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
Monday, April 12, 2010
Wednesday, March 3, 2010
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 an
d 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:
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 an
d 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
Sunday, February 28, 2010
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
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
XO
Wednesday, February 24, 2010
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
Saturday, February 20, 2010
Do you? Not until the families say it's OK!
My last full weekend in Ghana I spent in Accra with Tim and Shika. Shika had to go to a wedding on Saturday and asked me if I wanted to go. I hadn’t brought anything to wear that would be suitable for a wedding but I didn’t want to miss it, so Shika loaned me a dress. As usual, she told me it would start at 11:00, but we didn’t leave the house until about 10:30 and had to pick up her friend an hour away. We arrived shortly after 12:30 and the ceremony had just started.
Before I describe it I should probably explain about weddings – or at least my understanding. When we say “engaged” we mean the couple has agreed to marry. In Ghana, that step occurs prior to the engagement. The engagement in Ghana is actually the “traditional” wedding. One year later, they have the official wedding. I’m not sure of all the legalities, but I think the second wedding is not necessary, but is what they call the “white wedding” so I assume it is more a copy of the wedding ceremony introduced by the British. Just guessing.
So, this was a traditional wedding, which doesn’t really have any of the steps that I recognized as a wedding except for a lot of food and cake at the end. Instead, it’s like a big mock negotiation between the family of the bride and the family of the groom. First, the groom’s family brings what was probably once considered a dowry, but is not more like what I would think of as wedding gifts, including household items, clothes, food, and beverages. Then an auntie from the bride’s family and an auntie from the groom’s family get into an absolutely campy hammy mock argument about weather the gifts are sufficient for such a wonderful woman as the groom will be getting for a wife. They must plan their comments carefully, because there are many dramatic facial expressions, a lot of body language, and egging on from the respective families. The groom’s family takes a collection to sweeten the pot, and then begin demanding that the bride come out so they can see if she is all that her auntie has been bragging about.
Shika tells me that sometimes they bring out several women, pretending to be the bride – and the groom’s family rejects them all – before finally bringing out the real bride. But on this day it was just too hot and the aunties had enjoyed their acting way too much so people had already been sitting for a long time. In fact, it was so hot, I had to put my hair up!
Anyway, they brought out the bride, the families gave them advice and said prayers and sang some songs, and that was it. Then came the food, which was mostly too spicy for me, but was varied and plentiful.
XO
Before I describe it I should probably explain about weddings – or at least my understanding. When we say “engaged” we mean the couple has agreed to marry. In Ghana, that step occurs prior to the engagement. The engagement in Ghana is actually the “traditional” wedding. One year later, they have the official wedding. I’m not sure of all the legalities, but I think the second wedding is not necessary, but is what they call the “white wedding” so I assume it is more a copy of the wedding ceremony introduced by the British. Just guessing.
So, this was a traditional wedding, which doesn’t really have any of the steps that I recognized as a wedding except for a lot of food and cake at the end. Instead, it’s like a big mock negotiation between the family of the bride and the family of the groom. First, the groom’s family brings what was probably once considered a dowry, but is not more like what I would think of as wedding gifts, including household items, clothes, food, and beverages. Then an auntie from the bride’s family and an auntie from the groom’s family get into an absolutely campy hammy mock argument about weather the gifts are sufficient for such a wonderful woman as the groom will be getting for a wife. They must plan their comments carefully, because there are many dramatic facial expressions, a lot of body language, and egging on from the respective families. The groom’s family takes a collection to sweeten the pot, and then begin demanding that the bride come out so they can see if she is all that her auntie has been bragging about.
Shika tells me that sometimes they bring out several women, pretending to be the bride – and the groom’s family rejects them all – before finally bringing out the real bride. But on this day it was just too hot and the aunties had enjoyed their acting way too much so people had already been sitting for a long time. In fact, it was so hot, I had to put my hair up!
Anyway, they brought out the bride, the families gave them advice and said prayers and sang some songs, and that was it. Then came the food, which was mostly too spicy for me, but was varied and plentiful.
XO
Monday, February 15, 2010
Taxi!
Our agents cover what U.S. business people call the “last mile”, meaning they get our product from the closest distribution point to their villages. Sometimes it’s a kilometer, sometimes several. We drive a route on the (mostly) paved roads and our agents meet us at the roadside. The roads from the paved road to the villages are typically dirt, called “dusty roads” in local terminology. Village residents have two choices when they need to go to market or travel to funerals or to visit family elsewhere in Ghana. They can walk to the main roadside, or they can take a taxi or Trotro.
Trotros generally only travel to and from villages on market days when there are enough people traveling to make it worth their trouble. On other days, taxis are the only option and they only go when they have a full load. A person can wait for minutes or hours for a taxi to be ready to go to or from a village. Well, what if, when there are finally enough people to go, there are actually one or two or three too many? How long until there are enough people for the next taxi?
Sometimes, it’s just too risky to find out. I do wonder what fare they charge for a ride on the hood or in the trunk?
XO
Trotros generally only travel to and from villages on market days when there are enough people traveling to make it worth their trouble. On other days, taxis are the only option and they only go when they have a full load. A person can wait for minutes or hours for a taxi to be ready to go to or from a village. Well, what if, when there are finally enough people to go, there are actually one or two or three too many? How long until there are enough people for the next taxi?
Sometimes, it’s just too risky to find out. I do wonder what fare they charge for a ride on the hood or in the trunk?
XO
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Weekend at Bernie's
Not long after I arrived this trip, the father of some of my kids died, apparently of heart failure. It was a sad day for the family and also for the neighborhood. Although the man had been in the hospital for about a week before he died, which sad to say almost certainly means death, in Ghana, he was not an old man and his youngest child, called Chief by everyone around here, is six.
As is often the case here, the funeral was not held for several weeks. This is often done to ensure various family members and friends have time to plan their schedules and travel to town for the funeral weekend. Funerals are almost always held over the weekend because they are not just a one hour event as is typically the case in the U.S. and perhaps other parts of the world. A traditional funeral is a three day event in Ghana.
On Friday, mourners dress in traditional black (and red, for family members) and go, along with the ambulance, to the mortuary to collect the body which has been in cold storage since death. Then a long procession that includes the ambulance with the body (not yet in a casket, but dressed for viewing), a hearse full of flowers, the vehicle carrying the casket, and all the mourners, often in busses, trotros, taxis, and private cars, passes through the deceased’s neighborhood.
All the mourners that did not join the procession come out of their houses, also fully dressed in funeral attire, to meet the procession, view the body through the windows of the ambulance and pay respects to the family. Then the body is taken and interred at the cemetery with all the mourners and family in attendance.
On Saturday, the funeral is held and lasts about 7 hours, from early morning until mid-afternoon, including eulogies, prayers, very loud music, food, gifts for the family of the deceased and often even professional wailers. There does seem to be a bit of “keeping up with the Joneses” as far as wailing is concerned. The amount of carrying on, entirely by women, at a funeral seems to be believed to show how much the deceased is loved and missed and no one wants to under-mourn in this regard. So, apparently, wailers can be hired for the funeral of the much-beloved dearly-departed.
On Sunday, there is often a funeral church service at the church of the deceased. In that case, I guess the Sunday church service becomes another funeral service but heavier on the singing, preaching, and praying.
I’m told the widow will wear black for a year and then they’ll have another big memorial on the one year anniversary of the death. At this point, I really have to say, with no disrespect, how relieved I am not to be Ghanaian. First, there are the power outages – with a body in storage at the mortuary. I just hope they have enough fuel for the generator. Then, wearing full black dress clothes three days in a a row (or for a year!) in this heat would be the end of me. I’m taking Oral Rehydration Salts about twice a week as it is. And, sitting in the heat in $2.00 plastic chairs for seven hours with man-height speakers blasting beyond their technical limits would put me over the edge. I’d keep the wailers, though. I’ve felt like wailing before and it would be nice if someone else were doing it louder, longer, and more dramatically. It would sort of open the door of acceptability for what I wanted to do anyway.
XO
As is often the case here, the funeral was not held for several weeks. This is often done to ensure various family members and friends have time to plan their schedules and travel to town for the funeral weekend. Funerals are almost always held over the weekend because they are not just a one hour event as is typically the case in the U.S. and perhaps other parts of the world. A traditional funeral is a three day event in Ghana.
On Friday, mourners dress in traditional black (and red, for family members) and go, along with the ambulance, to the mortuary to collect the body which has been in cold storage since death. Then a long procession that includes the ambulance with the body (not yet in a casket, but dressed for viewing), a hearse full of flowers, the vehicle carrying the casket, and all the mourners, often in busses, trotros, taxis, and private cars, passes through the deceased’s neighborhood.All the mourners that did not join the procession come out of their houses, also fully dressed in funeral attire, to meet the procession, view the body through the windows of the ambulance and pay respects to the family. Then the body is taken and interred at the cemetery with all the mourners and family in attendance.
On Saturday, the funeral is held and lasts about 7 hours, from early morning until mid-afternoon, including eulogies, prayers, very loud music, food, gifts for the family of the deceased and often even professional wailers. There does seem to be a bit of “keeping up with the Joneses” as far as wailing is concerned. The amount of carrying on, entirely by women, at a funeral seems to be believed to show how much the deceased is loved and missed and no one wants to under-mourn in this regard. So, apparently, wailers can be hired for the funeral of the much-beloved dearly-departed.
On Sunday, there is often a funeral church service at the church of the deceased. In that case, I guess the Sunday church service becomes another funeral service but heavier on the singing, preaching, and praying.
I’m told the widow will wear black for a year and then they’ll have another big memorial on the one year anniversary of the death. At this point, I really have to say, with no disrespect, how relieved I am not to be Ghanaian. First, there are the power outages – with a body in storage at the mortuary. I just hope they have enough fuel for the generator. Then, wearing full black dress clothes three days in a a row (or for a year!) in this heat would be the end of me. I’m taking Oral Rehydration Salts about twice a week as it is. And, sitting in the heat in $2.00 plastic chairs for seven hours with man-height speakers blasting beyond their technical limits would put me over the edge. I’d keep the wailers, though. I’ve felt like wailing before and it would be nice if someone else were doing it louder, longer, and more dramatically. It would sort of open the door of acceptability for what I wanted to do anyway.
XO
Wednesday, January 20, 2010
Manufacturing in Ghana
We’ve been considering a few other products that fit with our brand promise – affordable goods and services that enable our clients to do more with their resources. One area of interest is cooking. 
Most people in Ghana cook with either charcoal (mostly in the cities) or wood. Those who use charcoal use a welded steel stove that has no insulation or capability for adjusting heat.
A new concept has been introduced that is a frame made of sheet metal with a clay insert.
The clay absorbs and holds the heat from the charcoal and allows the cook to use less fuel. Even after the charcoal is past its peak, the clay continues to reflect the heat it is holding, maintaining a cookable temperature longer. Testing has shown that the clay coalpot uses about 40% less charcoal and since charcoal is made from wood and since Ghana is running dangerously low on the stuff, it’s a product whose time has come.
So, how are these coalpots manufactured? By hand – every one. The frame is made from scrap sheet metal – mostly roofing scraps and large tomato sauce cans – that are hammered flat and cut into the shapes needed for the stove. These are then hammered into shape, welded, and riveted as needed. I visited the factory and could barely stand the noise. There were only about 5 guys working there but the sound of hammer on
steel is piercing. I had no ear protection and neither did the workers, although the factory manager said ear plugs were available to employees who wanted them.
The clay inserts are made elsewhere and I didn’t get to see it. Basically, the clay, which is plentiful in Ghana (as you can see by looking back at some of my blogs from the rainy season and having a look at the roads, which are reminiscent of a scene from Ghost) is formed using a mold and then fired.
I hope the stoves catch on because they will save a lot of trees. We’re also looking at charcoal that is made from compressed sawdust. It is very dense and after it has been carbonized provides about twice the amount of heat as regular charcoal. That should mean you can cook with ½ as much. Put that together with the 40% less charcoal by using the clay coalpot and you’re talking about real savings in both family spending and trees.
XO
Most people in Ghana cook with either charcoal (mostly in the cities) or wood. Those who use charcoal use a welded steel stove that has no insulation or capability for adjusting heat.A new concept has been introduced that is a frame made of sheet metal with a clay insert.
The clay absorbs and holds the heat from the charcoal and allows the cook to use less fuel. Even after the charcoal is past its peak, the clay continues to reflect the heat it is holding, maintaining a cookable temperature longer. Testing has shown that the clay coalpot uses about 40% less charcoal and since charcoal is made from wood and since Ghana is running dangerously low on the stuff, it’s a product whose time has come.
So, how are these coalpots manufactured? By hand – every one. The frame is made from scrap sheet metal – mostly roofing scraps and large tomato sauce cans – that are hammered flat and cut into the shapes needed for the stove. These are then hammered into shape, welded, and riveted as needed. I visited the factory and could barely stand the noise. There were only about 5 guys working there but the sound of hammer on
steel is piercing. I had no ear protection and neither did the workers, although the factory manager said ear plugs were available to employees who wanted them.The clay inserts are made elsewhere and I didn’t get to see it. Basically, the clay, which is plentiful in Ghana (as you can see by looking back at some of my blogs from the rainy season and having a look at the roads, which are reminiscent of a scene from Ghost) is formed using a mold and then fired.
I hope the stoves catch on because they will save a lot of trees. We’re also looking at charcoal that is made from compressed sawdust. It is very dense and after it has been carbonized provides about twice the amount of heat as regular charcoal. That should mean you can cook with ½ as much. Put that together with the 40% less charcoal by using the clay coalpot and you’re talking about real savings in both family spending and trees.
XO
Friday, January 15, 2010
Slaughter House 3
While I was gone last time, a restaurant moved in below our office. It is actually a nice change, since there was a stereo and speaker shop there previously and there were times I thought I might suffer vitriol fibrillations (I say that like I know what the hell I’m talking about) just from the bass thumping in my chest, and other times when the desk was vibrating so much I couldn’t concentrate.
So now, all we have are halfway decent aromas wafting up from below and occasional bouts of too much barbeque smoke. Except for the other weekend when there must have been some sort of special occasion or event – maybe they were catering a wedding or funeral or something. Anyway, suddenly there were three goats tied up down below our back stairs. When they weren’t eating scraps of corn husks and plantain stems, they were bleating and crying and making a bit of a racket.
They did quiet down at night and in the morning, as I was having my coffee on the back step, Precious (who is six) came up to visit. She looked over the rail and in her rapidly increasing vocabulary, she said, “Goat”. I agreed that, indeed, they were goats and then had to choose between my jaw dropping to the ground and busting a gut laughing at the absurdity of a six year old animatedly rattling off a sentence or two in Twi with the word goat tossed in here and there - and drawing her finger under her throat from ear to ear.
XO
So now, all we have are halfway decent aromas wafting up from below and occasional bouts of too much barbeque smoke. Except for the other weekend when there must have been some sort of special occasion or event – maybe they were catering a wedding or funeral or something. Anyway, suddenly there were three goats tied up down below our back stairs. When they weren’t eating scraps of corn husks and plantain stems, they were bleating and crying and making a bit of a racket.They did quiet down at night and in the morning, as I was having my coffee on the back step, Precious (who is six) came up to visit. She looked over the rail and in her rapidly increasing vocabulary, she said, “Goat”. I agreed that, indeed, they were goats and then had to choose between my jaw dropping to the ground and busting a gut laughing at the absurdity of a six year old animatedly rattling off a sentence or two in Twi with the word goat tossed in here and there - and drawing her finger under her throat from ear to ear.
XO
Friday, January 8, 2010
Lawsuit Frivolity?
I got back into the swing of work quickly. I had to get up to speed on some changes and begin talking with the team about still more ideas to be tested. One change that greeted me was that four small desks had been purchased so everyone would have a place to work when the office was full. In addition, a couple new desk chairs had been added – the ones that adjust up and down, swivel, and have casters on the feet for rolling. Now, I have to tell you that the chairs available in Ghana look a lot like what you would see in any office supply store – but I’m here to also tell you that they are NOT.
I was sitting at the desk in the office in one of the chairs that had been added in my absence. My laptop was in front of me and my notebook and omnipresent glass of water were to my left. I leaned to the left a bit to get a closer look at something in my notebook and heard a pop. The next thing I knew I was laying on the floor and my water glass had shattered into so many pieces it is a wonder I didn’t land on any of them. In fact, except for reflexively trying to catch myself with my left foot, the ankle of which I had broken during my 12 weeks in America, I was uninjured. It did get me thinking about product quality, however. I could easily have seriously re-injured my ankle and/or lacerated my hands or arms to the point of requiring stitches.
In the U.S., I have become accustomed to buying things that, even if they are inexpensive, are quite safe and functional. There are consumer advocacy groups, governmental safety regulations, and litigation, all of which serve to ensure that even the least expensive import lives up to a minimum safety standard. If I buy something that does not live up to expectations, I can return it.
The poor of Ghana, on the other hand, pay very steep penalties for their poverty – the products available to them are cheap and poorly made, yet there are no advocacy groups calling the manufacturers to task. There are few regulations governing the safety of imported goods, and litigation because of an injury or death sustained as a result of one of these low-quality goods is virtually unheard of. It isn’t even possible to return something if it doesn’t work properly. And subsequently, if one is seriously injured because of a poorly made product, there is no number to call, like 911, to get an ambulance speeding on its way. Ironically, ambulances here are almost exclusively used to transport dead bodies. Furthermore, for those in poverty, there is no health insurance. Healthcare is delivered when cash is paid up front.
I was sitting at the desk in the office in one of the chairs that had been added in my absence. My laptop was in front of me and my notebook and omnipresent glass of water were to my left. I leaned to the left a bit to get a closer look at something in my notebook and heard a pop. The next thing I knew I was laying on the floor and my water glass had shattered into so many pieces it is a wonder I didn’t land on any of them. In fact, except for reflexively trying to catch myself with my left foot, the ankle of which I had broken during my 12 weeks in America, I was uninjured. It did get me thinking about product quality, however. I could easily have seriously re-injured my ankle and/or lacerated my hands or arms to the point of requiring stitches.
In the U.S., I have become accustomed to buying things that, even if they are inexpensive, are quite safe and functional. There are consumer advocacy groups, governmental safety regulations, and litigation, all of which serve to ensure that even the least expensive import lives up to a minimum safety standard. If I buy something that does not live up to expectations, I can return it.
The poor of Ghana, on the other hand, pay very steep penalties for their poverty – the products available to them are cheap and poorly made, yet there are no advocacy groups calling the manufacturers to task. There are few regulations governing the safety of imported goods, and litigation because of an injury or death sustained as a result of one of these low-quality goods is virtually unheard of. It isn’t even possible to return something if it doesn’t work properly. And subsequently, if one is seriously injured because of a poorly made product, there is no number to call, like 911, to get an ambulance speeding on its way. Ironically, ambulances here are almost exclusively used to transport dead bodies. Furthermore, for those in poverty, there is no health insurance. Healthcare is delivered when cash is paid up front.
Think for a moment of all the ways you have to handle any of the following situations
- You buy a product and it breaks the third time you use it – what can you do?
- You are seriously injured by a product that was poorly designed or manufactured and did not perform as intended – what can you do?
- You need medical attention as a result of your injury – what can you do?
- You miss work as a result of your injury – what can you do?
- You die as a result of your injury – what can your family do? what will they live on?
Now, imagine that the answer to all these questions is “Nothing”. You’ll suddenly be grateful for the things we take for granted or even think of with disdain, as evidence of “big government” – consumer protection laws, government regulations on manufacturing, safety, and imports, an extensive emergency response system, a judicial system that occasionally puts the rights of the individual above the rights of the corporation, and health, disability, and life insurance – to name a few.
XO
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