Doing More

Early in our pilot we realized that there were many people in the villages who would like to take advantage of the Burro battery offering, if only they had the battery operated devices necessary to do so. Many people did not even have a simple flashlight (AKA torch) – despite the fact that these devices are plentiful in every market throughout the country. Some people even resorted to building their own flashlights and lamps using a bit of wire, an LED bulb, and some local materials like bamboo.

We thought at first this situation was because these people just rarely left the villages and since the devices were not for sale in the village, they just didn’t have access. So, we set about sourcing some decent table top lights and small combo light/radio devices to take to our clients. In Accra, the light/radio could be had for about GH¢1.80 (at that time, this was about $1.30) and we sold it for GH¢3.00 including the reseller’s commission. A table top LED lamp with about 20 small LED bulbs we purchased for around GH¢3.00, selling for GH¢5.00. Unfortunately, we ended up refunding almost everyone’s money after about a month. The cheap LED bulbs in the lamp began burning out after about a week and after just a few weeks were about ½ gone. The radio lasted a bit longer, but in most cases the retractable antenna and the carry handle broke off after a few weeks.

Both Whit and I know from our Cranium experiences that it is possible to produce very high-quality products in China, because we did it. We also know that it requires careful management, monitoring, and testing to ensure the design and component quality specifications are being followed. Lacking these controls and fearing no consumer protection or warranty penalties, manufacturers will rarely make quality products based on principle alone. In fact, one China manufacturer, upon receiving our feedback about some of the quality issues with a product replied, “This item price is very cheap. Most customers are using this for promotion. I think it's suitable for African market.” They do have their facts correct – suitable for the African market means people will buy it and take what they get. In Ghana, nothing comes with a warranty, including the 4WD pick-up truck Whit bought brand new when we first began, and certainly not small consumer electronics like radios or lamps. People know that once they buy it the risk is all on them. So, many learn not to buy at all when they know it will essentially be money down the drain.

These lessons told us that to really help empower people to do more, we would have to not only provide the batteries, but also high-quality battery-operated devices optimized to work with our batteries and rugged enough to last in village conditions. Our first such device has arrived and is selling fast. It is a battery operated phone charger – to re-charge the battery inside a cell phone. Most of our clients who have no electricity have to travel to a town with electricity (paying for a taxi or Trotro, unless it is close enough to walk) then pay someone (typically at a shop) to charge their phone. Our charger lets them charge their phones at home, several times, using one set of 4 Burro batteries. People love the convenience.

Whit designed the charger, taking a generic battery holder with generic black and red wires that could be attached to most anything, and had it manufactured with a female pigtail end to which any one of many, many phone attachment pins. For instance I can use one pin to charge my cheap Nokia phone that I use here in Ghana, a USB pin to charge my US phone, and another pin to charge my iPod, all with the same charger.

It would be ideal for villagers if someone were actually making a phone suited to their needs – for instance running on two AA batteries – but in the meantime, they are thrilled with the Burro charger solution!

Next to arrive, in November, will be a versatile lamp with 4 brightness settings to put the customer in charge of how much energy they use and therefore, how much they spend on lighting. The lowest setting, about like a nightlight, will run for 250 hours on 3 Burro batteries. The brightest, which will light a whole room, for a meeting or party, runs only 5 hours. We think the sweet spot is the second setting which gives as much light as the dirty, smelly, yellow-light kerosene lamp currently being used in most village households. Our lamp will run 80 hours on that setting, saving about 60-80% and reducing respiratory illness.

Since the World Bank estimates that breathing kerosene fumes is the equivalent of smoking 2 packs of cigarettes a day, this is huge!
XO

Don't Mind Your Wife

No body is free - might as well drink!

This is a fairly typical "drinking spot" in Ghana. "Spot" is the word used for bar/tavern/pub. Some names you might see are:

All Is Well Spot,

Be Bold Drinking Spot,

Strawberry Spot,

and my personal favorite, Don't Mind Your Wife Drinking Spot, where "mind" is used in the British sense - meaning Don't Pay Any Heed to Your Wife.

XO

Mystery

I was sitting on the top step drinking my coffee, minding my own business and watching the neighbors head off to their daily pursuits. Below near the breezeway between our building and the bank next door I saw Precious’ mother, Mary, speaking animatedly and gesturing wildly. The woman to whom she spoke immediately began to speak loudly with an upset tone to her voice and I thought they were having a neighborhood squabble. When they finished, Mary saw me, waved and started my way.

She marched up the stairs like a woman with a mission and, again wrongly, I thought she was going to share with me the cause of the spat so that I could, of course, take her side and lament about “people these days”. Instead, she told me there were three dead girls in the church down the street. She was speaking rapidly and couldn’t get the news out fast enough so it was all I could do to gather that three girls from the same family had died and were laid in state nearby.

As always, my immediate questions were “How?” and “Why?” – to which, after two years I should learn, the answer was “No one knows.” Finally, frustrated that I kept asking questions she couldn’t answer, she said, “Let’s go.” I said, “Go where?” and she said, “Go see.” I protested that I wasn’t, in my standard Capri and sleeveless top uniform, dressed for a funeral. She reassured me that it was fine and that she had gone over in what she had on – a plaid skirt with a side zipper, unfastened at the top from a missing button, and a hangin’-around-the-house blouse.

So, feeling like Grandma Mazur in a Stephanie Plum mystery (I ♥ Janet Evanovich!), I went inside to change, at the very least, from my house flip flops to my going out sandals and away we went. Here is the “news” article describing the situation. I could link to it, but it’s short and I’ll attribute it to the Ghana Chronicle and put it in quotes and all that – so they shouldn’t mind.

“The Eastern regional capital, Koforidua, became a scene of great grief yesterday when the bodies of three sisters from Aburi, who died mysteriously three weeks after returning from a youth camp, were transported to the town for burial. The Apostolic Church of Ghana, where the three young ladies worshipped, was literally shaken to its foundation as the entire leadership of the church, which was overawed by the event, trooped to the Eastern regional assembly in Koforidua for the burial service.

The bodies of the three sisters, aged between 17 and 20, were brought to Koforidua for burial following a 40-day ban on drumming, noise-making and funeral at Aburi that normally precedes the Odwira festival in the town. The festival is expected to take place in the middle of next month.

The circumstances leading to the mysterious death of the sisters, including a set of twins, spread like a wildfire in the Koforidua municipality, drawing a huge crowd from all corners of the town to the premises of the church where they had all been laid in state for the burial service. Two of the sisters died on the same day while the other died five days earlier. Sympathisers including some pastors could not hold back their tears when they saw the three sisters lying in state. When the caskets containing their mortal remains were being carried to the cemetery, the roof of the church nearly came down, with spontaneous wailing from the church members.

The only living sister of the three deceased, who is about 14 years old, had to be heavily protected and comforted. It was however visible that she was very terrified and traumatized during the entire burial service of her sisters. Both parents of the deceased, who are in their late forties, are natives of Aburi, where they live with their children. The 17-year-old twins, Juliana Opoku Nsiah and Juliet Opoku Nsiah, attended SDA Senior High School at Ashanti Agona while their 20-year-old elder sister, Josephine Opoku Nsiah, was about to enter the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST) in Kumasi after completing Adonten Senior High School at Aburi. The father, Oliver Kwame Nsiah, is a driver at the Accra office of KNUST while the mother sells second-hand clothing at Aburi.

The mysterious deaths sparked a series of speculations trying to explain the deaths which occurred in less than a week. Some alleged that it could be a spell on the family while others said the children were bewitched. Juliet Opoku Nsiah, the younger of the twins, was said to have complained about pains all over the body after 'something' allegedly struck her neck like somebody had hit her with a stick.

The sickness got serious and she was taken to the Tetteh Quarshie Memorial Hospital at Mampong-Akuapem, from where she was later referred to the regional hospital at Koforidua. She died on September 4, a few days after admission. Five days after Juliet's death, the elder sister, Josephine complained of a similar ailment and died on the same day when she was taken to Tetteh Quarshie Hospital. About two hours after the death of Josephine, Juliana was said to have collapsed but was pronounced dead on arrival at the hospital on the same day.”

As with Patrick, my small boy who died in late August, there was no follow-up about the causes of death. No autopsy results. No reassurances to parents who may worry about a contagious epidemic. Nothing to refute the wild speculations of witchcraft. And finally, no closure for the family – no explanation of an unfathomable parental nightmare.

The church was like a parade with a steady stream of people, including small children, walking up the center aisle to where the three bodies lay side by side on three identical platforms, in three identical white dresses. All were instructed to circle round the bodies to the right and then proceed back up the center aisle and out the doors in the back of the church. A three piece ensemble played music as family members and friends sat in the church pews (actually rows of chairs) throughout the day.

We saw many of the neighbors there, all out of curiosity alone. No one in our neighborhood, nor in most of Koforidua, knew this family, but everyone turned up to gaze at the bodies. Those who didn't go inside were crowded 5 deep around every window in the church building. It was perhaps the single greatest moment of cultural divide I have experienced in these two years. And the front page full color newspaper photo of the girls laid out at the church was the second.
XO

Akos and Kwabena

Two of the children in the neighborhood are brother and sister. The girl, Akos, is 12 and the boy, Kwabena, is 10. He is a little slow and probably a lot ADD. He doesn’t go to school because I am sure there is no path for him there. I’m told he did go at one time, but they “sent him home”. The children always call Kwabena a “dirty boy” because they hardly ever bathe him and he wears the same clothes for days in a row until the dirt is so ground in that it doesn’t come out. In a country where people bathe twice a day, even the 4-year olds begin to look with disdain on anyone who has not bathed. Further, because of his wild nature and the general opinion about his cleanliness, he had become the whipping boy of the neighborhood. Anytime something happened all the other children needed to do was point at Kwabena and he would be slapped, beaten, or caned, no questions asked.

Akos is very active and bright, but skinny and always dressed in what I would call rags. Despite being bright, when I first arrived two years ago she was 10 and in Grade 2. She was then held back to Grade 2 for another year because she could not read. I assumed her family was just very poor and barely getting by and I began giving these two a few more things than the others. On this last return I brought them both clothes which I gave them a little at a time.

Recently, on the top step over my morning coffee, the children were teasing Kwabena about not having a bath that morning. I asked why he hadn’t bathed and one of the children translated for me. He said they had no water. In the compound, when the cistern in the courtyard is dry people have to go across the street and buy water by the bucket. I assumed they couldn’t afford it. So, I put out my hand and Kwabena came inside with me. I put him in the shower and gave him a soapy bath sponge. He was amazed that I could make the water warm just by turning a knob. He scrubbed himself all over with vigor and excitement, beaming like a halogen light. Afterward, I put him in a new set of clothes and put the filthy ones in a bag. When he came back outside, the other children cheered as he continued to beam.

Imagine my surprise when a man came to the door, speaking perfect English, introduced himself as these children’s father and asked for a job. His story was that he had had a job in Accra but now he needed another one and needed to be home to care for his family. I asked what job he had in Accra and he said he worked for Metro Mass. Metro Mass is the large city-to-city bus company – and I think no one working there would leave voluntarily in a country with such high unemployment. I did ask why he left and he said it was because he didn’t have a place to stay in Accra. Are you kidding me? Anybody can find a place to stay. If you really want to take care of your family, you don’t quit a good job. And if he had a good steady job, why were his children dressed in rags – and why were they so poorly educated and his daughter barely reading, when his English was nearly perfect. I assume that if he actually did work for Metro Mass, he lost that job and was telling me a tale. I told him we didn’t have any openings, which was true.

Then a few days ago, I realized I hadn’t seen Akos for a few days, so I asked about her. Her mother had come to visit and Akos had essentially run away with her. It was Sunday and she was wearing the new dress I got her – brown with white polka dots, and a ribbon that tied in the back. When she returned from church, she sneaked in the house to get a bag of her rag clothes that she had quietly packed away. But her evil stepmother had discovered her plot and locked the bag of clothes in another room. Akos and her mother begged the stepmother to give her the bag and finally Akos said, “I’ll just go with what I have on,” and they left.

It was the other girls, Akos’s friends, who were telling me this story. They said the stepmother only wanted her to stay because she makes her do all the work. They said, “Auntie Jan, almost everything you give Akos, her stepmother takes and sends to her grandchildren.” It was a very sad story, but I had to quietly cheer for Akos. I hope she finds the love and care she deserves. And, Kwabena, when he’s not poking, pinching, or prodding, likes to just sit quietly and lean against me.
XO

Where is the outrage?

Upon my return from Europe, I was rapidly informed that one of “my kids” was dead. He was three years old. I couldn’t wrap my head around it and the questions “why?” and “how?” had no answers.

The details are still sketchy and the mother still has not returned (as of 27 Sept) from the Volta Region where the boy died and was buried. The grapevine version says that on the Monday after I left to Europe, the boy and his sister (12) traveled with their mother to the Volta Region to visit family. He was fine and had not been sick. On Thursday, he complained of feeling cold and they took him to the hospital. However, he died in the car on the way.

That’s it.

Having watched far too much Law & Order and experienced blessedly little pre-mature death, in a land striving for healthcare for all – I had a lot of questions. What did the doctor say once they reached the hospital? (Nothing – they had no idea why he died) Did they do an autopsy? (Unknown, but unlikely) Was there any sort of investigation? (Unknown, but unlikely) and so on… None was answered satisfactorily.

On Law & Order, they would first determine a cause of death – I don’t know of any disease, even in Ghana, where the only symptom is feeling cold and that results in death before any other symptoms manifest, so why not at least a hypothesis and some tests. Then, sad to say, the first place they would look (the L&O detectives) would be at the parents. In this family, the daughter, when I first arrived here, knew and talked far too much about sex, including describing a variety of acts of molestation she claimed one 8-year old boy was perpetrating on smaller children. I wondered and agonized later whether what she was describing were more likely personal experiences outwardly projected. The mother, who’s chest and arms show a pattern of what appear to be ritual burns, was beaten badly one night. The next morning, when Whit and Max pointed to the huge “Stop Domestic Violence” billboard on the corner and asked her why she didn’t report it, she laughed and said that billboard was just a way for the government to spend grants they had been given by NGOs. The police would do nothing.

So, I began to wonder, in a family where violence seems to be the norm – and the outward signs of child abuse, say, shaken baby syndrome, can be virtually non-existent – in a country where the police and justice system do little or nothing to protect everyday people from violence and crime – where death is commonplace and accepted with a “tragic-but-what-can-we-do” attitude and people do show up at the hospital dead of malaria and yellow fever and typhoid and meningitis and various other undiagnosed illnesses - it would be very easy to rush a dead child to the hospital, knowing there would be no real questions.

I’m not saying what it was or it wasn’t – only that I cannot get my head or my heart around this senseless loss of a child who had only recently made the transition that every mother of boys knows well – from baby to small boy, with a tiny swagger, and a mischievous smile. And I realize the only picture I have of him is a grainy, cropped-from-a-group photo a year and a half old. Is his existence already a memory as life in Ghana goes on? Where is the outrage?
XO

Out of Africa

On the 14th of August, I headed off for a two-week trip with Leslie and our friends from Rotterdam, Harman and Nelly, and two of their children, Harman Jr. and Kirsten. Unfortunately their third child, Mira, had a better offer helping run the annual rush camp for her sorority, so we missed her.

The first week, we stayed in a rented house in the countryside outside of Venice, Italy – venturing out to see various ruins and old city walls and architecture, and into Venice to see the “official” tourist sites. The second week we chartered a 44’ sailboat in Pula, Croatia and sailed from island to island just off the coast.

Here is a smattering of photos from that trip. There are many interesting, poignant, and funny stories from that trip, but for now, here are the highlights and the photos…

Italy

• Saw the opera, Aida, at a first century Roman arena in Verona (seats were cold hard stone and even the sound system could not project to such a large open space), but the experience was unique.


• Old architecture and city walls


• Breakfast outside every morning


• Trying to see all of Venice in a day


• Ping pong tournament by the pool with s'mores


• Gelati every day!

Sailing, Croatia

• A different island every night


• Navigation! (I've found a new passion!)


• Excellent seafood


• Swimming, swimming, swimming


• First century Roman coliseum in Pula, with access to the underground area from whence the gladiators would emerge


• Gelati every day!

XO

Accounting 101

I’ve been heavy into Accounting 101 since I arrived in June. At that time, Debi Nordstrom and her son, David, were in their last week here as volunteer consultants to help us sort out our books and begin doing accounting transactions in a grown-up way. She was here for a month and the last few days included the better part of some nights as well. She was looking exhausted and bleary-eyed, but pulled out all the stops to get us to close May before she left. Then it was up to me to hire someone and figure out how to do it for June and all the months to follow.

Our business is not entirely straightforward because it has both rental and retail components, so some of the COGS (cost of goods sold) take the form of asset depreciation and some are normal retail inventory cost. In addition, the charging and delivery costs are part of the rental COGS. We also have the added element of the battery deposit (like the old deposit we used to have to pay for a glass Coke bottle) that doesn’t count as revenue but has to be tucked away in the event the customer wants to turn in his or her batteries and get the deposit back.

Along with sorting out the checklist for everything that needs to be buttoned down before we can close each fiscal month, I was writing detailed procedures for all the accounting related transactions and processes we do. Since I’m not an accountant and have never taken an accounting class, my baseline was a 3-day seminar I took on Financial Management when I was in consulting. Frankly, I’ve decided that’s where all accounting classes should start. Understanding how to read Profit and Loss statements and Balance Sheets really helped me understand the accounting transactions I was learning (from Debi and QuickBooks). I still can’t talk in debits and credits very well, but I can get the numbers to increase or decrease when they are supposed to. In fact, I figure I could set up QuickBooks for a small company. I’m pretty tickled with that.
XO

Fufu phooey!

We have two new employees, an accountant and a management trainee. Modupe, our new accountant is Nigerian, but is married to a Ghanaian minister and lives in Accra. Since she took the job here, she has rented a room where she stays during the week, then heads off to Accra on the weekends. Nii, our new management trainee, is another graduate of Ashesi University, which I think I described when Rose joined us last year. He is a city boy all the way, but is eager to learn, has lots of energy and is discovering the bush one pothole at a time.

Shortly after they joined us, we decided to go out for a group lunch. Rose was jonesing for a bit of fufu and they swore there was only one good fufu joint in town. In my opinion, the term “in town” was a bit of a stretch. We drove about 5 kilometers for a GHC 1.00 – 2.00 lunch (between 70 cents and $1.40). They were right about one thing, though, the place was all about fufu and the various soups with which it is served. In a pretty efficient assembly line, we placed our orders, the fufu came out in bowls, we selected our soup, and made our way to a table where a separate vendor (specialty retailer?) provided our soft drinks.

My fufu experience is limited, but this was not the best I’ve ever had. However, the group seemed to rave over it, so maybe my taster is not properly Ghananianized.
XO

Go and Come another day

Rainy season – what does that mean exactly? I’ve been hearing about the rainy season since my first visit here, but still can’t really figure out when it is. The best I can figure is based on a bit of trivia I heard one time: that Chicago and Seattle get approximately the same annual rainfall. Seattle would definitely be described as “rain-y” while Chicago would not. This has to be because Chicago receives most of its annual rainfall in big thunderous downpours that, while delivering a lot of water, are relatively short. In contrast, Seattle’s rain comes day in and day out for most all of the winter months (November to June!). Perhaps light, but indistinguishable and continuous.

In Ghana, December, January, February are decidedly dry and dusty. That was easy to sort out. However, it seems to rain with a fair frequency during the other months of the year, with perhaps an exception for August. So how does one define rain-y versus just rain-ing? Well, I’ve decided that April, May, June, and July seem to be the months in which it may rain all day for more than one day in a row, and thus, must be the rainy season. At other times of the year, the rains are more Chicago-esque in their power and brevity.

In any case, when it rains for long, the drainage systems are stressed to the point of failure. After that, water begins to collect anywhere it can and flooding can be rapid and dramatic. Here is a photo of the courtyard in the compound behind our building during one long rain. It was only mildly flooded, but prompted Precious’ mother to tell me about a flood that occurred when Precious was about 18 months old. They had taken her to a neighbor’s house in the compound so they could attend to their own water issues. However, the neighbor’s house also began to flood and they all fled to the next safe haven – but they forgot to take Precious. So, then 77 year old Me’ena (literally, “my mother”, the honorific for an old woman), her grandmother, waded across the already deep and angry courtyard to rescue her and carry her to safety. These days, 82 year old Me’ena is nearly deaf and shuffles along without any of the new arthritis miracle drugs available elsewhere. But she loves to laugh and does my laundry every week. She charges three times what I could pay the woman who cleans our office, but every time Precious has new flip-flops, shorts, or t-shirts and says “grandma” when I comment on them, I figure it’s the best $6.00 a week I can spend.
XO

Round and Round We Go

What’s it like day-to-day here, from a business perspective. A lot of people ask me that. How do you startup a business in Ghana?

Well, I can't speak for all businesses, and our business is not like any other business that I’ve seen here. The level of service we provide, not only to our customers, but to our resellers is quite different from anything I’ve seen here. Sure, there are companies that deliver – Coke, Unilever, etc. – but they are huge multi-nationals with high volume turnover. Also, they’re selling wholesale to retailers who know how to sell things or, in smaller towns, to local wholesalers who can then sell to small mom & pop (mostly mom) shops in outlying villages. In any case, the retailers who take these everyday products usually have shops or bars or restaurants. They put the stuff on the shelves and people come and buy it. It’s pretty straightforward. We, on the other hand, have to train our resellers how to present and sell our product, because it requires a lot of explanation. They must also be trained to visit their clients regularly and collect the batteries when they lose their charge, replacing them with fresh ones. That makes it a business that never rests. Twice a week, for each of our routes (eventually six unique routes per branch), we drive a circuit delivering fresh batteries and other products.

Some resellers are actually in the towns where we stop, but most of them have to come to the road to meet us, often from several kilometers into the bush. They make this trip by foot, bicycle, or if they are lucky by taxi. We meet with them at shops or drinking spots or just under a tree depending on the location and the number of different retailers we meet in that location. The transaction during the stop is managed through the use of colored bags and simple paper forms.

Each reseller has five string-top bags. They have a large red bag for dead batteries, a large green bag for fresh batteries and a small blue bag for any batteries a client says didn’t work well. These we test extensively and re-condition, if necessary. They also have a small green bag and small red bag so they can carry around a few fresh batteries wherever they go in case they run into someone who needs to exchange. We learned that one the hard way. One of our resellers was carrying around a few fully charged batteries in his pocket, along with his spare change, and nearly set his pocket on fire when the spare change finished the connection of (+) to (-).

On the day a resellers are scheduled to meet us, they have two choices. They can come in person or they can send their locked bag to the drop point by way of a taxi, trotro, small boy or girl ("small" used this way can apply to anyone up to ages in the 20's) on the way to school, someone going to market, or any other method they can come up with. When they meet us or send their bag for the route, the reseller brings/sends: the large red bag of fallen batteries, the small blue bag of potentially faulty batteries if there have been any complaints, new customer forms if they have any, and whatever cash they’ve collected. We count their dead batteries (we actually use a scale to weight them to determine the number – counting is slower) and make sure the paperwork and batteries match the cash in the bag. Then we count/weigh the items they need in return (fresh batteries, additional devices – lamps, phone chargers, etc., blank forms, and so on) and place all that in their bag, write a receipts to document the transaction, and move on to the next bag or reseller. Each transaction should take about 5 minutes, but when there are issues or discrepancies, the time can drag out considerably.

We used to take turns doing the route, but now that we have two routes, it requires someone to go out four days a week, so we’ve hired a route administrator. Since one of the key requirements of this job is being able to drive, it narrowed our selection considerably. In the end, we hired a man who had been a driver for Guinness. Funny thing is, he doesn’t like beer but loves wine.
XO

All In The Family

It’s wonderful having a family in Ghana. I feel so welcome in Tim and Shika’s home and they have become cherished friends. Tim is our business partner at Burro and my Scrabble Husband. He is also a successful business man (outside of Burro) with many interests and Shika is brilliant and also a talented leader in the non-profit sector, heading the Ghana office of a South African NGO. She can also cook like you wouldn’t believe.

Tim is not a cook, by any means, although we swears he “knows how”, but I can attest that he can mop a pretty mean floor, which he did at our offices in Koforidua back in the early days - before we had any employees - when he was staying up here one night a week with Whit and me. Before we got someone to sweep and mop regularly, Tim was a bit appalled by the condition of our floors and swept and mopped them one morning before his (first) shower. He said it was just for exercise, to wake up and loosen up, but I think there were ghosts of once-a-week-bathing-barbarian-oburonis from a bygone time when earlier generations of pre-Ghanaians were appalled by the hygiene and habits of an occupying (mostly male) people.

Anyway, I digress. Tim and Shika are terrific and have 5 very nice, polite, and hardworking children. If you had ever been to their house you would know that Tim mopping our floor was a reach back in time for him. He and Shika work very hard, and I’m sure have done so all their lives, but there are some chores they no longer do themselves. They expect their children to work hard as well. As part of their “training” as Shika calls it, learning to be part of a family, learning to work hard and contribute, learning to respect and care for their elders, and, I suppose, in preparation for how to someday raise children of their own, they all have chores – by American standards, lots of chores.

Of course, they live in a part of the world where clothing is still washed by hand and line dried, where a fair amount of cooking is done over coals, even in the city – because some foods just need to be cooked that way, even if you have a stove, which they have. The heat can be stifling and the air dusty, so floors are tile and are swept daily and mopped often. Food is fresh, not pre-prepared, so there are vegetables to wash and peel and dice. And there are no dishwashers.

While the training and expectations of children are not exactly the same everywhere in Ghana, these are pretty common. Children are polite and respectful everywhere I go. I can hardly take a bag from the trunk of the car without a child taking it from me and carrying it upstairs. I don’t think I’ve ever made two trips in from the car in my entire time in Ghana.

At first it felt strange, partly I suppose because the children are black and I was afraid they were helping because I was white and there was a perceived servitude thing left over from the British occupation – and likely, too, because I am a product of my society and admit to a hyper-sensitive PC white guilt - I would feel weird expecting black children in my neighborhood to carry my groceries from my car in America. But in the end, it is what kids here are expected to do for any adult regardless of color, and you know, I would love it if a child of any color helped me carry my groceries from the car in America.

So, this weekend, I went to Tim and Shika’s and they had a full weekend planned. But when I go there now, I just join in whatever they are doing. So, Friday night we went to a wake-keeping for one of Shika’s uncles who had died. She would miss the funeral on Saturday because in the morning her youngest son, Lim, was being baptized and then she had to go to her own Auntie’s funeral in her hometown of Keta, about 2 hours away. I went along to all of it. Fortunately, the Ewe are not so fussy about what you wear to pay your respects, so the fact that I didn’t have traditional funeral attire was OK. However, I did wear the same skirt most of the weekend. Thankfully, I also had one black blouse.

Lim was baptized on Saturday morning, and then on Sunday morning took his first communion. I think it was my first time sitting through a Catholic mass that wasn’t a wedding and my first time in a church service of any kind in quite a number of years. Turns out, I don’t miss it. But it was nice to be there for my “small boy”, 11-year old Lim and interesting to see how things are done here. All the parents and their first-communion kids (the entire fifth grade at the adjacent Catholic school) were dressed entirely in white. Lim was excited and nervous, and read two passages during the mass. We were all very proud of him.

With two funerals and a baptism, Tim and I only got in a couple games of Scrabble, but I won them. It seems he started playing at the (highest) Genius level on the computer. He said he was up about 60% to 40% against it (he’s about 70% against me). Then the truth came out. At the genius level, the computer comes up with about five 7-letter words in a game (50 point bonus for each one - for you non-Scrabble fans) and he couldn’t keep up. So he started using his Scrabble dictionary handheld – it has a feature where you tell it your letters and it comes back and tells you the best word with those letters. Total cheating! So, karmically, he has forgotten how to come up with his own words. Waaah-hah-hah-hah!
XO

Oh, and did I mention...

In May, before I arrived, Max (Whit's brother and author of the soon to be published book about our adventures here) super-glued his eye shut, providing an opportunity to test out the local healthcare system. For all the details, see his blog post about it. In the meantime here he is, on heavy drugs (all available over the counter, of course)
XO

The Bottoms of our Feet are all the Same Color

July 1st is Republic Day – like our 4th of July, except it’s the next step after independence from the British (that day is also a holiday). See last year's post for an explanation. Anyway, last year on 1st July (as they say here), Max and I took the girls (Precious, Pamela, and
Savanna) to Boti Falls. Almost as soon as July 2nd, Savanna started saying “Where will we go next year for July 1st?” At that time, there was no certainty that I would even be here on July 1st, but I asked her where she wanted to go. She said Labadi Beach, which is in Accra, on the ocean.

So, bright and early on Thursday morning, July 1st, we piled in the truck – Precious, Pamela, Savanna, and Mary, who is the mother of Precious and Pamela. The drive was long, as all trips to Accra are these days. It was about 1 ½ hours to the edge of town and another hour to get through it – to the beach. As we crested the ridge overlooking the sprawling metropolis of Accra, and during the drive through Accra, Precious’ eyes were everywhere at once – it turns out she had never been to Accra and was a little overwhelmed. That was sort of funny because last year she was completely overwhelmed by the size of Boti Falls.

So we went to the Labadi Beach Hotel, THE 5-star beach hotel in Accra and I paid for us to use the pool. We had come early because I anticipated a huge crowd at the pool, which is what we experienced last time I went there in July. But when we arrived, at about 11:00, all the deck chairs were available and we chose four choice

BFFs

spots, poolside. Then I introduced them to the women’s changing room, where we changed into our swimsuits and each got a towel the size of a bedsheet. The girls wanted to go in the pool immediately, so we did. Then we ordered some lunch and went for a walk on the beach.

As soon as we stepped through the gate from the Hotel to the beach, Precious stopped cold and refused to take another step – in exactly the same way she stopped on the steps down to Boti Falls as soon as she saw the rushing water through the trees. Having never been to Accra before, she had also never seen the ocean. We tried to explain that it was just water and that on the other side was Auntie Jan’s home in America, but she was having none of it. In a replay of last year, I picked her up and carried her, with her eyes buried in my neck.

On the beach, you could definitely see that it was a holiday. Several beachside bars had big extended tent awnings set up with tables and sound equipment. The partying would start later, but the hawkers were already in full swing, including three or four guys riding full-sized mules (no little donkeys) that were skinny as rails, but pranced up and down the beach offering rides. Once Precious looked up from my neck and started to show some interest in the ocean, I put her back on her own two feet. At this point we were about ½ way between the gate back to the hotel and the edge of the water – maybe 50 yards/metres in each direction. Unfortunately at almost the same moment I put her down, one of these mule guys came prancing up offering a ride. Precious took one look at the mule and ran all the way back to the gate, losing her flip flops about halfway there.

I went to get her and we finally got down to the water. We dug a hole, but not really close enough for it to ooze up water - she wouldn’t go that close. Then I tried to get her interested in some seashells which took us a bit closer to the water. But the thing about the ocean is that it keeps coming at you, racing up to your feet when you’re not looking. At the end of the day, Precious decided she was a pool girl. When the older girls went to walk on the beach later in the afternoon, Precious was very clear about her preference for staying on the hotel grounds where the water stayed put and there were no gigantic four-legged animals.
XO

Divided Loyalties

It turns out my heart was firmly with the U.S. during its match with Ghana in the World Cup 2010 round of 16. I had thought perhaps it would be divided, but I really, really, really wanted the U.S. to win. Being surrounded by 22 million people who really, really, really wanted them to lose perhaps made it more intense.

It was not to be. But, then, I get ahead of myself.

The trash talking and banter had been hot and heavy at the office all week, with our two U.S. interns, Justin and Andrew, supporting the U.S. along with me, and our employees, of course, supporting Ghana. Similarly, our neighbors were predicting the outcome of the match anytime they would see one of us. Nearly all of these predictions left the U.S. with nil at the end.

On the day of the match, the Daily Guide published a full-page photo of President Obama's and President Mills' faces superimposed on the buff bodies of each team's star player. A side bar story, however, claimed many people were upset that Mills was making his second trip to South Africa in two weeks to watch the Black Stars. In the typical Ghanian way of writing an editorial and calling it news, however, I'm not sure how accurate that story was - several of the fans said at the end of the match, "We won because the president was there.". Bill Clinton did not seem to have the same effect for the U.S. although he and Mick Jagger (?) seemed to be cheering the same team, together, and enjoying it.

So we all went to the Capital View Hotel on Saturday evening to watch the match together. At Microsoft, it would have been called a "morale event", which in my opinion can make any such outing a bit jaded, but we just called it dinner and a football match with a friendly rivalry. I prepared table decorations - a stick with three balloons in red, white and blue along with an American flag, and a stick with three balloons in red, yellow, and green with a Ghanaian flag. As the game got going, we decided the opposition would be allowed to pop a balloon of the other team whenever their team scored.

I must admit, Ghanaians are much more passionate and vocal about their football and their support of the Black Stars (the national team). But when, for so many, daily life can be such hard work and you lack confidence that your leaders are acting in your best interest, having something to rally around provides a sense of pride that is perhaps a basic human need. In any case, it was no surprise that Nat was quick with his fork and very exuberant in his popping of the first American balloon after only 5 minutes of play.

We finally got to pop a Ghana balloon a little too close to the end of the second half than I would have liked. But we did end regulation time in a tie and the thought of 30 more minutes of play was both exciting and exhausting.


When Ghana scored shortly after the start of Extra Time, the next balloon gave way, this time to Nat's knife and I had a bad feeling. With seconds counting down in Extra Time and Ghana still leading 2-1, Rose sat poised with our last balloon in one hand and the Ghanaian flag in the other. The emotion could hardly have been riding higher in the restaurant and in our party of seven as Ghana advanced to the Quarter Finals.

I can't begrudge the team or the fans a well earned berth as they stand alone representing their entire continent in the final eight teams for the 2010 World Cup. It will be nice to be on the side of the 22 million for the next match. Go Ghana!
XO

P.S. Snort wants me to make it clear that he never felt any divided loyalties and is heartbroken over the U.S. loss. He watched every minute of the match, although he says that from his location beside my bread plate, he had a little trouble seeing over the wine bucket. In my own defense, he never said a word. Had he, you know, snorted or something, I would have moved him to a more advantageous location.

Corn on the Cob, anyone?

When I first arrived, I thought Precious was about 4 years old because she's just a sliver of a thing. But along when I returned the following June (about 9 months later), they told me she had a birthday in April, while I was gone, and had turned 6. So, that meant that when I was about to go home this last March she would have been rapidly approaching 7. And yet, she still had all of her baby teeth. It seemed odd to me and I wondered if perhaps her sister, who told me Precious' age, had mistaken the year.

Then, finally, she had a loose tooth! However, it still had not fallen out when I returned home in March. When I returned just now, though, her body seemed to have remembered it's job and she seems to have lost them all at once. Three front bottom teeth and the two top teeth are all out at the same time! Her english is getting better all the time, but the tooth situation puts her pronunciation to the test - what could be cuter?
XO

FIFO and FIFA

I arrived back in Ghana to significant activity. A fabulous volunteer accounting consultant, Debi Nordstrom and her equally talented son, David, were on board for a month helping us sort out our financials and tidy up an accounting backlog - and the FIFA world cup was starting.

Ghana is nothing if not football crazy and we all joined in the frenzy, watching the USA and Ghana in each of their matches, when not trying to properly valuate inventory (First In First Out. Last In First Out or Average Cost? - the meaningful questions of the day), balance bank statements and reconcile the balance sheet.

XO

Ambulance with a stiff chaser

Don't panic when you read the title of this one, I didn't have to go to the hospital or anything. However, those hours I spent on the phone sorting out my MedEvac insurance before leaving home seemed much more prudent after my first day back in Ghana.

I kid you not, the very first morning I awoke in Ghana and stepped into the shower, there was a bit of shampoo or something on the floor of the shower and I slipped half way in and half way out and crashed to a very inelegant heap with both the shower curtain and rod tangled about my person. The shower room and the square frame around the shower stall/basin are all made of ceramic tile with lots of 90 degree angles and the room itself is only about 6' x 6', so it is some sort of miracle I didn't hit my head and fall unconscious only to be discovered in my full Lady Godiva wrapped in nothing but a Palm Tree and Beach Umbrella shower curtain..

As it was, I creased my shin to the bone - literally there was a right angle dent in the front of my shin - it was fascinating, and had two nerf football sized bruises where I landed. One I didn't know existed until I tried to sit in a desk chair later in the day. The crease in my shin didn't bruise at all, but over the next two days, my ankle began to swell and blood was pooling alarmingly in the bottom of my foot.

All of which made me try and think through the whole MedEvac thing. How exactly does that insurance work? I've never seen an ambulance actually taking someone TO the hospital. They are primarily used to transport dead bodies, when they are collected from home and taken to the mortuary or collected from the mortuary and taken to the cemetery, with a dramatic entourage as discussed in previous posts. The siren seems to be less for emergency expediency as for leading and announcing a funeral processional.

So, in the event of a truly life-threatening accident, I have little confidence that I would be stabilized sufficiently for anyone to successfully activate the MedEvac insurance policy. I can't imagine that by contacting them they actually have the ability to mobilize emergency medial personnel in Koforidua. I do suppose that if I had broken a leg or arm it would perhaps have come in handy, covering the cost of getting me to a reputable facility in Accra and setting the bone properly. I'm not sure I'd want that done here in Koforidua. A couple kids in the neighborhood have broken their arms lately (having a concrete courtyard as your playground can be treacherous) and they came home from the hospital with the equivalent of very thickly wound Ace bandages.
XO

Update - my mother reminds me that I should note that all is well now. All bruises gone.

Max Sold His Book!

Coming soon to a bookstore near you - The Gong Gong Man - A Business Adventure in Darkest Africa, by Max Alexander!

Yes, Publisher's Weekly announced today that Max (Whit's brother), sold his book about our business to Hyperion Press. And he has started a blog (link at right) with excerpts, updates, and anecdotes that may or may not have made the cut (I'm not telling because I have no idea). Check it out for another perspective on our undertaking in Ghana.
XO

WoHeLo!

Following is the text of a speech I gave on March 3rd at the annual Camp Fire USA WoHeLo luncheon in Wenatchee, Washington, my hometown. Several people who were unable to attend have requested a copy, so here it is. And by the way, WoHeLo= Work, Health, Love and is the watchword of Camp Fire.

WoHeLo Luncheon 2010 – EVERY CHILD IS OUR FUTURE

“Some people!” I mean, really, “What’s the matter with people?!” And my personal favorite, “Some people’s kids!”?

You know how it is - you walk into a restaurant and slide into a booth. As you are scooting to the inside seat, your hand glides across a sticky lump under the lip of the table edge. Ach, you think as you pull your hand away – “Some people’s kids!”

Or, you stand in line for half an hour and when you get to the front of the line, the person who is supposed to serve you is chatting with the person serving the next window. She doesn’t look up at your arrival for what seems like 5 minutes. When she does, she acts as if you are an annoyance. You shake your head as you are leaving, thinking, “What is the world coming to?” or “Some people’s kids!”

It is the idea behind these phrases that I find compelling. The statements, “what’s the matter with people?”, “some people” and “some people’s kids”, have inherent in them the assumption that “my people” and “my kids” would never behave that way. It’s always “other” people and “other” people’s kids.

So, how do we create a society and a world where every child reaches her potential and does those things that are best for all of us, including working hard, taking his job seriously, and respecting others – and NOT, of course, including sticking bubble gum on the undersides of tables. Personally, I think we have only one option. All kids must become “my kids” – then no one will be “other people’s kids”.

I’ve spent a significant portion of the last two years in Ghana in West Africa. A business partner and I are starting a business renting clean, safe, re-chargeable batteries to people in rural areas who have no electricity. We live and work in the capital city of the Eastern Region – called Koforidua. Behind the building that serves as both our pilot branch offices and our residence is a compound house – a narrow band of buildings around the outside of a 50 ft. square common courtyard. In the rooms around the compound are about 10 or 15 one or two room residences and over 40 children under the age of 13.

In the villages where we do most of our work, there are also many children - and most interesting to me - many varieties of family units. We recently did a market survey in several villages, in which one of the pieces of data we gathered was the number of people per household. The range was anywhere from 5 to 20 household members - with an average just over 8. The interesting thing is that, on average, 5 of these 8 are over the age of 15 – adult or nearly adult. Virtually every child in Ghana has 4 or more adults or older responsible children in the house with them, often including aunts, uncles, grandparents, or cousins.

In Twi, the most common language in Ghana, in addition to the official language, English – there is no word for cousin - and the words for aunt and uncle are rarely used except as a polite form of address for non-family adults of one’s parents’ age. When I first arrived I was thoroughly and completely baffled during introductions. It was a little like the old Bob Newhart Show – the one with “my brother, Daryl and my other brother, Daryl”. A man would introduce his children to us – and only later would I learn that only two were really his sons and daughters, in the way that we think of it. The others would be the children of his or his wife’s brothers and sisters or even the children of a cousin. Nephews and Nieces are all called Sons and Daughters when living in the same household as the adult. Similarly, Aunts and Uncles are called Mothers and Fathers. There is simply no concept of difference between a father and an uncle, or a mother and an aunt, for instance, as far as their roles in a child’s life.

Every morning when I’m in Ghana, I sit on the top step of the outdoor stairway to our second floor office and drink my coffee. The kids from the compound think it’s a lot of fun to hang out with the oburoni, the foreigner, of which we are about the only ones in town – well, except on Thursdays when oburonis seem to appear out of nowhere for the weekly bead market. Anyway, as the children and I sat on the step, they would periodically call down to greet an adult, usually with the one syllable “Ma” or “Da”, then wave wildly when the adult looked up to see them with the oburoni. Before long, I realized that the same child might yell down “Ma” at two or three different women at different times. It was then that I began to learn, from the children, the meaning of family in Ghana.

Two of my kids are sisters, Precious, who is 6 and Pamela, who is 13. Their father and their older brother are in London. Pamela and Precious live in the compound behind us with their Mother and Grandmother, their Mother’s Brother and his wife and two children under 5, and their Father’s younger Brother, who is also called their “Small Father”. They also call their Mother’s brother, Father, and his wife, Mother. So, in the house they have two Mothers and two Fathers only one of whom is their biological parent. Strange as it may seem to you and me, in a culture where the average income is less than $2.00 per day, where people may have to travel to find work, and where there is no daycare, this is the way families work. For the kids, there is a lot of behavioral “guidance”. I mean, that’s a lot of eyes in the backs of a lot of heads!

However, despite all the adults around, there is very little adult interaction on day-to-day development - little help with homework, no extracurricular activities to speak of, no organized sports or music, and few youth organizations or clubs. In some cases, the parents are so busy working constantly to earn a little money, carry water, and cook or wash clothes that the primary interaction with young children is bath time, which happens every morning and again in the evening. For older children, the interaction also includes teaching them to do many of the household chores and to start working to contribute to the family income.

I won’t try to speak for all children in Ghana and certainly not all of Africa, but as a result of economic conditions and the nature of daily life, my neighborhood children are hungry not only for food, but for attention, education, and anything to call their own.

It started with books - ABCs, Colors, Shapes and a few fairy tales I found in a book store, then grew with school supplies sent by friends, and later included two suitcases of shoes, books, pencils, and clothes that were given to me by many people who have read my blog and have been following through pictures and stories. My kids in Ghana are now wearing shoes to school that were worn by a child in Ephrata and writing with pencils from Wenatchee or Los Angeles on tablets from Holland. – And, yes, that is Pamela kissing her new pencil sharpener!

And, did you notice, I use the term “my kids”? It just happened. These kids became “my kids” in my mind, I guess because I began to care about them like my own. I think all children can become “our kids” by the simple act of involvement. There was no grand event and it’s no big sacrifice. I was just there and it happened. I enjoy reading them stories, teaching them songs I learned at Camp Zanika Lache, and even playing “Go Fish” over and over - and over. It’s worth it for the simple joy of seeing Precious begin to recognize the numbers on her “Go Fish” cards instead of having to count them – every – single – time. Or, after having listened to a violin concerto on my iPod, seeing the way she closes her eyes and sways while miming the violin – every time we get to V is for Violin in the ABC book.

The thing I have learned – or maybe just remembered – is that the success of a child can often be traced to a few influential adults. And that is universal.

At the elementary school I attended in the third grade, third graders were not allowed in the section of the library designated for fourth graders and above. My teacher wanted to challenge me, so she went to the public library and got me the first Laura Ingalls Wilder book, Little House in the Big Woods. When I finished it, she returned it and got me the second book and so on through the entire series and through the entire third grade. I became Mrs. Clayton’s child and we corresponded for several years after I moved away.

When I was in sixth grade, I attended Camp Zanika Lache for the second time. I was in a cabin with about eight other girls and we planned an exciting week. Also upon arrival, I learned that twin girls that I knew from my early childhood in Leavenworth were in the cabin next door. The next day during rest hour after lunch, I went next door to visit and met the rest of their cabin. We laughed and talked and had a fun time, and the following day I visited them again during rest hour. Only this time, about half way through the hour there was a knock at the door.
It was two or three girls from my own cabin. They ceremoniously dumped my suitcase, packed with all my belongings, and my sleeping bag on the porch and said “If you like it over here so much, why don’t you move in?”

So I did. I made a big show of being totally fine with it and moved into the cabin next door. But the sense of humiliation and rejection was, as you can imagine, immense. The counselors generally took rest hour on the beach just a stone’s throw from the two cabins, so they learned of the cabin re-arrangement at the end of the hour. The counselor of the new cabin, who was only 19 at the time, took me outside by the fire pit and we had a heart to heart talk. She made it clear that what happened was not OK, but that I was OK, and that I was welcome to stay in her cabin if that was my choice. I became “her kid” – and I did stay in that cabin, however I also went backpacking with the original cabin as planned. But even beyond all that, I still know that counselor, Gail Bennett. Thirty-five years later she is as wise and loving as she was when I was 11.

In the ninth grade, I was a teacher’s aid for Chuck McHaney at Orchard Junior High. He was the chairman of the Elks scholarship committee that year and as one of my “TA jobs” he had me read every single scholarship application the Elks received. At the time I was silly enough to think he really wanted my opinion. I figured out later that he was making sure I knew what a good scholarship application looked like. I was his kid as I had been his wife, Joann’s kid – re-binding books in the Lewis & Clark Elementary School library.

Now, my mother said in my introduction that I have always been an overachiever and always earned my way to camp. That may be the way she remembers it, in the way that mothers everywhere embellish the accomplishments of their children. The truth is, though, that sales is not my strong suit. So, when my Camp Fire group decided one year that we should sell enough candy so that our entire group could attend camp for free, it was terrifying. But Lue Syria was amazing at encouraging us to set and achieve big goals and helping us to see them through. She monitored and tallied our progress every day of the three week sale and made sure that we all made it. For several of us, though, it was only because Lue reported some of the sales of the super sellers under the names of those of us who were struggling. It was a powerful lesson in teamwork and the idea that we can often accomplish far more together than alone.

These are only a few of the adult interactions that made a difference for me, and that I hope made me an adult who contributes to a sound world and a civil society for the now that is yesterday’s future.

I don’t know what today’s future holds. Ten years ago, in the year 2000, none of us knew what to expect in the coming decade. We didn’t know what our nation would face in September 2001 or what our dependence on foreign oil would cost us at the pump in 2006. We didn’t know what crises our financial system would face in 2008 or what the values of our homes would be in 2010.

It is no different today. I don’t know what challenges the coming decade will hold or any of the decades following. The only thing I do know is that today’s children will be the ones facing those challenges, analyzing their impact, and determining the course of my future. That is not a job I want to leave to “other people’s kids”.

Every child, every potential leader, every future worker whose daily efforts sustain the fabric of America and of the international community of nations is, today, my child – “my kid” – my son or daughter. Selfishly, I cannot afford to allow any child that is a potential Albert Einstein, Mother Theresa, Chuck McHaney, Gail Bennett, or Lue Syria to fall short of his or her potential.
To these children we are, for our own sake, obligated to give every opportunity, whether personally, or through organizations like Camp Fire. We must ensure that many adults engage in their lives, to instill:

• self-confidence and humility
• knowledge and patience
• creativity and pragmatism
• passion and compassion

These are the characteristics I hope for in my future leaders. And yet, at this moment, I have no idea exactly which children will play which roles in the foundation of tomorrow. So, wherever I am and whatever I do - for that moment, I must consider every child my own, knowing that every child is my future.

Thank you and bless you all for your involvement in your community and in the lives of children.

XO

Culture, Hospitality, and Imposition

In my father’s childhood, he says there was always an extra pair of feet under the dinner table. It was the depression, his mother couldn’t turn away a traveler down on his luck, and in a family of nearly 20, those extra feet and the mouths attached to them were hardly noticed. When few homes had telephones and the mail might take weeks to arrive, folks were accustomed to company just dropping by – and when you live in the country, work from dawn to dusk, have no television, and don’t see many people beyond your immediate family, company can be a welcome change.

Somewhere along the line, we became a society of carefully planned schedules and organized social engagements. We expect people, perhaps especially relatives, to call before they come over – or just wait for an invitation, depending on the relative. In fact, we can be downright put out if someone shows up unannounced just when we were planning to catch up on those recorded episodes of Lost or having a nap while the kids are at a birthday party.

I didn’t realize how deeply ingrained, in just a single generation, this change in attitude had become. My sense of imposition is extremely deeply seated. The idea of dropping in on someone creates the same feeling in me as if I were considering taking money from the offering plate or grabbing hold of an electric fence. Every fiber of my being screams, “No, you can’t do that!” And I had no idea this stricture was even there until I came to Ghana.

Ghana is much like the South Dakota of my dad’s childhood. Not everyone has a phone or can afford to make the call, the mail is unreliable, people find they have to travel suddenly and unexpectedly, often due to a funeral or other family crisis, and travel is unpredictable so there may or may not be a lot of extra time at one stop or another. Planning when you might visit someone is difficult – and knowing exactly when you might see a loved one again is unlikely. So, there is a strong culture of “welcome” in Ghana. The greeting “Akwaaba” not only translates as “You are welcome”, but really means it. I'm told the response translates as “I am one of you”, which just seems perfect to me.

Last time I was here, I went to Accra and spent one or two weekends with our partner, Tim, and his wife Shika, a wonderful couple with five kids. The first time I think was because I needed to do some shopping and didn’t want to drive in and back in the same day. I think the next time we went to see the James Bond movie. Without an excuse, I don’t know if I would ever have been their guest. It was all I could do to call and invite myself, even though they had made it clear on many occasions that I was welcome anytime. Isn’t that just what people say, like “Let’s do lunch”?

Not in Ghana. In fact, Shika told me one time that when someone is at the gate she always gets excited, just like she did as a child. It doesn’t matter who it is, the excitement response is just natural – learned, as much as my aversion to just showing up – but still completely ingrained and seemingly immutable.

On this trip, I have been here by myself almost the entire time. I was fortunate to have guests from Holland for a few days and a weekend, but other than that it’s been just me. So, early on, I called Tim, under the pretext of going to see Avatar at the Accra Mall. It wouldn’t have mattered, but they like movies, too, so he immediately invited me for the weekend and I had a comfortable excuse once more. When I was leaving on Sunday, he and Shika invited me to come the next weekend. My imposition alarm was like an air raid siren in my brain, but after several “Are you sure?” exchanges I finally agreed to come again, but like the first time, I didn’t go until Saturday morning and I returned on Sunday afternoon.

I’m not saying I’ve changed completely, but on this trip, I think I’ve had 10 weekends and I spent 4 of them in Tim and Shika’s guest room. They now call me Tim’s Scrabble wife (I think he’s ahead about 60/40) and last weekend I went down on Friday night and didn’t come home until Monday morning . What will Miss Manners say?
XO

Common Feelings

I spend a lot of time writing about things that surprise me or that I find interesting and different about life in Ghana, but there are things that are almost exactly the same. The feel and excitement and trepidation of the first day of school is one of them. The twins below us started nursery school this week. The family was in quite a buzz getting two 3-year olds ready to go at the same time. Their little uniforms had to be acquired and washed and pressed and they needed little shoes (some of you might recognize them!) and backpacks.

I love the look of dad walking them to school as the boys from the local junior secondary school finish their breakfast. M’atteh (Felicia) has her blue backpack and Atteh (Felix) his pink one. That is one refreshing difference here. Color is not fraught with gender insecurity here.
XO