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

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.

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

Christmas in Ghana

The most expensive parts of sending your children to public school in Ghana are the uniform and the shoes. Private schools also have fees to be paid, and nearly all of these are mission schools (religious). At these schools, even for children whose fees are paid by scholarship, uniforms and shoes are still required. The uniforms are all different depending on the school, but the shoes for any school just have to be “nice”, clean, and not flip flops. I had received a number of inquiries from friends and blog readers about what they could do to help some of the kids and families I have mentioned in my blog. Shoes immediately came to mind. So, on returning this trip from home, I had about 25 pairs of shoes in all sizes, some new, some gently used. Thanks to all who contributed – I don’t want to try and list you all or I’ll forget someone!

Some other items like dolls, pencils, and candy were included by some of the many contributors, and I couldn’t help some goodwill clothes purchases for my special core group. In addition, one more box of school supplies from LA was waiting at my home in Meford in September, so I fit most of that into my suitcases – and two more boxes arrived in Ghana in time for the children’s party, which I held about a week after Christmas because I discovered many of the children had traveled to visit relatives over the holiday break and I wanted to wait until they were all there.

So, when I left Medford, I had two suitcases, weighing 55lbs and 50 lbs (yes, 55lbs is over the weight limit, but thank goodness medallion frequent fliers’ limit is 70lbs) – completely filled with stuff for the kids. All MY stuff had to fit into my carry-on, a rolling bag that fit in the overhead bin. It was an adventure in packing, but I had left most of my shorts and tops and sandals behind in September, so I didn’t have too much of my own stuff to take along.

Upon arrival, I sorted all the shoes by size and then with the other items, made piles of goodies for each child, labeled with a Post-It note. As Christmas was over, wrapping paper was hard to come by in Koforidua, so I settled for buying some ribbon and wrapping each child’s gifts in two pages of the New York Times (Sunday). I used the entire paper (yes, all of the Sunday Times, not including the Crossword)!

The day of the party arrived and I realized it would be more children than I could handle, so we split the group into younger (primary and below) and older. Some of the older kids helped with the younger group, many of whom were under 5. All totaled, there were 18 children under 10 and 12 children between 11 and 16, some of whom I had never seen before, either because they had been away at school or had just recently come to live with a relative in the compound. It didn’t matter - they still expected a gift and I was scrambling to try and make sure everyone got something.

Between tussles over the cookies, spilled juice boxes, and handing out gifts, I realized later as I plopped down exhausted on my bed, I forgot to take a single photo (I went to Precious' house later to take this one because I knew how excited and sad Luv's granddaughter was about sending her favorite doll to a little girl in Africa). Nevertheless, thank you to everyone who contributed to a crowd-pleasing Christmas for 30 kids in Ghana. It won’t soon be forgotten.
XO

Akwaaba! = You Are Welcome!

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

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

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

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

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

XO

Christmas in Holland

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

She's baaaaack!

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

XO

I was an illegal alien

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

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

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

XO

Tourism and Technology

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Weave me a rainbow

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

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

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




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

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

Rewards and Recognition

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

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

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



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