Monday, December 28, 2009

Akwaaba! = You Are Welcome!

My flight was late by over an hour and our Management Trainee, Rose Aba Dodd, met me at the airport late on Christmas night. That’s a particular bummer in a country where checking the status of a flight before going to the airport is really not possible. She waited nearly two hours, outside, with hundreds of other people. Thankfully, she and her family had already celebrated Christmas and been to church so I wasn’t really imposing in this case – and she was happy to see me.

I stayed two nights at a tiny local hotel in Accra before heading up to Koforidua. On the day after Christmas I took Rose to breakfast at Frankie’s, a semi-western, semi-Lebanese restaurant in Osu, about two blocks from Rose’s parents’ house. Then we ran a bunch of errands so I could buy various things I needed from the big city and finally ended up back at her parents’ home where I had been invited to dinner. Rose cooked – rice and groundnut (peanut butter) soup. My favorite Ghanaian meal, although certainly a tie with a plate of red red (spicy red bean stew and red (ripe) plantain), or kelewele (keh-leh-weh-leh). But kelewele isn’t so much a meal as a side dish.

Meanwhile, Rose’s mother, who is a caterer had signed on for more than she bargained for when she agreed to cater three events the following day (Sunday) and worked late into the evening preparing 100 pieces of chicken with donuts (savory, not sweet) and other side dishes for one event, breakfast meat pies (oh, that’s another favorite) for another event, and birthday/ anniversary cake for an old friend’s party. Rose’s younger sister, Graceluv (photo), and I helped cook the donuts in these tiny little donut shaped molds in a waffle iron / sandwich machine type thing. After dinner, when I finally went back to the hotel, Rose’s dad took a “nap” and I understand his wife woke him at 2AM, to help finish. When I went over the next morning, she was preparing the icing for the birthday party. As far as I know, she didn’t stop going until the party started. Talk about your Burro bunny (hey, we don’t give Energizer free publicity), besides Burro bunny is a nice alliteration.

At some point in the morning, Rose’s dad let it be known that he would like us (Rose and me) to attend the party. Me, because she and I were driving to Koforidua in the afternoon and in order to get her to go, I had to go, too. So, we headed off for the Accra Mall with a cooler so I could do my grocery shopping, then back (in the wrong direction from Koforidua) toward the airport where the party was being held. It was a couple Rose’s parents had known forever, so Rose had known their kids forever, too. Such parties are pretty formal – a bit of a speech at the beginning (Rose’s dad) describing the purpose for the party, then going around the table with self-introductions telling how you know the honorees (the wife’s 50th birthday, and the couple’s 22nd wedding anniversary), then a meal, etc. So, we stayed for about an hour and a half and excused ourselves with the argument that we’d like to get over the mountain before dark.

So, I was welcomed back to Ghana in many ways – meeting new people, sharing a meal, attending a party, and not the least being the greeting from the kids when I pulled up outside the office in the truck. They knew I would be here on Monday (Dec 28th) but had their ears pricked on Sunday, just in case. I hadn’t even opened the door of the truck when Precious and Pamela came running out in their pajamas. I did, indeed, feel welcome.

XO

Friday, December 25, 2009

Christmas in Holland

I had a long layover in Amsterdam on my trip, from 8:00 AM to 2:00 PM. Six hours seemed like a long time to sit in the airport with jetlag, so I decided I would surprise my friend, Nelly, and her family in Rotterdam. I was hoping they would be home on Christmas day, but didn’t want to ruin the surprise to check.

It was 25F (about -10C) when I left Medford, so I was dressed in Jeans, a tanktop (for Ghana) under a sweater, and a down vest, with running shoes. It is often rainy in Holland in winter, but snow seemed less likely. At 7:50 AM local time, I arrived in Amsterdam a few minutes early and looked out the window. There were 2-3” of snow on the ground. That’s OK, I told myself. From the end of the tram to Nelly’s house is only 2 blocks. So I put my carry-on luggage in a locker at the entrance to my departure gate’s concourse. Then, I cleared Customs with nothing but my purse, my passport, and a box of See’s candy.

I went directly to the train platform to discover a train would be leaving for Rotterdam in about 5 minutes. Excitedly, I hurried to the ticket machine to purchase my round trip ticket, only to have it refuse to accept my Visa. I looked frantically from the clock to the airport baggage claim area, scanning for an ATM. Nothing in sight.

At 8:54, in a split second decision, I decided I would get on the train and figure something out with the conductor who came to collect tickets. I took a seat on the upper level – very nice trains, even in second class – thrilled to be on my way to a brilliant surprise. I waited and waited for the conductor to come and ask for my ticket, planning my explanation – it’s Christmas, I want to surprise my friends, I don’t have any Euros (I even left my travel portfolio which contained my US dollars in the locker), my credit card would not work in the ticket machine, there was no ATM nearby, it’s Christmas, did I mention that…

No one ever came to collect a ticket, but my planning came in handy on the next leg. Again at the central train station in Rotterdam, I looked about for an ATM, but the station is undergoing construction and there were barriers and detours everywhere. I didn’t see an ATM and time was ticking – 6 hours total layover – currently 10:00 and 4 hours remaining. I went to the tram stop and the #25 tram to Schiebrock came in about 10 minutes. I knew from previous visits that I needed to take it to the end of the line, to the stop in Schiebrock just before it turned to go around the block and return to central station.

Every tram, it seems, has an attendant to sell tickets and ensure everyone validates their ticket – in a timeclock-like machine just inside each door. I went directly to the attendant and began my tale. He was very nice and asked how far I was going. I told him I was going all the way to the end, which is a couple of zones, I think and should have cost me two or three punches on a trip strip, which is about 1.80 Euros or something. He was amused by my silly story and said I could ride. So I sat and watched the city go by, getting more excited by the minute.

Every stop was announced by an automated computer voice and I waited anxiously for mine. After 10 minutes or so, I heard “blah blah blah Schiebrock”. Bless the Dutch, who have done an excellent job learning English, but my Dutch is non-existent. To me, it sounded like the teacher in Charlie Brown cartoons. But it said the magic word, “Schiebrock”, so I jumped up and went to the door to wait for the tram to stop. I glanced back at the attendant to wave and smile in a “thanks, you’ve made my day” sort of way, then stepped off the tram in a neighborhood that did not look at all familiar.

Having had a lot of time to ponder the entire adventure, I have decided that the automated voice was, in fact, announcing that this was the Schiebrock line, for the benefit of passengers who had just boarded the tram and not announcing the Schiebrock stop (ah, hindsight). I looked at the map in the tram-stop shelter and decided, optimistically, that there must be two stops in Schiebrock and that this must be the first and I was supposed to go to the second. I kicked myself and calculated how much time I would lose by walking the rest of the way. I met a man on the street walking his dog and asked him if he knew the street. He said it wasn’t nearby but he pointed in the direction the tram had gone and said it was about a quarter of an hour walk. Since the trams are about 25 minutes apart, it seemed I would arrive sooner by walking – and walking seemed a better alternative to standing, as it was near freezing. However, it had begun to rain and the snow was rapidly turning to slush.

I walked for the requisite quarter of an hour... or more, until I came to the next tram stop, around 10:45, and on I went, thinking it couldn’t be far. I was becoming wet and miserable. Finally rounding a corner just past the tram stop I saw a man shoveling his driveway. I stopped and asked him if he knew the street. He also had not heard of it. This should have been a clue since the street I was seeking is quite long. I told him it was at the last tram stop in Schiebrock. He looked at me skeptically – or perhaps like he thought I was crazy – and said it would take three quarters of an hour to walk to the last tram stop. Inside my head I was thinking, it’s Christmas, I’m soaked and middle-aged and harmless. Surely he’ll offer me a ride. I know that a good deed loses some of its satisfaction when you ask for it – or hope for it – but I couldn’t help it, I was frozen, my hair was dripping, my shoes and socks were sodden, and my jeans were soaked up to the knee. It really is impossible to tell how deep a puddle is when crossing a street.

Alas, the man went back to shoveling and I turned to go back to the tram stop I had just passed and catch the next tram, which I posited, should be arriving any moment. And it did! While I was still ½ a block away, I saw the tram approaching. I began to run, waving frantically, and searched for an opening in the chainlink fence, that would allow me to reach the tram stop. Running in snow is difficult enough, but trying to cross a slushy street, while running, yelling, and waving a hand and a box of candy becomes rather comical if you look at it in the right way. As the tram pulled away from the stop without me, I was not looking at it in the right way.

I arrived on the other side of the street, watched the tram disappear, then bent over with my hands on my knees to catch my breath and cried. My surprise was a bust. It was 11:00 – my layover was ½ over and I reckoned I needed to be back at the airport by 1:00, to clear immigration and security, collect my luggage and go to my gate. The next tram would be 25 minutes plus another 15 to get to Schiebrock, then 5 minutes to walk to the house, making it nearly noon. At that point, I would say hello and have to turn around. Worse, I was afraid Harman or Nelly would insist on driving me back to the station, which defeats the purpose of the surprise, by actually imposing on a family’s Christmas morning, rather than adding a bit of cheer.

So, I crossed the tracks to the opposite tram stop, going back toward the city center. This time, upon reaching the central station in Rotterdam, I did find the ATM and actually purchased a ticket to the airport, even though I think trains should be free on Christmas - just sayin’.
XO

She's baaaaack!

Yes, I’m back in Ghana – since Christmas (although posting this on January 24th) – and am beginning to get some comments about not blogging. I guess writing is one of those things that requires inspiration and I think the first few weeks I was back here I was a little blah – about leaving home and some business frustrations I found upon arrival – and just plain sluggish from the heat. I’ve turned that corner now, so am going to get busy putting words with some pictures I’ve taken over the last month. I’ll try to post one a day (each one back dated to the date of occurrence) until I get caught up. Thanks to all for your support while I am here.

XO

Sunday, September 6, 2009

I was an illegal alien

We have returned from the Kente festival. We returned to the festival from the hotel to do some more shopping. Just what I needed!

After that, Whit wanted to "find" Togo. We were quite close to the border and the GPS said there should be a border crossing just up the road - so away we wnet. We drove east from where the festival was - only about 5 miles. The GPS showed Togo to the left and what looked like a cross road that should go in that direction to the border, but we passed it and realized it was a stream.

Disappointed, we turned around and as a last effort, pulled over to a small village to ask where the border crossing was. Max, still unused to Ghanaian pleasantries like "good afternoon", just said out the window, "Togo?" and the woman said "Yes". He said, again, with a bit more detail, "Which way is Togo?" She again said, "Yes." It turns out that the east side of the road was Togo and the west side was Ghana. We were in Togo, illegally, of course (none of us had a visa) - so we took our pictures in front of the immigration office and went on our way.

XO

Saturday, September 5, 2009

Tourism and Technology

On the way to the Kente Festival, we made two stops. One stop at Cedi Beads, a factory that makes glass beads and buttons like those I’ve shown before in villages where we have agents and clients. The factory uses pretty much the same techniques on a slightly larger scale. It’s not really a high volume factory, but rather a small operation not too dissimilar from the villages except that they have brilliantly made it a tourist stop and incorporated a tour which turns into a sales opportunity. With a few more stops like this, Ghana could be well on its way to being a tourism destination.

The second stop was at an antique shop alongside the road. On a Saturday at mid-day, on the way and less than an hour from a major festival, the shop was closed and we had to send a ‘small boy’ to find the shopkeeper. This is the flip-side of the bead factory. Not all shopkeepers have figured out how to maximize their business from the tourist trade.

Anyway, I loved Cedi Beads for many reasons. The first was that the name reminded me of the children’s book, C D B, which begins CDB DBSABZB (See the Bee. The Bee is a Busy Bee) and continues on in alphabetic fashion. It is a favorite of dear friends, so the factory instantly touched both my funny bone and my heart. The billboards and advertising also demanded admiration so all in all it was a lovely visit.

There are four types of glass beads made in Ghana. Recycled, Transparent, Powdered with the design in side, and Powdered with the design painted on the outside. All are made from used glass – windows, bottles, etc. – pounded to varying levels of granularity.

Recycled and transparent are made with glass pounded to chips. Transparent beads have all chips from the same glass, where recycled are a mix of chips from all types and colors of glass – the leftovers, if you will.

The beads that are made from powder are much more involved. The glass is pounded with mortar and pestle, then shaken through a sieve, separating the larger from the smaller pieces. Both are pounded and filtered again and again until the glass is a fine powder like talc. As I felt it between my fingers I couldn’t help but think that no matter how much it felt like talc, it was still glass and people were handling it, pounding it, and breathing it day in and day out.

Once the powder is ground to the right consistency, it can be colored, using small amounts of colored powder dye, thoroughly mixed into the glass powder. The powder is then loaded into molds. These molds are made from termite clay (see post at XXX for a photo of Leslie in front of a termite mound), which is a combination of the very clay-heavy soil here and termite saliva and processing enzymes that give it a consistency well suited to high-temperature firing. The molds are coated with a fine powder of river silt, which is also in powder form and prevents the glass from sticking to the mold, sort of like flouring a cake pan, I suppose.

For the beads with the design inside, different colored glass powder is layered into
the mold to form the design as shown in this video – resulting in a bead like the one in the subsequent still photo.

For the beads with the design on the outside, a single color of glass powder is used. After the bead has been fired and cooled, the design is painted on the outside using a paste made of glass powder and the beads are fired again to meld the design on the bead.

When beads are finished and cooled, they are polished by being rolled over and over in the hollow of a rock in water full of the same river silt used to powder the molds. As the river carves the mountain, the water and rock gradually smooth and polish the beads.

This factory also made some glass buttons which were very fun. Max and I went a
little crazy picking over their selection.

The antique shop was a bust. Although a representative of the shopkeeper finally arrived, he wasn’t empowered to really discuss price with Max, so no transaction was made – despite the fact htat Max was more than ready to buy. In the meantime, Whit surreally went back to the car to read the New York Times on his cell phone (!?) while he waited, and I, at his suggestion, walked down by the nearby river which offered a lovely view of a bridge that could have been anywhere in the world.
XO

Weave me a rainbow

We went to the Kente Festival in Volta Region this weekend (wanting to do something for what is Labor Day weekend in the U.S., the last holiday weekend of summer). Kente is the woven cloth which came to Ghana, I believe from the Venetians (or maybe I mis-heard and it was the Phoenicians, which would make my friend, May, very happy, since she never stops telling me that her ancestors, the Phoenicians invented “trade”) perhaps as early as the 16th century. In Ghana, it originated in Volta Region, at the far eastern side of the country, bordering both Togo and Lake Volta, where Ghana gets all its electricity. Many weavers emigrated to Ashanti Region, which has become better known, although many might argue the Volta kente has older, more traditional designs. However, not all designs are old. Kente artisans take pride in their new original designs, as well, presenting them at international weaving conventions and to visitors to their shops.

One weaver even made a full-size portrait of the Ghanaian president, who has very broad support in Volta Region, as well as the American president, who also has very broad support throughout Africa. That one was based on a photo in the daily newspaper from the president's visit to Ghana last month.

Anyway, cloth is woven in about 5” strips – some can be very long, with the ends of the long strings (what do I know about weaving?) held taut by a "sled" of large rocks or concrete blocks way out in front of the weaver. As it is woven, the cloth is rolled onto a collection spindle and the sled slides gradually toward the weaver. Weaving seems to me an undertaking begging for a zen mentality, as I couldn’t imagine looking way out at the sled and knowing I had that much more weaving to go – only to finish and start another strip from scratch. One must just focus instead on the steady click and slide of the next line and the rhythm of hands and feet in motion.




The finished strips are used individually, or sewn together into various sized cloths. These can be worn for ceremonial occasions or for many other uses, including home décor. Popular designs are also printed onto cotton cloth for everyday use – and these patterns are often “knocked off” by Chinese textile manufacturers, imported, and sold at undercutting prices as I’ve mentioned before.

It was a very nice weekend with way too much shopping, relaxing time at the hotel pool, and three meals of french fries. Everything else on the hotel menu seemed to be "finished".
XO

Tuesday, September 1, 2009

Rewards and Recognition

Sometimes recognition and rewards are more motivating than money. We started a program where an agent gets a Burro t-shirt when they have registered 50 batteries, which is not at all difficult if you spend a few days on it. In one village we signed on 42 on our first day. Anyway, our agents are constantly asking us when they get their t-shirts and how many more batteries they have to go. It's working great.

Our agent with the over-the-counter medication shop earned her t-shirt today. She is very slow and plodding and doesn’t get too excited about anything and hasn't really put that much energy into Burro. In fact, I think the only reason she reached 50 is that the guy we just made an agent (in the previous post) had registered batteries for nearly every member of his family because he wanted to make sure the product was good before he asked to be an agent.

So, imaging our surprise when Rebecca clasped her t-shirt to her chest and got up and began dancing around the shop with the shirt and holding it in the air. It was the most animated I had ever seen her.



Then she started singing, “Jesus is my savior, day by day…” although I’m not sure I got the connection except that maybe she only normally gets that worked up during church. In any case, it was hilarious and a great example of the importance of little things.
XO

Thursday, August 27, 2009

Secret Garden

A few weeks ago one of our agents introduced us to another young man who wanted to be an agent. He seemed very industrious and said he went from village to village selling medicines, both over the counter and herbal. We made an appointment with him to “go ‘round”, as they say here. He took us to several villages, but the largest one was where people really grabbed onto the concept and began to whip out their money. In fact, they were all offering 5 and 10 cedi notes and we soon ran out of change. One man even gave us a 20. It was the first time I’d ever seen a 20 cedi note in a village.

We also met the chief and, trying to make chit-chat, I asked if they were farmers (the answer is always yes), and what they farmed. He said “many things”. I said, “Oh, maize and cassava.” He said “Yes, many things.” It was a scintillating conversation.

On the way back, we were talking about how they had so much money, and someone said it must be because this is harvest season. The new agent (he was a great salesman and we decided to make him an agent right away) said, “Well, they have secret farms.” We all had the deer in the headlights look of non-understanding, and he said, “They grow marijuana.” I asked if they put it in with other crops to hide it (not that there is any aerial surveillance here) and he said, “No, they just plant the whole field with it. When the police come, they just pay them.”

Oddly, the very next day, Whit saw a news article about secret farms in this particular region and about police corruption. I hope they don’t all get arrested. It was a very promising village from our standpoint. Everyone wanted and could afford our batteries. It’s no wonder it is an appealing alternative to abject poverty – although that village still doesn’t have electricity and day to day life doesn’t seem much different than other villages. However, the young people’s English was pretty good and the adults were encouraging them to interact with us, so I suspect they are investing their profits in educating the next generation.

In case you were wondering, one gunny sack goes for GHC 150 ($100).
XO

Sunday, August 23, 2009

Sit-In

For several months our second-hand furniture has been looking pretty sad. The cushions on our wicker sofa and chairs (2) were covered with thin cotton fabric (like a cheap summer dress) which was faded all over and split in several places on almost every cushion, making it look like the knees or rear end of a really "fashionable" pair of blue jeans. This is the only "before" photo I have. You can only see one small tear, but can at least see the pattern and the fading. Imagine several full length tears on each cushion.

This week Max had the cushions recovered and here is the result. African without being too loud for snoozing; true upholstery fabric; and nice workmanship. We keep the sofa on the veranda, where Whit or Max can often be found with a good book.

"Good book" may or may not include this one, Batteries in a Portable World, a treatise on re-chargeable batteries (how many copies can it have sold?). It is interesting when you have something specific to learn - and is otherwise excellent for napping.
XO

Saturday, August 22, 2009

Max-imum Tropical Delight

I think I've mentioned that Whit's brother, Max, is here (photo from his website, and more recently from here in Ghana). He was here with his son, Harper, in January, returned for a month in June, and is now here for two more months of sibling banter.

This stay is extra long because Max is writing another book (see below for his impressive credentials). This one will be about our crazy battery business and how it works within the Ghanaian culture. I can't wait to read it.

Anyway, Max lives in Maine now, but was a senior editor at People magazine in New York and, before that, the executive editor of Variety and Daily Variety, the showbiz trade publications, in Los Angeles. He has written many magazine articles (for Readers Digest, This Old House, Martha Stewart Living, Bon Appetit, Country Home, Smithsonian and many others), written for the New York Times Book Review, co-written a cookbook with a well-known chef, and published his first memoir, Man Bites Log: The Unlikely Adventures of a City Guy in the Woods, in 2004.

Then there's the sibling exploitation. Max also wrote a lot of the cultural questions for the original Cranium, although I wonder how much credit his brother gives him for its smashing success and awards... hmmm?

AND, Max L-O-V-E loves to cook - and we are the beneficiaries of this passion.

In January, Max decided our cheap imported Chinese cookware was insufficient to his needs, so in June he carried two huge cast-iron pots and a cast-iron skillet, maybe 15" in diameter - in his luggage. He immediately began using it to great effect. He used the skillet for a number of things, but Pineapple Upside-Down Cake took the cake. He made it about three times when he was here in June and has made it twice so far on this trip. It keeps getting better. I think this one should win a prize - especially since our gas oven only allows the use of the top or bottom burner, but not both at the same time, and has no thermostat!

If only there were a county fair in Ghana.
XO

Tuesday, August 18, 2009

Best Dressed on a Budget

It's always interesting to see what people are wearing, particularly in the villages. Locally produced apparel is of two types: specific lengths of fabric wrapped and draped for ceremonial occasions; and skirts, drawstring trousers, and tunics in local patterns, most of which have been "stolen" by Chinese textile manufacturers who print and import the fabrics, undercutting local textile makers.

Nearly all non-Ghanaian apparel outside the cities comes from bulk wholesale purchases from charities in North America and Europe. That means people have to sort through whatever is left after the charity selects the best stuff for their own thrift shops. And the people in villages have even slimmer choices because the people closest to the markets (in cities and larger towns) get there first when huge bales of clothes arrive on market day. These clothes often have broken zippers, missing buttons, or other imperfections, stains, or holes, and are often several sizes too big (consider beefy American sizes vs. living-off-the-land Africans) but they are cheap and readily available.

There are loads of polo shirts and t-shirts as well as skirts, pants, shorts, sweats, and jeans. You do see more men and children wearing this clothing than women. Particularly in the villages, women tend to wear locally made clothes and wrap-around fabrics with perhaps a t-shirt from the used bin. These are some shots of people in our neighborhood and in some of the villages we visit. They are a combination of local and bulk-used everyday apparel. I'll work on getting some shots of people in their Sunday best so you can see the difference. For now, enjoy these...

Especially, this one (below) - to which I give the "Very Best Dressed on a Budget" award:
  • Worn-out dress shoes, now worn as casual shoes with the heels crushed down so they slide on like slippers

  • Brown polyester slacks

  • Very large tourquoise boxers over the brown slacks

  • And last, but not least, the Saddam Hussein print polyester shirt. I can't imagine which country's charity this one came from!

XO

Saturday, August 15, 2009

Gotcha!

Many of you may remember my post about the spider in the drawer of my bedside table (
http://skitocoast.blogspot.com/2008/12/reading-is-good-for-you.html). Here is a photo in case you don't want to look back.


Since then, I have been understandably cautious when reaching into the drawer, particularly in the dark. I did just that the other night, to get my over-the-head type headphones. It was dark, but I reached in anyway and felt around for the headphones which had the cord wrapped tidily around them. When I pulled them out, I felt something small and soft against my hand, which fell to the bed as I retrieved the headset. I immediately looked down and my eyes were adjusted, but without my glasses I could only make out a small dark shape against the sheet.


In a panic, I quickly grabbed the top sheet and covered it, then proceded to beat the daylights out my unwelcome visitor. Once I mustered the courage to look and see what terrifying creature had invaded my space, I turned on the light and lifted the sheet to discover I had done no damage at all to a foam earplug.
XO

Friday, August 14, 2009

15 Minutes of Fame - Village Style

We went to a new village the other day and found the chief, a very gregarious man who invited us to come today because several villages would be there for a “communal labor” activity, building a temporary facility for a Junior Secondary School. He said it would start at 8:00AM and there would be chiefs from six villages there. That sounded great to us because making contact village by village is very time consuming and it usually requires two trips – one to meet and greet and set up a time for a “gong gong” meeting, and then a return visit for the actual gathering of the village. If I haven’t mentioned gong-gong meetings before, it is when the village gong-gong beater (an official position) goes around the village the night before and beats the gong-gong and tells everyone there will be a meeting the following day at a certain time. The gong-gong is a hammered metal bell type instrument, only squished a bit flat – about as long as my forearm. It is held in the left hand by, the ring at the top of the bell-ish shape and resting in the crook of the elbow and beaten with a mallet in the right hand. Anyway, as a result of the communal labor, we were able to meet six chiefs at once and make appointments to come to their respective villages to introduce our batteries.

HOWEVER, we were a little late, arriving around 8:20AM and it was overcast. We went to the chief’s house whom we had met and chairs and benches were brought out to welcome us. After 10 minutes of organizing and greeting and so forth, we were told that the people had not arrived yet from the other villages, “But you wait small, they will not come until 8:00.” As he was saying this, the speaker (one of the chief’s elders) looked at his watch and saw that it was 8:30. “Oh,” he says, “the weather has made them think it is not time yet.” I thought that was funny, but it was, in fact, the best excuse for Ghana Maybe Time I've heard so far.

So, we waited small. The chief offered us a beverage – and he wanted to give us a real beverage, not just water. So, I had a Fanta (yep, orange soda) and Rose had a Coke. Then he had one of his kids bring out another bottle – a Coke bottle, but not containing Coke. He pointed to it and explained that it was Ghanaian gin. I’ve written about this before (http://skitocoast.blogspot.com/2008/12/village-people.html) – it is distilled Palm wine and very strong. I know it as Akpeshie, it’s Twi name, but this is a Krobo chief, so he gave me the name in Krobo, which I have forgotton, but it started with an “o”, if that helps.




Anyway, the kid who brought out the Akpeshie disappears for a second and returns shaking water out of a glass (just washed? or rinsed?) - something between a shot glass and a juice glass. He pours some liquor in the glass (it’s still 8-something AM) and hands it to the chief. He holds the glass up ceremonially and begins chanting what I think is some sort of blessing or prayer – in one of the many ways old traditions have melded with new religions - with his advisor beside him seconding everything he says in the way you might imagine a gung-ho deacon amen-ing the preacher. Every few phrases, the chief dribbles a bit of liquor on the ground at his feet as an offering to God. Finally he finishes and pours the rest on the ground in a flourish and he and his advisor throw their hands up in the air in a final sort of hurrah. Then the young man, who has approached as the blessing was coming to a close, pours him a real glass, full, and he downs it in one go.


The youth fills the glass again and hands it to the person on the chief’s right. I was about the fifth person to get the glass and I had watched carefully, so thanked them for their hospitality, poured about half on the ground and to their great surprise, drank the rest. It was remarkably good for such a strong drink. Palm wine is very sweet to begin with, so is a good candidate for distilling I guess, and the result was far smoother than I would have expected for the product of a hole in the ground (palm wine) and a couple metal barrels (distillation).

Then, the chief, having finished the circle by drinking a second glass and feeling his morning libations, told a young girl something I didn’t understand. She went away and came back with a shell – like a medium sized seashell – which she dipped in a bucket of water and began shaking, just like the other guy had shaken the glass (so I’m thinking the glass was “washed” in a similar way). She handed it to the chief, who put the big end with the hole to his lips, puffed out his cheeks, and blew. Or should I say sputtered. He kept trying and just about the time I got the camera rolling, finally got one long blast and some nice short toots, then more sputtering. Satisfied, he said that would call people in. It didn’t.




The shell then became a source of entertainment as one man after another tried to blow it to little effect. One guy would puff up and blow, get no result, then turn the shell around and look at the other end as if to see what was wrong with the shell. Finally, they had all given it a try and everyone was laughing (150 proof at 8:30AM will do that), so I looked at the chief and looked at the shell and back at the chief and sort of shrugged and smirked playfully. He was a very animated guy anyway, but he immediately starting talking fast and pointing and suddenly the shell was in my hand.

Although I played the saxophone in school, which requires a different embouchure (use of the mouth muscles) I did manage to scratch out reveille, come ’n’ get it, and taps on the bugle every day for one summer at camp, so I looked at the shell and looked at the chief a couple of times. He egged me on like I knew he would, so I put it to my lips (still unsure what exactly would come out), tightened my diaphragm and my cheeks and blew. I got a nice long deep sound and then did a few single accented toots for good measure. The cheering and laughing and pointing was a lot of fun – made even more entertaining for them since it was coming from a woman. I had to repeat my performance every time someone new came along.

Before I get too big headed, however, my shell blowing didn’t bring the people to the meeting any faster than the chief’s so we didn’t get started until after 9:00 and even then only two of the chiefs had arrived. They did finally all arrive and we made our sales pitch to the workers who had come to help with the school, asked the chiefs for help in selecting agents in each of their villages, set appointments for gong-gong meetings in each village, and presented the traditional bottle of Schnapps (no flavor, just plain Schnapps "imported from Holland") to each chief. Then we asked permission to leave since we were late for our route visits to our existing agents.

However, leaving a chief who enjoys his liquor as well as being the center of attention is not that easy. The chief had sent a “small boy” back to his house to get a glass (likely the same one) and before we left, he wanted his elder/advisor (the one from the beginning) to break open the Schnapps and perform another traditional blessing ritual. So he did, after first ceremoniously stepping out of his "slippers" and standing foot to earth. And in a friendly symetry, the chief, to my left, backed him up the whole way, taking on the energetic deacon role.





When the ritual finished, they poured Schnapps for each of the chiefs, who either emptied most of it on the ground (the polite way of not drinking but also not offending) or dashed it back. And finally, I was offered a glass, of which I poured 90% and drank a sip just to see what it tasted like. I bought the good stuff, not knowing it came in five different grades ranging from about $2.50 to the top $7.00 a bottle, so it was actually pretty smooth. Then, somehow the shell appeared and I was an organ grinder’s monkey for a few minutes, again to hoots, hollers, and amazement. All in all, a great introduction to six new villages.
XO

Wednesday, August 12, 2009

A-weigh We Go

Our agents tend to be very busy people – as the most ambitious and hard working tend to be the ones who gravitate to a new business opportunity and have the organizational skills and attention to detail that we require. Therefore, we were not surprised to learn that another of our agents is a volunteer with the polio eradication effort. On this day, she was helping to weigh babies and counsel mothers on breast-feeding and child-nutrition.

Here is a baby being weighed in what reminds me of a Johnny-Jumper, except that the baby just bounces until she stops and then the ride is over.
XO

Thursday, August 6, 2009

Bikes not Bombs

Early on we recognized that bicycles could be a significant boon to our business, but that most of our agents did not have one and could not afford to buy one. So, we started offering agents loans to buy bicycles once they had 100 batteries on the Burro program. This number was selected because it indicated a commitment to the business and could reasonably be achieved on foot.

Serendipitously, we also met a young American in the early days who was starting a bike shop almost across the street. In a venture with a Ghanaian-American, Emmanuel Ofosu (you may have seen him on Oprah), of the Emmanuel Education Foundation and Sports Academy for the Physically Challenged, the bike shop is called Ability Bikes and all the employees are physically handicapped in some way.

In a country where one's living is largely dependent on physical labor, those with physical challenges can be particularly hard-pressed to find work and contribute to their families - or feel confident even having families of their own.

Dave Branigan, the guy we met on the street one day, is an avid cyclist and bike mechanic as well as a returned Peace Corps volunteer who spent his tour in Ghana. He has started Ability Bikes from scratch and trained all the mechanics as well as administrative staff and got the business off the ground in about the same time we have been here in Koforidua. (http://bikesnotbombs-eefsa.blogspot.com/)

However, unlike Burro, Ability Bikes receives its "inventory" of used bikes from a number of organizations in the U.S., including Working Bikes Cooperative, Bikes Not Bombs, and Re-Cycle. The bikes come in a variety of conditions but are almost all high-end bikes even by U.S. standards. The mechanics here strip them down and completely overhaul them, cleaning everything, replacing parts that are worn or broken and basically making them like-new.

All our our agents' bikes have come from Ability Bikes and they pay anywhere from 45 to 75 cedis (thats $30 to $50, for reference) per bike depending on their taste for flash. They pay off their interest-free loans to Burro over four months. It's a great deal and we're thrilled to have met Dave early on. It gives us tremendous confidence in the bikes our agents buy. Dave is moving on to a head-office position, with Bikes Not Bombs, I think, but Ability Bikes seems well on it's way to being a huge success story - run completely by Ghanaians with physical disabilities. And, they have really gelled into a fun and amazing team as you can see by the photos, taken on the day they unloaded their latest container of bikes.
XO

Saturday, August 1, 2009

Pomp and Circumstance

Several weeks ago, Savanna asked if I would attend her Graduation on August 1st. I asked what sort of graduation it was and she said Christ Complex Junior High School. Since she is only in (our equivalent) seventh grade, I was a little confused but nevertheless agreed to attend. I was looking for a cultural adventure and I was not disappointed!

Last night Savanna came to say that she had to go at 7:00AM, but that it started at 10:00AM, so I should come with her father (actually her uncle – but I think we’ve been down this cultural road before, so I won’t explain). So, this morning I was ready by 9:45 and went outside. Maxwell (yes the same one from the gutter covering project) said he needed to do "one or two things" before we would go. He said it started at 10:00AM so we would leave the house at about 11:00. I just love GMT (Ghana Maybe Time).

Once I saw the programme – I knew how they got around the whole time thing. It says "Arrival of invited guests and parents - 10:00AM". It doesn’t actually say how long they would give everyone to actually “arrive”. We arrived at about 11:00 and the program finally began at 11:45.

As you may also notice on the program – the event is scheduled for two days! This worried me initially, but then I saw that they are having a thanksgiving service at church tomorrow – so that is Day 2. Day 1, however, was sufficient for me. The official title – highly utilitarian and descriptive - is “12th Graduation, Speech and Prize Giving Day”.

The programme contained 26 items. It started with a prayer, many introductions, a small school choir singing the school anthem, and a wooden-rifle drill team. In all, mostly before the diplomas were even distributed, the programme included 2 prayers, 10 speeches, remarks or addresses, 3 sets of introductions, and a history of the school (Christ Complex is one of the best primary and junior secondary schools in the Eastern Region). In addition, although it was only one agenda item, there were over 80 poetry recitals by the primary class children, along with the other entertainment items, which included two dance groups and two short skit/plays.

[Spike: It reminded me of an FKU karate open house :)]

Some highlights included:

  • The speech by the PTA Chairman was entitled “Good God! Bad World” and in it he claimed that an “enemy” is responsible for all evil, sickness, and suffering in the world. Although god is all powerful, he chooses to let these things play out.
  • The youngest students at Christ Complex Early Childhood Development Center (primary school) recited bible verses in the “Poetry Recitals” agenda item. The youngest was 3 years old. Each recitation (regardless of language) went as follows: “My name is ______ and I am __ years old. I am a student at Christ Complex Early Childhood Development Center (a mouthful at any age!). I am in class ___. My recitation is from _____ chapter ____ verse___: ‘yada yada yada, depending on the verse”. Amen. (Amen from the crowd). As the children aged, there were some actual poems, but the basic format of the recitation was the same.

    -- One poem was called “My name is Electricity”, with words like: “My favorite food is water” (all the power in Ghana is hydro) and “My parents are the Water Conservation Board and the Electricity Company of Ghana”. It was cute.

    -- Another was called “My name is Mr. Trouble”: “…Mr. Trouble won’t trouble you if you don’t trouble Mr. Trouble…”

    -- Two 7 year olds recited a poem together, entitled: “I am Proud to be born a Boy or a Man” – I totally had the giggles.

    -- The youngest children recited their poems in English, but it was clear they were just making memorized sounds and didn't really know the meaning of what they were saying.

    -- One group of older students recited all their poems in French.

    -- When each group entered, they were led by a teacher who was singing – generally a Jesus song. She had a very nice voice and led each group in succession.

    -- Then she (same teacher/singer) led a group of 6 Muslim girls with heads covered (attending "Christ" Complex school?!) and she sang a song about Allah as they entered! The girls then knelt and recited verses or poems about Allah in another language, but not Twi as far as I could tell. I was incredibly impressed by this one. The children attend the school because it provides a very good education - and the school respects their beliefs, despite what must be a tremendous drive to proselytize. I have no idea how these children are incorporated into the "Religious and Moral Education" curriculum.

    -- Finally a group of children of varying ages in traditional tribal dress recited poems in Twi.
  • The two skits had strong messages - one was about different people living in harmony and the other was about how to improve sanitation.

  • Some of the parents of the children would go up to their child during their recitation and put money in their shirt collar, which was then collected and placed one of the strategically placed collection bowls. They finally asked them not to tuck it in the children’s clothes because they got so distracted from their recitations. After that, most parents just made a big show of waving the money in the air (in pride over their child) and put it in the bowl. Some parents did make such a to do out of prancing up to the bowl, though, that they totally stole the spotlight from their children.
  • After each group of children finished their performance – poetry, dance, dramatic skit/play, etc. – they could not return to their seats until their parents “ransomed” them for GHC 2.00 each! The longer it took the higher the price went, so a couple parents - who must have been in the bathroom at the time – paid up to GHC 5.00.
  • Savanna was in one of the dance numbers and was very cute. Maxwell ransomed her for GHC 2.00 – and I think he was thankful his two younger children hadn’t participated in the poetry recitals!
  • Another dance routine (a group of 14 year old girls in pink) was to a number called “You do me, I’ll do you”, which seemed a bit out of place at a religious Junior High School. Like a lot of dance music though, it was mostly music and the words were just an afterthought. Nevertheless, the group got lots of applause, stomping, shouting, and cheering – mostly from the school boys.
  • There was an appeal for funds (private school) that went on for at least 45 minutes. One person gave GHC 10.00 (about US$ 7.00) and it went down from there to GHC 2.00. Then, just when I thought it must finish soon, they started working on the dignitaries on the podium – starting back up at GHC 50.00 and working down to GHC 5.00.
All this was finally followed by the presentation of awards – including diplomas for the 36 graduates (19 girls, 17 boys), a “top student” award for each class beginning with Primary 1, the “top student” in each subject among the graduates, the best overall student (academic) among the graduates, as well as sportswoman and sportsman of the year, prefect awards, and best all around student (all activities and classes).

We left after the awards. There were still four programme items left and it was 4:00PM. We had been alternately rained on and baked in the sun (we were in the front row). I'd had one very chemical tasting sachet of water since my arrival, I had to pee like crazy, and both our bums had had enough. Still, it was a very interesting look at a celebrated rite of passage and the pride of parents (and uncles) everywhere in the accomplishments of their children (and nieces!).
XO