there, so perhaps there is something unfair in my sharing the recommendation. But unfortunately I must seize this rare opportunity to use the words “tasty” and “jerk” together.

We took the day off today, and did little that took us out of the compound; when you awake at 10 the afternoon can disappear quickly. I whiled away some time researching the origin of the constellation of bites I somehow acquired overnight, but decided they gave my skin an added decorative touch that is not without its charms.

This brings me back to the Filipino karaoke party, about which I don’t quite know where to start. It was your typical house party, I suppose. But it was a real United Nations of drunks and bad balladry. We made sure the U.S. was well represented in both categories. But the hosts were very hospitable, providing food and drink to any and all who came. Shawn thanked them with a rousing rendition of Gloria Gaynor's “I Will Survive.” To promote continued positive relations, I steered clear of the microphone.

In addition to the hosts, who are in Ghana in varying business capacities, those in attendance included a representative from the Danish embassy, a passel of former Peace Corps volunteers, development workers of various stripes and a revolving cast of others.

The volunteer house

2008-09-20T09:38:00.001-07:00

The volunteer house is actually two buildings, one in which Renae lives, though she generously shares the common space with the ever-changing cast of volunteers, and an outbuilding that has two rooms with two bunkbeds each, a shower room, a bathroom and a small kitchen. There is an AC unit in one, but its labored operation does not produce much cool air, while the other room is outfitted with a large fan that does seem to fight the heavy, humid air.

Going to Greece

2008-09-20T09:37:00.000-07:00

“I will take you to Greece,” Duncan said.
“Greece?”
“He takes all the new people there,” Renae said.
“What is it?”
“You just have to go and see,” she said, smiling. “Duncan, this time just make sure you bring them all back with you. Last time he lost one.”
“Lost one?”

Duncan led Shawn, Haley, Laura and me away from the bar, down the uneven road a block or two, then a couple of hundred yards down a rocky dirt side road lit only by the sliver of moon above. Then, without warning, we turned into a darkened courtyard, down a broken stone path, around a shed-like structure and onto a porch. There stood a small bar and a woman who poured us glasses of palm wine.

“This is for akwaba, like a welcome to Ghana,” said Duncan, handing us the distasteful-looking stuff, making sure that we accepted the glass with our right hand (doing anything but one particular thing with your left hand is a no-no).

In the dim light of a single, naked bulb, we clinked glasses and downed the fiery liquor.

Coughing, 22-year-old Haley said, “It tastes like nail polish.”
“We do have one called ‘Nail Polish,’” Duncan said. “You want to try?”
“No, no, thank you,” she said, laughing.

“Greece,” it turns out, came from the inexplicable presence on the rounded porch of half a dozen Greek-looking columns. These gave the spot, lit as it was on the darkened road, the appearance of a derelict plantation house or a once-grand home left to the riot of the tropical elements.

“One for the road?” Duncan said.
“One for the road,” the server woman repeated sleepily, monotone.
Another round was served and tossed back.

We then walked back to the bar, had a couple more drinks, got to know our new friends a little better and finally drove back to the volunteer house and collapsed into bed happy to finally be here.

The cold drink

2008-09-20T09:36:00.000-07:00

As we drove through the dark streets, past spots of light at small road-side stands, Renae explained that she had been in Ghana nearly eight years, coming originally on an assignment with the Peace Corps. She launched Global Mamas/Women in Progress, a non-governmental organization (NGO), approximately about six years ago, and she has the stories to prove it.

Our first stop was to a jerk chicken restaurant in the Osu neighborhood of Accra to pick up three other volunteers. Haley is from Eugene and had only just arrived as well, choosing to fly directly rather than break up her trip as we had. Laura, from England, has been in Ghana two months, and Callum, a photographer from Scotland, on his fifth trip to the country.

We found our cold drink, and then some, at Duncan’s, an outdoor bar with blaring music and well-received glasses of bubra, or draft beer, and a delicious gin and lime concoction. The proprietor, a somewhat disheveled and more than somewhat drunk Ghanaian, greeted us very warmly, teaching us the unique handshake-cum-mutual finger snap that is the custom here.

Landing in Accra

2008-09-20T09:35:00.000-07:00

The airport is small but more efficient than I had anticipated. There was a moment of panic when the customs agent, after inspecting our passports, informed us that despite our three-month visas he would give us only two months. We questioned him until he asked us if we would prefer a one-month. We acceded and were to learn that the switch to two month is standard, though no one was able to explain why the consulate in the U.S. continues to issue the three-month variety. We were also briefly tested:

Agent: Who are you voting for for president?
Us: In the United States?
Agent: Yes, who are you voting for?
Us: Um, well, uh…
Agent: Barack Obama?
Us: Well, we…
Agent: You must vote for Barack Obama. He has a vision!
Us: Yes, we totally agree.
Agent: (stamps passport) OK. Have a good stay.

The bags were easy to spot on the conveyer, but a little harder to drive on the smallish, errant-wheeled cart. Imagine a drunken man transporting three drunken friends in a shopping cart. Exiting the airport we were greeted by two long rows of touts and hotel reps, and among them one white face. This would be Renae Adam, our contact, and one of the principals of Global Mamas/Women in Progress.

We couldn’t have asked for a better, warmer greeting. She helped us navigate the cart across the street, past a cast of characters looking to help us carry the bags and finally to a parking lot where her SUV was parked.

Renae: Are you guys tired or are you interested in a cold drink somewhere?
Us: Cold drink, cold drink.

The flight to Accra

2008-09-20T09:32:00.000-07:00

London’s Heathrow Airport is the picture of efficiency. It is open and airy and everything is well marked. They even staff areas with courteous attendants to answer questions and politely direct you. Even the security check, a laborious process in the States that seems at any moment ready to devolve into chaos, is at Heathrow somehow managed with patience and care.

Upon finding our gate we began to feel excited, noting that we had in crossing the threshold to gate A10 suddenly become the minority. The seats were occupied by Ghanaians returning home, each dressed crisply and carrying their hefty, 90-proof duty-free bags.

The six-hour flight passed comfortably, helped along by a couple of cans of Fuller’s London Pride beer, and for Shawn an Ambian, some wine, and a couple of vodka tonics. It’s a bit like traveling with Lindsay Lohan.

As we prepared for our final descent, the pilot announced that it was nearly 8 p.m. in Accra, cloudy, with humidity at “just about 100 percent.” And to think people laughed at my sponge clothing® idea.

Greg's bday

2008-09-19T01:53:00.002-07:00

Today was my birthday. It started with 13 hours of sleep and ended with our remembering to take the first pill in what will be our daily anti-malaria regimen. Curiously, the pill bottle notes that we must not lie down for at least 30 minutes after ingesting, leading to the rather comical situation in which Shawn and I, arriving home late and tired, are forced to stand or sit in our tiny room until well past midnight.

In between, we enjoyed an unusually sunny and warm London afternoon, a perfect complement to a day of walking and gawking. I last visited London 20 years ago and hadn’t remembered it as being an especially interesting or memorable city. (Sorry to the Anglophiles among you.) But this time I very much enjoyed the cobbled, old-world sidestreets, the imperial bearing of the buildings and the ever conveniently located pubs. Though I do have some memory of appreciating the latter before. Regarding the pubs, I will say this, however: They just can’t compete with the innumerable beer options available in Portland. Only six taps? How the mighty have fallen.

We visited the National Gallery (highlight: Seurat’s "Bathers at Asnieres" [1884]) and the Tate Modern (highlight: Max Ernst’s "Forest and Dove" [1927])and that thing made with soap). We had a beer at a sidewalk stand (highlight: the drinking of the beer) (see above). And the British, despite their reputation for a haughty reserve, are decidedly progressive about walking and drinking. I think we have the drunken soccer hooligan lobby to thank for that. Oy.

The night concluded beautifully with surprise tickets (from Shawn for my birthday) to “A Midsummer Night’s Dream” at Shakespeare’s Globe, an open-air theater built near the site of and in the style of the famed venue. We had daydreamed about seeing a show there for years and absolutely loved the performance, which at times actually reduced us to tears for laughing.

Now as our as yet unadjusted body clocks keep us wide awake (it is nearly 2 a.m.), I sign off in hopes that I’ve waited long enough before lying down.

Our London stay

2008-09-19T01:53:00.001-07:00

I should say a few words about our accommodations in Notting Hill, the unfortunately named Reem Hotel. Actually it’s really one word and the word is “small.” Not necessarily known for my prodigious wingspan, I can nevertheless stand on the bed and nearly touch both walls. The bathroom is similarly diminutive. Let’s just say I’m thankful we brought the travel-sized toiletries. Luckily, my wife shares my opinion that a hotel is little more than a place to sleep and store one’s unmentionables. And on occasion hide out from the law.

On our way

2008-09-19T01:53:00.000-07:00

Time was going to Africa required colonial ambitions or the fever brought on by some megalomaniacal need to find the source of the Nile or the last remaining golden-rumped lion tamarin. It was hard. Preparations were undertaken many months in advance and required provisions enough to sustain tens of men for months. Boat passage had to be secured, and a long, ugly, seasick-befouled journey undertaken. When the travelers said goodbye to loved ones, and creditors, it was with the mutual understanding that Africa might let you in, but it might just not let you out.

We’ve only traveled half way, writing this from London, but so far for us it has been exceedingly easy. Before departing we got a visa ($80). We were dosed with a tropical disease buffet that included yellow fever, meningitis, hepatitis A and typhoid ($350 total for each of us). We got 128 malaria pills ($30 for each of us), one for each day we’re in Ghana, starting two days before entering the country and continuing 28 days after leaving.

We bought plane tickets ($1,300/ea). We visited REI. We packed. And then we joined a very nicely appointed British Airlines flight and flew. (We did have to stop in L.A., which may actually even the score, but nevermind.)

Our provisions are few. I have a backpack, Shawn hers, and we each have another small carry-on. We had also agreed some weeks earlier to bringing a “couple of boxes of T-shirts” for Global Mamas, the group Shawn will be working with. They were delivered to Shawn’s parents’ place two days before our departure. When I heard Fed Ex drop them off on the deck I thought pieces of Sputnik had crashed to earth. Small boxes of t-shirts these were not. Instead, we found three 50-lb bags sitting there like the three heads from Easter Island (see pic above).

But we managed. We got the bags, and ourselves, from Portland to L.A. and then from L.A. to London with relative ease and in pretty good comfort. Once in London, the bags were conveniently stowed in left luggage to await our departure to Accra, Ghana on Friday. If we return to find the attendants wearing bright new African shirts, we’ll know someone took their tip early.

And now, after a full day’s travel, I’m sitting in a hotel near the Bayswater tube stop near London’s Notting Hill neighborhood. Shawn is sleeping and I am typing by the light of a headlamp (one of the REI purchases, $19.95). I am dog tired. But it has been a glorious day and half. I love that travel weariness.

Map

2008-09-07T14:57:00.000-07:00

We are located in Cape Coast, which you'll find driving about four hours west of the capital, Accra.