Just in time for Xmas - here's a story about the day I visited a morgue in Accra. It's been cross-posted from the JHR correspondence site for your reading pleasure - or revulsion, depending on your stripe.
Seth is the first reporter at JOY that I've felt both a professional and personal connection with. He's leapt all over the country at various stations, and his journey has taken him from Takoradi to Kumasi and finally to Accra - the big smoke, as it were - and JOY FM. As a result he has worked with a number of JHR staff and always relishes the opportunity to meet someone new. He is quite literally a dream - hungry, tenacious and completely fearless.
We've already put together a story about domestic violence victims that received a strong response from both within the newsroom and from our listening audience. I've been racking my heat-fried brains to think of the next story we can work on. Today, I enter the newsroom, boasting my usual patina of sweat, only to hear: "Alison, today we're going to the morgue!"
I look at him quizzically, but I have to admit I'm secretly a bit excited. It's not that I'm a ghoul. Really, I'm not. I left all those neo-gothic predilections for gravestones and corpses behind in highschool, along with my pleather platform boots, sparkly lycra pants and Slipknot CDs. But I haven't even visited a Canadian morgue before. Something tells me the Ghanaian version is something else altogether.
Seth tells me the story. Basically, he heard a notification that the Accra Police Hospital is doing a mass burial sometime in the next month or so. He then heard some rumours that the police mortuary is frequently overpopulated by corpses and the sanitary conditions are allegedly becoming worse. So we're going to see for ourselves.
"I love weird stories like this," he says gleefully as we zip down Ring Road to Danquah Circle, where the hospital is situated. We enter the hospital grounds. As official sites in Accra go, it's a fairly usual one in its exterior, with an assortment of clearly labelled hand painted signs directing us to the registrar's offices.
As usual, I screw up and walk through a gate designated solely for car entry, and am curtly admonished by a security guard to double back and walk into the compound again, through the pedestrian entrance. Ah, Ghana! We walk up a few flights of stairs, passing a door marked "TYPING POOL" and then head into the registrar's office after a short wait.
He speaks freely with us and confirms that the mass burial will be happening because there's too many bodies in the mortuary. He explains that the police are in charge of picking up the unidentified bodies of those who die on the streets - an all too common occurence in Accra - and this is why the morgue is overloaded. "We give the announcements so people can come and see if they have a missing relative here, " he says. "But no one comes."
He adds that city cleaning is technically a duty that falls under the jurisdiction of the Accra Municipal Assembly. However, the burden of picking up "unknowns" is given to police because of the potential for a criminal cause of death.
As he speaks I think back to all the times when I answered the phone at JOY to hear a desperate voice begging that we do something about the body lying at Kaneshie, or Tema Station, or some overpass for two days or more.
Then I remember walking through Nkrumah Circle one afternoon with friends and smelling a terrible, sickly-sweet smell. As people on the street walked by holding their noses, doubled over with disgust, I asked a Ghanaian friend what the smell was. "That's corpse-rot," he said.
Seth asks the registrar some more questions. We ask for permission to visit the mortician. The registrar says no problem. I marvel at the power of access he's given us, particularly as some of my colleagues have had a lot more difficulty with certain officals. We make a stop first at the medical director, a kindly older fellow with an accent so thick I have to lean in close to hear what he's saying. He describes for us the process of mass burial - essentially the unidentified bodies are loaded, one atop the other, in a giant truck - "Like a refuse truck," he says. The truck drives to a predetermined gravesite where the bodies are dumped into a large hole. The hole is filled in. The end.
Baffled, I ask the director why such an undignified burial occurs when so many people here value the importance of funerals. The answer is money. People will actually not come to determine if a relative is alive or dead in the mortuary because of the sheer cost of burial. "It's not very nice," the director says. "What does it look like in this country, when we do things like this? Do you think this is really a developing country when this happens?" he asks me. I just shake my head. As often happens, I can't respond.
Now it's time for the true test of will - entering the morgue and meeting the mortician. The morgue is located at the back of the hospital, almost across the street from a residential street. We aren't hit with the smell until we reach the doors leading in. It's the same as the stench I smelled on the street near Nkrumah Circle. I clutch a hanky to my mouth, while Seth appears unfazed.
We walk through the front area of the morgue down a hall to the mercifully ventilated area of the mortician's office. He's wearing uniform dress and has an officious manner. But he's definitely a mortician - creepy and seemingly unconcerned about the burial issue. "You have to get rid of them somehow," he says. "So what do we do? Leave the bodies to rot on the street?" Seth unplugs his microphone in a dramatic sweep and asks if we can actually be given a short tour of the morgue. The mortician laughs. "If you can handle it," he booms, and we trot after him down the hallway.
I notice that Seth turns on his recorder secretly as we stride to the autopsy room. The autopsy room is as you would expect - walls painted with revolting green laquer and there's two empty steel tables, the glint of which is irrevocably linked in my mind with corpses, embalming fluid, and poorly-lit episodes of CSI. Then it's time to see the refrigerators.
I hold my breath as we glimpse into the first fridge - but it's empty! "This one is for the unknowns," the mortician says. He explains that they've moved the unknowns to another facitility as they have overcrowded the area that's roughly the size of my bedroom here. "How many people fit in there?" Seth asks. "Up to three hundred," the mortician says. I try to picture three hundred unknown corpses in various states of decomposition stacked on top of each other in this tiny room like pancakes and resist the urge to vomit a little in my mouth. Then the mortician opens the second fridge. 'For the knowns,' he says simply.
It's most decidedly not empty. Bodies are stacked on wooden bunk-bed type structures in the dim room - maybe 50, maybe 100. It's like summer camp, for dead Ghanaian people. Strips of white cloth are spread across most of the bodies' genital areas, but not all. Some bodies are emaciated and I can count every rib. Others look like they are sleeping like babies. All of them have a faint powdery white dust spread across the skin.
'Why not go in?' the mortician says, and nudges us both towards the door. I shriek and run back, while Seth grabs his arm. 'No sir, please,' he says woozily. The mortician laughs deep from his belly. I am thinking that this is starting to become seriously effed up. Just as I wonder whether he will simply shove Seth and I inside and lock us in with the dead people, we are ushered out of the morgue. ' Come back anytime!' the mortician yells.
We walk briskly down the walkway hand in hand, jabbering about what we just saw. I offer Seth some roasted plantain bought earlier. Both of us agree that eating will probably not be happening for the remainder of the day. The stench of human rot is still ripe in my nostrils. As of this writing, the AMA has denied that the mass burials are as undignified as the police officials described. The mass burial is due to take place at the beginning of the new year. Seth and I plan to go, perhaps on empty stomachs, and definitely with smelling salts and hankies firmly in hand.
Friday, December 21, 2007
Wednesday, December 19, 2007
address and phone number...three months later
Hi! I have a phone and an address!
Alison Lang in Accra (with country code): (011)0245352398
and you can send letters and things to the JOY newsroom address:
Miz Alison Lang
C/o JOY FM
P. O. Box GP 17202
Accra, Ghana
I hope everyone's holiday plans are going well. I have to say I'm a little bit depressed at the moment, having never spent Christmas away from home before. I have some presents that some of you will receive upon my return...in June. In the meantime I hope you can contend with some xmas wishes from Accra via email. How the hell did it get to be December 19th?
As for me, I'll be doing what most lonely foreigners do at this time of year and will be spending Xmas/New Years on various beaches, with various cold adult beverages in hand, possibly checking out the ruins of slave forts. I know. Tough breaks.
Happy Holidays.
Alison Lang in Accra (with country code): (011)0245352398
and you can send letters and things to the JOY newsroom address:
Miz Alison Lang
C/o JOY FM
P. O. Box GP 17202
Accra, Ghana
I hope everyone's holiday plans are going well. I have to say I'm a little bit depressed at the moment, having never spent Christmas away from home before. I have some presents that some of you will receive upon my return...in June. In the meantime I hope you can contend with some xmas wishes from Accra via email. How the hell did it get to be December 19th?
As for me, I'll be doing what most lonely foreigners do at this time of year and will be spending Xmas/New Years on various beaches, with various cold adult beverages in hand, possibly checking out the ruins of slave forts. I know. Tough breaks.
Happy Holidays.
Wednesday, December 12, 2007
Sodom and Gomorrah
Today I paid a visit to the Ghana Society for the Socially Disabled, formerly known as the "Kaneshie Cripples Home" with a reporter, Bernard. In the afternoon I went with Seth and a visiting producer from the Northern Region, Nash, to what is popularly considered one of the worst slums in Accra, the aptly-named Sodom and Gomorrah.
The contrast between the tidy, sunny, underfunded training centre for disabled Ghanaians, where young men and women sat in clean rooms making sandals, batik cloth and clothing, and the stagnant, cramped alleyways of Sodom and Gomorrah still has me reeling.
The contrast between the tidy, sunny, underfunded training centre for disabled Ghanaians, where young men and women sat in clean rooms making sandals, batik cloth and clothing, and the stagnant, cramped alleyways of Sodom and Gomorrah still has me reeling.
A full entry will (hopefully) be coming on this. In the meantime, here's a photo essay on the slum courtesy of GhanaWeb, and a Ghanaian take on the slum and its inhabitants. I still can't even believe I was there today, tramping through people's backyards in my stupid fancy work skirt and patent leather shoes, beneath corrugated iron roofs laden with clothing, garbage, and dirt.
Tuesday, December 4, 2007
Top Five Best Things I Have Heard In Ghana
Hi. I'm hanging out late at work avoiding home for reasons which will be explained later. I just re-read my last post and saw it ended somewhat dourly. To lighten things up I will share some of the best comments I have received in Ghana thus far. Yes, you've heard of the usual "OBRUNI!" and "WHITE LADY" catcalls, as well as the more conversational "You're from Canada??? My friend/brother/sister/mother/cousin lives in Canada! You will help me go to visit them!" or "I love Canada! I'm looking for Canadian wife!"
I've heard some different things. Some insulting, some confusing, and all hilarious - reminding me once again that I'm a stranger in a strange land.
5)"You may be my mother's age, but that's all right" - a 16 year old boy that I buy phone cards from, during a conversation in which he tried to get my number.
4) "Your glasses make you look like a fantastic nerd" - a co-worker to me
3) "Are you Dutch?" - various. This is tied with someone asking my friend Hannah if she "missed her homeland" in Pakistan. She is white, Canadian, and Jewish.
2) "Are you a man?" - a wrinkly old man I met walking home from work, who appeared to be carrying a giant broken-down carbuerator
1) From my colleague/roommate Sophie, excerpted from a conversation she was having with a male Ghanaian friend in a grocery store:
"What are diapers?"
**Addenum: later on in our conversation he told me he was 90 years old
I've heard some different things. Some insulting, some confusing, and all hilarious - reminding me once again that I'm a stranger in a strange land.
5)"You may be my mother's age, but that's all right" - a 16 year old boy that I buy phone cards from, during a conversation in which he tried to get my number.
4) "Your glasses make you look like a fantastic nerd" - a co-worker to me
3) "Are you Dutch?" - various. This is tied with someone asking my friend Hannah if she "missed her homeland" in Pakistan. She is white, Canadian, and Jewish.
2) "Are you a man?" - a wrinkly old man I met walking home from work, who appeared to be carrying a giant broken-down carbuerator
1) From my colleague/roommate Sophie, excerpted from a conversation she was having with a male Ghanaian friend in a grocery store:
"What are diapers?"
**Addenum: later on in our conversation he told me he was 90 years old
Tuesday, November 27, 2007
Five Days At Joy Fm
Since my recent updates have been sporadic at best, I thought I might do a brief summary of an average week at the station. My time on these computers while at work is limited as my colleagues generally need to race in and do their stories on whichever PC is available, so I am generally leaping up halfway through an entry, never to revisit. So I apologize for the increasingly shoddy grammar and hasty structure that has no doubt begun to appear. I need an editor. Please forward your CVs/love letters to Flustered Sole White Woman (with glasses), JOY FM Studios, Kokolemle, Accra.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26th
Christmas music is playing on the ol' JOY FM stereo, the temperature is soaring, I'm sweat-soaked at 10:30 am. Behind me, a freezer stands filled with delicious beverages. Fanta, Coke, Dasani water. I'm assuming it's a conciliatory delivery from the higher-ups as our 'air conditioning system' - working sporadically at the best of times - completely shut down yesterday.
This is not a good thing. Hunter S. Thompson once said something about his Kentucky blood being too thick for Nevada. Similarly, my cholesteroyl-threaded Canadian blood is like pea soup in these situations. I wilted across three desktops, pungently. I was dying. It was therefore comforting to see that many of my Ghanaian colleagues, who are generally accustomed to the extreme heat, were also hating it. There was lots of cursing and even a few shirts being ripped open and chests fanned (by men, though I was also feeling tempted to follow suit.)
And apparently it's going to get hotter? The rainy season has ended, and apparently it's followed by a Ghanaian word that sounds like 'Hammer Time' (I am not kidding you, and JHR colleagues, please feel free to correct me, though I hope to God this is actually what it's called) when the true dry season starts and the true lurching slopping swelter of the Ghanaian heatwave begins. We are not looking forward to Hammer Time. Call it 2 Legit 2 Sweat.
I am mercifully saved from the swelter of the newsroom and jettisoned into the stink of Accra's streets at nearly midday as a colleague, Seth, and I, are sent out to the domestic violence and victims unit of the Accra Police Station. Accra is rife with acronyms for basically every organization, whether it be government, NGO, whatever. I think the one for this unit is DVVSSU.
Seth negotiates with the cab driver, who says he knows where we're going but actually doesn't. This happens sometimes. We spend twenty minutes or so meandering through the Ministries district in Osu, which hosts all the Ghanaian government buildings with a few names that to me, seem ever so slightly Orwellian (The Ministry of Manpower, Youth and Employment! The Ministry of Tourism and Modernization of the Capital City!)
After some yelling we finally get to the right building and go in. It's packed. People swarm every floor and look curiously at us as we march up the stairs. We enter a long dark and narrow hallway literally flooded with people - women sitting with children, old women, . I see one woman holding one of the large platter filled with oranges that would normally be on her head for selling.
We walk into the director's office. She's an austere lady, big and imposing, a lock of black hair falling over her glasses, which catch the light and obscure her eyes. She's intimidating. Seth, who I've determined has absolutely no fear whatsoever, leaps in and begins bombarding her with questions. For a moment, I cringe and wonder if we'll be - as Ghanaians say - "sacked." But to my surprise the lady is convivial and forthright. She shuts her office door to the lineups of anxious people outside and directs her receptionist to get us the right statistics.
My colleague then interviews her with questions we prepared earlier. He then asks her if we can interview someone who has come to file a report of domestic abuse. She says "No problem," and invites in the next complainant - a man! He is small and thin and shakingly relates his story to her in Twi. Throughout his narrative she nods silently. Afterwards she tells him to tell us his story and he begins talking into the microphone in English without hesitation.
"My wife is always beating me," he says. "I couldn't give her a baby and this is why she beats me. She said yesterday that she would kill me."
Seth nods reassuringly as I sit back on the couch trying not to let my mouth hang open. As the interview draws to a close, Seth asks if I have anything to add.
"Do you ever think of fighting back?" I ask. "Do you ever want to hit her back?" The man doesn't understand my nasal Western accent and Seth translates for him.
"Never," he replies. "She is my wife. I love her."
The coordinator told us earlier that in many cases, the victim of abuse doesn't want to leave their partner, even if the spouse is beating them. There are a number of reasons why, and concerns over finance are a big one. Divorces are expensive. Also, in a lot of cases, the spouse who is doing the beating is the family's breadwinner. If the person is thrown in jail, their partner has no way to sustain himself or herself, or their children.
Seth goes out to gather sound and a woman is brought in, along with an entourage of four others. Are these complainants too, or family members? I can't even tell. They talk animatedly in Twi while the woman sits astride the director. She is wearing a headscarf and there are lines around her eyes. Her hands play anxiously with a scrap of colourful fabric on her lap - Ghanaian women often use these scraps to tie their babies to their backs. I wonder where her baby is. I will call her "Ama."
Seth returns and Ama begins speaking to the coordinator. Unlike the man, she speaks loudly and quickly, and her voice is sharp - sometimes angry, sometimes deeply pained. She gestures plaintively at her hips and breasts and her voice breaks. Whatever she's saying, it isn't good.
Seth asks her if she could repeat her story into the microphone. A moment of confusion erupts - Ama thinks she's going to be filmed, and she panics. The other people in the room reassure her that it's just radio and that she will be anonymous. She relaxes and leans forward, once again addressing the director. The translation of the clip Seth used for the story is as follows:
He beats me every day. It's gotten worse ever since he returned from the States. I have come here so he's compelled to sign a bond which will prohibit him from beating me again. If he doesn't love me, he should just leave me to be where I was before he sacked me. I have been sleeping in an uncompleted building with my five months old baby where we struggle with mosquitoes every night. He should not beat me again. All that I need now is for him to allow me into our house. I would be very happy if he would not come close to where I will be with my children, since I don't need anything from him in this world again.
As it turns out, Ama's husband refuses to allow her in the house, so she sleeps in a derelict building with no roof. She actually has four children, and as I understood it all but the five-month-old were still with her husband. She has stopped breastfeeding one of the children due to "humiliations" she's received in the body, as Seth put it. At the end of her account, she burst into tears. There was a flurry of activity - the coordinator stood up, and all the other people in the room began shouting. We slipped out in the fray. We didn't even have a chance to thank her.
We went back to work and completed the report for the evening news. You can listen to the whole thing here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/view.php?aid=956
As for me, I went home to my house, which has a roof, and drank a cold beer that probably cost the same as that woman's weekly income. I thought about the day and entertained all those requisite feelings of guilt that I'm sure my colleagues - and hell, anyone who's spent time in Africa - are no doubt incredibly familiar with, probably on a daily basis. I learned later that week in a follow-up story that Ama's husband had been granted bail. I am still wondering what will happen to her - or, worse yet, if nothing will happen at all.
MONDAY, NOVEMBER 26th
Christmas music is playing on the ol' JOY FM stereo, the temperature is soaring, I'm sweat-soaked at 10:30 am. Behind me, a freezer stands filled with delicious beverages. Fanta, Coke, Dasani water. I'm assuming it's a conciliatory delivery from the higher-ups as our 'air conditioning system' - working sporadically at the best of times - completely shut down yesterday.
This is not a good thing. Hunter S. Thompson once said something about his Kentucky blood being too thick for Nevada. Similarly, my cholesteroyl-threaded Canadian blood is like pea soup in these situations. I wilted across three desktops, pungently. I was dying. It was therefore comforting to see that many of my Ghanaian colleagues, who are generally accustomed to the extreme heat, were also hating it. There was lots of cursing and even a few shirts being ripped open and chests fanned (by men, though I was also feeling tempted to follow suit.)
And apparently it's going to get hotter? The rainy season has ended, and apparently it's followed by a Ghanaian word that sounds like 'Hammer Time' (I am not kidding you, and JHR colleagues, please feel free to correct me, though I hope to God this is actually what it's called) when the true dry season starts and the true lurching slopping swelter of the Ghanaian heatwave begins. We are not looking forward to Hammer Time. Call it 2 Legit 2 Sweat.
I am mercifully saved from the swelter of the newsroom and jettisoned into the stink of Accra's streets at nearly midday as a colleague, Seth, and I, are sent out to the domestic violence and victims unit of the Accra Police Station. Accra is rife with acronyms for basically every organization, whether it be government, NGO, whatever. I think the one for this unit is DVVSSU.
Seth negotiates with the cab driver, who says he knows where we're going but actually doesn't. This happens sometimes. We spend twenty minutes or so meandering through the Ministries district in Osu, which hosts all the Ghanaian government buildings with a few names that to me, seem ever so slightly Orwellian (The Ministry of Manpower, Youth and Employment! The Ministry of Tourism and Modernization of the Capital City!)
After some yelling we finally get to the right building and go in. It's packed. People swarm every floor and look curiously at us as we march up the stairs. We enter a long dark and narrow hallway literally flooded with people - women sitting with children, old women, . I see one woman holding one of the large platter filled with oranges that would normally be on her head for selling.
We walk into the director's office. She's an austere lady, big and imposing, a lock of black hair falling over her glasses, which catch the light and obscure her eyes. She's intimidating. Seth, who I've determined has absolutely no fear whatsoever, leaps in and begins bombarding her with questions. For a moment, I cringe and wonder if we'll be - as Ghanaians say - "sacked." But to my surprise the lady is convivial and forthright. She shuts her office door to the lineups of anxious people outside and directs her receptionist to get us the right statistics.
My colleague then interviews her with questions we prepared earlier. He then asks her if we can interview someone who has come to file a report of domestic abuse. She says "No problem," and invites in the next complainant - a man! He is small and thin and shakingly relates his story to her in Twi. Throughout his narrative she nods silently. Afterwards she tells him to tell us his story and he begins talking into the microphone in English without hesitation.
"My wife is always beating me," he says. "I couldn't give her a baby and this is why she beats me. She said yesterday that she would kill me."
Seth nods reassuringly as I sit back on the couch trying not to let my mouth hang open. As the interview draws to a close, Seth asks if I have anything to add.
"Do you ever think of fighting back?" I ask. "Do you ever want to hit her back?" The man doesn't understand my nasal Western accent and Seth translates for him.
"Never," he replies. "She is my wife. I love her."
The coordinator told us earlier that in many cases, the victim of abuse doesn't want to leave their partner, even if the spouse is beating them. There are a number of reasons why, and concerns over finance are a big one. Divorces are expensive. Also, in a lot of cases, the spouse who is doing the beating is the family's breadwinner. If the person is thrown in jail, their partner has no way to sustain himself or herself, or their children.
Seth goes out to gather sound and a woman is brought in, along with an entourage of four others. Are these complainants too, or family members? I can't even tell. They talk animatedly in Twi while the woman sits astride the director. She is wearing a headscarf and there are lines around her eyes. Her hands play anxiously with a scrap of colourful fabric on her lap - Ghanaian women often use these scraps to tie their babies to their backs. I wonder where her baby is. I will call her "Ama."
Seth returns and Ama begins speaking to the coordinator. Unlike the man, she speaks loudly and quickly, and her voice is sharp - sometimes angry, sometimes deeply pained. She gestures plaintively at her hips and breasts and her voice breaks. Whatever she's saying, it isn't good.
Seth asks her if she could repeat her story into the microphone. A moment of confusion erupts - Ama thinks she's going to be filmed, and she panics. The other people in the room reassure her that it's just radio and that she will be anonymous. She relaxes and leans forward, once again addressing the director. The translation of the clip Seth used for the story is as follows:
He beats me every day. It's gotten worse ever since he returned from the States. I have come here so he's compelled to sign a bond which will prohibit him from beating me again. If he doesn't love me, he should just leave me to be where I was before he sacked me. I have been sleeping in an uncompleted building with my five months old baby where we struggle with mosquitoes every night. He should not beat me again. All that I need now is for him to allow me into our house. I would be very happy if he would not come close to where I will be with my children, since I don't need anything from him in this world again.
As it turns out, Ama's husband refuses to allow her in the house, so she sleeps in a derelict building with no roof. She actually has four children, and as I understood it all but the five-month-old were still with her husband. She has stopped breastfeeding one of the children due to "humiliations" she's received in the body, as Seth put it. At the end of her account, she burst into tears. There was a flurry of activity - the coordinator stood up, and all the other people in the room began shouting. We slipped out in the fray. We didn't even have a chance to thank her.
We went back to work and completed the report for the evening news. You can listen to the whole thing here: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/view.php?aid=956
As for me, I went home to my house, which has a roof, and drank a cold beer that probably cost the same as that woman's weekly income. I thought about the day and entertained all those requisite feelings of guilt that I'm sure my colleagues - and hell, anyone who's spent time in Africa - are no doubt incredibly familiar with, probably on a daily basis. I learned later that week in a follow-up story that Ama's husband had been granted bail. I am still wondering what will happen to her - or, worse yet, if nothing will happen at all.
Wednesday, November 21, 2007
first!
My first collaboration with my colleague at JOY, Alex Kobina Mensah, has been posted on JHR's Foreign Correspondence Site: http://www.jhr.ca/fieldnotes/view.php?aid=937
Tuesday, November 20, 2007
veeps, vox pops, and "tolerance"
I'm out with my colleague, Alex, on our first! real! human rights! story! It's World Tolerance Day - one of those special days mandated by the UN - and my editor has asked that we prepare a report and get some streeters (or vox populi, as they're called here) from regular Ghanaians on their tolerance on the patchwork of different ethnicities around the country. Ga, Ashanti, Akan, Ewe - Accra is a melting pot of various groups around the country. Dialogue! Diversity! Opinions! Arguing! Pithy statements perfect for radio! Despite the heat I am skipping with excitement as we leave the station.
Alex is less enthused."You know it's hard to get people to talk," he warns me as we sludge around Kokolemle, both of us dripping from the midday heat. I shrug. "You need real people on the air," I tell him. "People want to hear themselves. They don't always want to hear politicians and double-speak." As I speak, I'm thinking - how many times do I have to keep saying this before it actually starts to happen? And am I even convincing myself?
We find refuge beneath a shady spot and find some schoolboys. I quickly realize that the blanket term of "tolerance" is a poor concept for streeters. What the hell is tolerance, anyway? Tolerance of what? Race? Religion? Body odour? Hot foods?
Alex and I try to shape our questions into specific examples. "Have you ever experienced someone being intolerant because of your ethnic background?" he asks one boy. The boy - a Ga - hems and haas, and then pulls out a long-winded story about being denied a scholarship application by an official "because I'm Ga." Alex is a good journalist and immediately begins grilling him. "Where is the office? What scholarship? Do you have the number?"
The boy begins to sweat. "I dunno, I dunno," he says. We realize he's lying, possibly to get on the radio. We thank the boys and leave.
About a half hour and a few more people later, we run into a another gentleman who is more forthright. We ask him if he would ever marry someone from a different ethnic group. "Of course," he says. "The love of my destiny and I will share this understanding." He then begins asking us questions on the nature of "tolerance." "What do you mean, tolerance?" he says. "When I think of tolerance, I think of community. People living together. We are all one."
At this point, although I'm undoubtedly charmed by the man's candor, I realize that "tolerance" is truly a crappy subject for a vox pop in Greater Accra. Although it shows many urban Ghanaians are largely open-minded and accepting, it makes for lousy radio. I wonder if my colleagues up in the North of the country would receive similar responses. For about the five thousandth time since my arrival, I wish fervently that I could go work in the North, where deep-seated grievances still exist between particular communities. For about the five thousandth time, I wonder if I am in the right place and if my presence is necessary.
We leave the city and head towards the headquarters of the ruling party, the NPP, where Alex needs to try and catch the Vice President (and aspiring party leader) Mr. Aliu Mahama, on his way to being "vetted." In Ghana, as I understand it, "vetting" means that a potential candidate's credentials are examined before a board of party members. All his papers have to be in order, his political experiences have to be verified, and all his I.D. cards need to be up to date. The "Veep" skipped this process when he came to headquarters a couple of weeks ago, causing a huge media furor.
He hasn't arrived yet, so we go to a nearby hotel to get a cold drink. The woman at the stand directs us to "reception," a dark, windowless open lobby. We sit on the couches and drink. Exhausted, we doze for a few minutes.
We are both jerked awake by a cluster of loud female voices flooding the lobby. Two women, both wearing skimpy skirts and strappy tank tops come and sit on the adjoining couches. Both of them suss up my colleague - and wink at me. I greet them and we chat idly about the vetting. They keep checking out my colleague, smile at me, and resume their own conversation.
Something's going on here, I think. My suspicions are verified when Alex nudges me and says,"Something's going on here."
He goes to one of the women and starts speaking to her in Twi. They walk away from me to the other side of the room. She begins gesturing and pointing towards a hallway. He nods. He walks back to me and jerks his head towards the door.
We stroll towards NPP headquarters. My colleague is looking pleased with himself.
"That hotel is for special guests," he says. "I knew it."
"What do you mean, special guests?" I ask.
Alex pauses and exhales. "When I talked to that lady, I asked about some services that could be provided."
It all becomes clear.
"Oh my God!" I say. "Those were - ladies of the evening!"
Alex nods. He then explains that he did a story on child prostitution awhile ago, and that there are a few "special hotels" like this throughout the area. Some are more overt than others. Clearly, the one we were just at was one of those. Not that I noticed.
As Alex finishes explaining the hotel situation to me, a convoy of motorcycles comes down the road and behind them, what can only be the black sedan of the "Veep." He says goodbye and races after the convoy along with clusters of other NPP supporters and journalists. As the cloud of dust fades, I sit on a bench and think about the women I sat with only moments ago, and how comfortable I felt amongst them. In Canada, in a similar situation, I would have been distinctly uncomfortable. Here, we had conversations. And a nap.
Tolerance is just a word, and not a very good one, at that. But by the end of the day, my concept of the thing was entirely different than the one I started out with. In short? I am no longer surprised by what surprises me, and what is starting to feel....god...dare I say it?
Normal?
Alex is less enthused."You know it's hard to get people to talk," he warns me as we sludge around Kokolemle, both of us dripping from the midday heat. I shrug. "You need real people on the air," I tell him. "People want to hear themselves. They don't always want to hear politicians and double-speak." As I speak, I'm thinking - how many times do I have to keep saying this before it actually starts to happen? And am I even convincing myself?
We find refuge beneath a shady spot and find some schoolboys. I quickly realize that the blanket term of "tolerance" is a poor concept for streeters. What the hell is tolerance, anyway? Tolerance of what? Race? Religion? Body odour? Hot foods?
Alex and I try to shape our questions into specific examples. "Have you ever experienced someone being intolerant because of your ethnic background?" he asks one boy. The boy - a Ga - hems and haas, and then pulls out a long-winded story about being denied a scholarship application by an official "because I'm Ga." Alex is a good journalist and immediately begins grilling him. "Where is the office? What scholarship? Do you have the number?"
The boy begins to sweat. "I dunno, I dunno," he says. We realize he's lying, possibly to get on the radio. We thank the boys and leave.
About a half hour and a few more people later, we run into a another gentleman who is more forthright. We ask him if he would ever marry someone from a different ethnic group. "Of course," he says. "The love of my destiny and I will share this understanding." He then begins asking us questions on the nature of "tolerance." "What do you mean, tolerance?" he says. "When I think of tolerance, I think of community. People living together. We are all one."
At this point, although I'm undoubtedly charmed by the man's candor, I realize that "tolerance" is truly a crappy subject for a vox pop in Greater Accra. Although it shows many urban Ghanaians are largely open-minded and accepting, it makes for lousy radio. I wonder if my colleagues up in the North of the country would receive similar responses. For about the five thousandth time since my arrival, I wish fervently that I could go work in the North, where deep-seated grievances still exist between particular communities. For about the five thousandth time, I wonder if I am in the right place and if my presence is necessary.
We leave the city and head towards the headquarters of the ruling party, the NPP, where Alex needs to try and catch the Vice President (and aspiring party leader) Mr. Aliu Mahama, on his way to being "vetted." In Ghana, as I understand it, "vetting" means that a potential candidate's credentials are examined before a board of party members. All his papers have to be in order, his political experiences have to be verified, and all his I.D. cards need to be up to date. The "Veep" skipped this process when he came to headquarters a couple of weeks ago, causing a huge media furor.
He hasn't arrived yet, so we go to a nearby hotel to get a cold drink. The woman at the stand directs us to "reception," a dark, windowless open lobby. We sit on the couches and drink. Exhausted, we doze for a few minutes.
We are both jerked awake by a cluster of loud female voices flooding the lobby. Two women, both wearing skimpy skirts and strappy tank tops come and sit on the adjoining couches. Both of them suss up my colleague - and wink at me. I greet them and we chat idly about the vetting. They keep checking out my colleague, smile at me, and resume their own conversation.
Something's going on here, I think. My suspicions are verified when Alex nudges me and says,"Something's going on here."
He goes to one of the women and starts speaking to her in Twi. They walk away from me to the other side of the room. She begins gesturing and pointing towards a hallway. He nods. He walks back to me and jerks his head towards the door.
We stroll towards NPP headquarters. My colleague is looking pleased with himself.
"That hotel is for special guests," he says. "I knew it."
"What do you mean, special guests?" I ask.
Alex pauses and exhales. "When I talked to that lady, I asked about some services that could be provided."
It all becomes clear.
"Oh my God!" I say. "Those were - ladies of the evening!"
Alex nods. He then explains that he did a story on child prostitution awhile ago, and that there are a few "special hotels" like this throughout the area. Some are more overt than others. Clearly, the one we were just at was one of those. Not that I noticed.
As Alex finishes explaining the hotel situation to me, a convoy of motorcycles comes down the road and behind them, what can only be the black sedan of the "Veep." He says goodbye and races after the convoy along with clusters of other NPP supporters and journalists. As the cloud of dust fades, I sit on a bench and think about the women I sat with only moments ago, and how comfortable I felt amongst them. In Canada, in a similar situation, I would have been distinctly uncomfortable. Here, we had conversations. And a nap.
Tolerance is just a word, and not a very good one, at that. But by the end of the day, my concept of the thing was entirely different than the one I started out with. In short? I am no longer surprised by what surprises me, and what is starting to feel....god...dare I say it?
Normal?
Tuesday, October 30, 2007
frustrations
So the ending of the sewer story (see previous entry) is actually quite anticlimatic, for the 2.5 of you who were hanging on tenterhooks waiting for its conclusion. I'm sorry. The "to be continued" was fairly misleading. Basically, in point form, the conclusion of the story, and its subsequent after-effects:
- So yeah, I really did fall into a puddle that was also a sewer, right from the cab.
- Two older ladies and a man immediately pulled me out.
- They began to apologize profusely, despite the fact that I am actually the idiot who fell into the sewer in the first place. It is the Ghanaian way - well, with many Ghanaians anyway - to apologize for factors that are purely environmental, or in my case, stupidity-based. I begged them to stop, to no avail.
-As many pairs of hands wiped at my now very stinky clothes, I looked longingly towards the street leading to my house. The only street - now flooded with water that was no doubt sewer-y.
-Eventually a young Ghanaian woman who lives next door to me came by. She poked a little girl passing by, who gave us her umbrella, and together we skipped over the ankle-deep rainwater and piles of sewage; the absurdly perfect looking Ghanaian university student, clothes and hair still somewhat immaculate despite having just been soaked by an insane rainfall; and the soiled, disheveled, filthy, embarrassed obruni, who continued to trip over her own feet despite clinging to the other girl's hand like a wet dog to its owner.
So I got home, I showered, my phone was wrecked, and all my notes for work smeared, but so far, no health problems. (Thank you, typhoid fever/meningitis shots!)
Now for something completely different. I know some of you might be thinking, "Wow, all this person does in Ghana is fall in sewers and nearly get killed and then lie on the beach for awhile." While these things have comprised a reasonable part of my time here, there is also the small matter of WHY I'm here....and that's work. I realize I have not spoken of work in this blog at all yet. I think I'm afraid it'll bore people. It may very well. If you would rather hear about gross tales of the body and sewage and me saying "Jesus Christ!" in front of religious old ladies and beach parties and stuff like that, skip this entry and all those things will come later, I promise you.
So yes. I work at a radio station. It's called JOY FM. And in a country where radio is very big....bigger than TV, and rivalling print in popularity, well, my station is reputed to be one of the most popular, and certainly the most well-established.
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, most certainly. Before coming out here, I'd only worked in radio for eight months. Now I was expected to go into a newsroom full of intelligent, ambitious reporters, at one of the most popular stations in Ghana, a country I have never lived in, much less reported ON, and tell them.....well....tell them what, exactly?,
This part is tricky. As some of you know already, I have not been having the easiest time at work. That's fine - I had no illusions about changing the face of Ghanaian radio, or sailing by, or anything like that. And I don't want to go into specifics, as a) my newsroom can read this blog and b) my host organization, Journalists for Human Rights, can also read it. So I feel I must be judicious in my choice of words here.
Let me just say this: my job description, on paper, is "Human Rights Journalism Trainer." This, you might think, would ostensibly mean I would be training Ghanaian journalists in human rights reporting. You would, on the surface, be correct.
However, there is a slight incongruity between the job I am supposed to be doing and the newsroom climate I am working in. JOY is currently in a period of intense transition. The studio is under construction in a basement-like area. The newsroom is on a different floor than the studio (which makes the midday casts interesting, and certainly aerobic, as we race up and down flights of stairs with stories hot from the printer in our hands, waiting to be delivered into the understandably anxious hands of the newscaster/news editor/manager. But I digress.) The newsroom is also crammed - marketing people share desks with producers, and the news team is always kind of all over the place. It is fun and chaotic as a newsroom should be, but sometimes it feels out of control.
Anyway, another aspect of the newsroom's transition is that many reporters have quit, recently. I learned that this happened right before I came to Ghana. The reason is that reporters at JOY don't get paid well. They are also expected to work extremely long hours despite this and assume that the station's good name is adequate compensation in itself.
As a result, you get an understaffed team of a few exhausted reporters who work seven days a week in some cases, who have no time for leisure or family, and most importantly, no time to work on in-depth feature stories of their choosing. These are stories that go behind the politics that dominate the news world in Ghana ad nauseum - stories about vendors who lose their businesses because Accra is "decongesting" (or tearing down) areas that are considered ugly, for example. Or the female journalism student who is forced to skip classes and sell fried yams to her fellow students just to make her tuition. Or the young girls who are brought into Accra from other West African countries and given illegal passage through the country through bribes to be sent to Europe for the purposes of prostitution.
All these stories have come up in our newsroom. This is not the problem. My colleagues are all smart, passionate people and are keen to include them in the lineup. The problem is that of time, and depth - with all of these stories, the reporters were barely able to skim the surface. The treatment given to each of these stories would have editors at the CBC screaming for more more more. And it's not for a lack of effort, but rather a lack of energy, and a lack of other motivating factors.
This is where I come in. I have quickly learned that my role in the newsroom will be self-determined, with the occasional guidance of the news editor. Because everyone is too overwhelmed to deal with human rights workshops at the moment, I have put those aside, and considered what is needed in the newsroom, straight up. And what they need is an extra pair of hands, and a cheerleader. Basically, I'm the cheerleader. Or a wing man, or whatever sports analogy you want to use, where the sports-guy basically helps the other guys for the good of the team. I'm that guy.
I am absolutely fine with this, and happy to do it. Motivation is always a good thing, and if I can convince someone that doing a brief human rights story is in their best interest, it makes me very happy.
But it's made me realize how I much I have to figure out, and what an uphill battle this will be. For eight months, my job is to push, push, push. And it is completely different from the expectations I carried here with me, along with my (stolen) luggage. Very humbling....and sometimes, very difficult. I am hoping that that "rewarding" part I haerd about from my host organization will be coming along...you know...soonish.
- So yeah, I really did fall into a puddle that was also a sewer, right from the cab.
- Two older ladies and a man immediately pulled me out.
- They began to apologize profusely, despite the fact that I am actually the idiot who fell into the sewer in the first place. It is the Ghanaian way - well, with many Ghanaians anyway - to apologize for factors that are purely environmental, or in my case, stupidity-based. I begged them to stop, to no avail.
-As many pairs of hands wiped at my now very stinky clothes, I looked longingly towards the street leading to my house. The only street - now flooded with water that was no doubt sewer-y.
-Eventually a young Ghanaian woman who lives next door to me came by. She poked a little girl passing by, who gave us her umbrella, and together we skipped over the ankle-deep rainwater and piles of sewage; the absurdly perfect looking Ghanaian university student, clothes and hair still somewhat immaculate despite having just been soaked by an insane rainfall; and the soiled, disheveled, filthy, embarrassed obruni, who continued to trip over her own feet despite clinging to the other girl's hand like a wet dog to its owner.
So I got home, I showered, my phone was wrecked, and all my notes for work smeared, but so far, no health problems. (Thank you, typhoid fever/meningitis shots!)
Now for something completely different. I know some of you might be thinking, "Wow, all this person does in Ghana is fall in sewers and nearly get killed and then lie on the beach for awhile." While these things have comprised a reasonable part of my time here, there is also the small matter of WHY I'm here....and that's work. I realize I have not spoken of work in this blog at all yet. I think I'm afraid it'll bore people. It may very well. If you would rather hear about gross tales of the body and sewage and me saying "Jesus Christ!" in front of religious old ladies and beach parties and stuff like that, skip this entry and all those things will come later, I promise you.
So yes. I work at a radio station. It's called JOY FM. And in a country where radio is very big....bigger than TV, and rivalling print in popularity, well, my station is reputed to be one of the most popular, and certainly the most well-established.
Interesting, yes. Intimidating, most certainly. Before coming out here, I'd only worked in radio for eight months. Now I was expected to go into a newsroom full of intelligent, ambitious reporters, at one of the most popular stations in Ghana, a country I have never lived in, much less reported ON, and tell them.....well....tell them what, exactly?,
This part is tricky. As some of you know already, I have not been having the easiest time at work. That's fine - I had no illusions about changing the face of Ghanaian radio, or sailing by, or anything like that. And I don't want to go into specifics, as a) my newsroom can read this blog and b) my host organization, Journalists for Human Rights, can also read it. So I feel I must be judicious in my choice of words here.
Let me just say this: my job description, on paper, is "Human Rights Journalism Trainer." This, you might think, would ostensibly mean I would be training Ghanaian journalists in human rights reporting. You would, on the surface, be correct.
However, there is a slight incongruity between the job I am supposed to be doing and the newsroom climate I am working in. JOY is currently in a period of intense transition. The studio is under construction in a basement-like area. The newsroom is on a different floor than the studio (which makes the midday casts interesting, and certainly aerobic, as we race up and down flights of stairs with stories hot from the printer in our hands, waiting to be delivered into the understandably anxious hands of the newscaster/news editor/manager. But I digress.) The newsroom is also crammed - marketing people share desks with producers, and the news team is always kind of all over the place. It is fun and chaotic as a newsroom should be, but sometimes it feels out of control.
Anyway, another aspect of the newsroom's transition is that many reporters have quit, recently. I learned that this happened right before I came to Ghana. The reason is that reporters at JOY don't get paid well. They are also expected to work extremely long hours despite this and assume that the station's good name is adequate compensation in itself.
As a result, you get an understaffed team of a few exhausted reporters who work seven days a week in some cases, who have no time for leisure or family, and most importantly, no time to work on in-depth feature stories of their choosing. These are stories that go behind the politics that dominate the news world in Ghana ad nauseum - stories about vendors who lose their businesses because Accra is "decongesting" (or tearing down) areas that are considered ugly, for example. Or the female journalism student who is forced to skip classes and sell fried yams to her fellow students just to make her tuition. Or the young girls who are brought into Accra from other West African countries and given illegal passage through the country through bribes to be sent to Europe for the purposes of prostitution.
All these stories have come up in our newsroom. This is not the problem. My colleagues are all smart, passionate people and are keen to include them in the lineup. The problem is that of time, and depth - with all of these stories, the reporters were barely able to skim the surface. The treatment given to each of these stories would have editors at the CBC screaming for more more more. And it's not for a lack of effort, but rather a lack of energy, and a lack of other motivating factors.
This is where I come in. I have quickly learned that my role in the newsroom will be self-determined, with the occasional guidance of the news editor. Because everyone is too overwhelmed to deal with human rights workshops at the moment, I have put those aside, and considered what is needed in the newsroom, straight up. And what they need is an extra pair of hands, and a cheerleader. Basically, I'm the cheerleader. Or a wing man, or whatever sports analogy you want to use, where the sports-guy basically helps the other guys for the good of the team. I'm that guy.
I am absolutely fine with this, and happy to do it. Motivation is always a good thing, and if I can convince someone that doing a brief human rights story is in their best interest, it makes me very happy.
But it's made me realize how I much I have to figure out, and what an uphill battle this will be. For eight months, my job is to push, push, push. And it is completely different from the expectations I carried here with me, along with my (stolen) luggage. Very humbling....and sometimes, very difficult. I am hoping that that "rewarding" part I haerd about from my host organization will be coming along...you know...soonish.
Wednesday, October 24, 2007
A Fool In The Rain - part two
The driver’s expression is one of panic, and strangely, nausea.
Driver (lurchingly): “WHERE ARE YOU GOING!?!?!”
You (shrieking): “LABADI LABADI!!!! (your neighbourhood) Do you know Jokers?” (a bar near your house.)
Driver: “WHAT? YOU SAY??”
You (sliding into incredibly embarrassing but necessary in desperate-times Ghanaian accent): “Joe-Kahs!”
Driver: “AH!” And together you scream off into the night.
At this point the rain is coming so voluminously that it is obscuring the windows. The windows are steaming. You cannot see out the front dashboard window. It is safe to assume the driver can’t see either. You take this as so when he begins frantically wiping the glass with his sweat-hanky. You pull out your own hanky and join him. You also text your friend Hannah as a sort of last will and testament type thing. Another exchange occurs.
Me: “All The Tro Tros At My Station Left – Empty! I am Now Paying Four Cedis (ridiculous cost for a cab) And May Get Killed As We Can’t See Out Windows. I Love You and Also My Family.”
HannahZ: “Please Don’t Crash!!”
The cab and I are gridlocked. Tro tros honk incessantly at us and merge alongside with such unbridled aggression that I involuntarily clutch at my armrests. For about twelve minutes I am quite sure we will die. I kept asking the driver if he is ok, and he responds “YES YES” as the sweat runs into his eyes and no doubt improves his visibility immensely. Rainwater leaks onto my shoulder from a hole in the roof. I am not sure if the dampness on my face is rain, sweat or tears.
After much terror, two U-turns, and a bizarre assortment of Shaggy songs played in succession on the radio, we arrive at Joker’s. I grab the cabbie’s hand. I feel we have become quite close through our shared encounter.
“God bless,” he says, finally smiling for the first time since I got in.
“You too,” I say, smile back, and step out into the cab – and straight into a five-foot deep open sewer flooded with rainwater.
THE HORROR! CONTINUING!
Driver (lurchingly): “WHERE ARE YOU GOING!?!?!”
You (shrieking): “LABADI LABADI!!!! (your neighbourhood) Do you know Jokers?” (a bar near your house.)
Driver: “WHAT? YOU SAY??”
You (sliding into incredibly embarrassing but necessary in desperate-times Ghanaian accent): “Joe-Kahs!”
Driver: “AH!” And together you scream off into the night.
At this point the rain is coming so voluminously that it is obscuring the windows. The windows are steaming. You cannot see out the front dashboard window. It is safe to assume the driver can’t see either. You take this as so when he begins frantically wiping the glass with his sweat-hanky. You pull out your own hanky and join him. You also text your friend Hannah as a sort of last will and testament type thing. Another exchange occurs.
Me: “All The Tro Tros At My Station Left – Empty! I am Now Paying Four Cedis (ridiculous cost for a cab) And May Get Killed As We Can’t See Out Windows. I Love You and Also My Family.”
HannahZ: “Please Don’t Crash!!”
The cab and I are gridlocked. Tro tros honk incessantly at us and merge alongside with such unbridled aggression that I involuntarily clutch at my armrests. For about twelve minutes I am quite sure we will die. I kept asking the driver if he is ok, and he responds “YES YES” as the sweat runs into his eyes and no doubt improves his visibility immensely. Rainwater leaks onto my shoulder from a hole in the roof. I am not sure if the dampness on my face is rain, sweat or tears.
After much terror, two U-turns, and a bizarre assortment of Shaggy songs played in succession on the radio, we arrive at Joker’s. I grab the cabbie’s hand. I feel we have become quite close through our shared encounter.
“God bless,” he says, finally smiling for the first time since I got in.
“You too,” I say, smile back, and step out into the cab – and straight into a five-foot deep open sewer flooded with rainwater.
THE HORROR! CONTINUING!
A Fool In The Rain (a saga in three parts)
Ghanaians, generally speaking, seem to hate the rain. I can’t speak to whether this happens in other African countries, but in Ghana, if the sky clouds over and takes that familiar bruisy hue, and a drop or two tumbles out from the bloated morass….time to move your white butt, boy! The dread amongst the populace has been compounded, no doubt, by the fact that the rainy season was supposed to end some time ago (according to a colleague of mine here.)
I’d experienced the Ghanaian rain-anathema previously when a friend and I were assailed by a sudden downpour as he was walking me home one night. He immediately became grumpy, insisted we hide under my porch, and refused to leave until the rain had ceased.
Of course, he didn’t really have a choice – in our area, the taxi cabs disappear when it rains, which to me seems to be an ill-advised economic decision as every Ghanaian within a ten-block radius is generally scrambling to get the frig home. But I digress. My friend was in a bad mood for the rest of the evening, while in contrast, I was actually relieved that the weather had for once cooled down a few degrees – and also, amused.
“It’s just rain,” I told him. “What are you going to do? Melt? Pfft!!”
Or so I thought.
So, picture this, then; your hapless/helpless obruni friend makes her usual industrious way home from JOY FM in the Kokolemle area of Accra (close to downtown.)
She smiles and says her goodbyes to co-workers and the ladies that sell her bags of water every morning. She is sweaty in her formal (and thus, inappropriately hot) work clothes but otherwise is feeling fine. The area outside the tro tro station near JOY turns into a huge open market at around 6 pm, so she stops to talk to a street vendor about buying a tape player. Then the droplets come…sporadic and few, but fat. Panic crosses over the vendor’s face. “Come back tomorrow,” he pleads, and disappears. You shrug and traipse over to the tro tro area. “Good thing I’m catching a ride before the rain falls!” you think gaily.
But once you arrive, you are greeted by a confusing sight; no tro-tros. The ones that are still in the area are screeching their way out the lot, many of them completely empty save the mate (the guy who collects fare) and the driver.
Meanwhile, commuters and the vendors with bags of candy and bread on their heads are scattering everywhere. You get spun around like a top in the sea of bodies. “What in the hell?” you think, and start wandering around seeing if anyone is planning to stick it out, and maybe take you home. As usual, you become lost.
A helpful Ghanaian man comes along, as is inevitable when a silly obruni is very visibly confused and walking into poles and cars in the tro tro station. “Where you going?” he yells. You tell him a rough approximation and he grabs your hand and drags you across the lot. You narrowly get clipped by about three large tro tros and then he drags you across approximately twelve lanes of traffic.
All around you, cars are screeching, honking, speeding, crashing to a halt, gridlocked and airless. Between the cars, people clamour for shelter. You think about bombs and subways in London and wonder if this is what it was like. Bad terrorism analogies aside, it does feels like people are bracing themselves for a fury of biblical proportions all around you.
“HERE!” the man yells. You move towards him and nearly get squashed by a careening cab filled with men yelling directions at the top of their lungs. At this point the sky opens and water pours from the sky. The panic is compounded times a thousand. Another man joins your group and yells at the first man that “OBRUNI HAS TO TAKE CAB!” He flags you down a vehicle while the other man asks for your phone number. All three of you are now drenched. You make up a half-hearted lie to the first man, thank the second man for going out of his way, and leap into the taxicab.
TO BE CONTINUED!
I’d experienced the Ghanaian rain-anathema previously when a friend and I were assailed by a sudden downpour as he was walking me home one night. He immediately became grumpy, insisted we hide under my porch, and refused to leave until the rain had ceased.
Of course, he didn’t really have a choice – in our area, the taxi cabs disappear when it rains, which to me seems to be an ill-advised economic decision as every Ghanaian within a ten-block radius is generally scrambling to get the frig home. But I digress. My friend was in a bad mood for the rest of the evening, while in contrast, I was actually relieved that the weather had for once cooled down a few degrees – and also, amused.
“It’s just rain,” I told him. “What are you going to do? Melt? Pfft!!”
Or so I thought.
So, picture this, then; your hapless/helpless obruni friend makes her usual industrious way home from JOY FM in the Kokolemle area of Accra (close to downtown.)
She smiles and says her goodbyes to co-workers and the ladies that sell her bags of water every morning. She is sweaty in her formal (and thus, inappropriately hot) work clothes but otherwise is feeling fine. The area outside the tro tro station near JOY turns into a huge open market at around 6 pm, so she stops to talk to a street vendor about buying a tape player. Then the droplets come…sporadic and few, but fat. Panic crosses over the vendor’s face. “Come back tomorrow,” he pleads, and disappears. You shrug and traipse over to the tro tro area. “Good thing I’m catching a ride before the rain falls!” you think gaily.
But once you arrive, you are greeted by a confusing sight; no tro-tros. The ones that are still in the area are screeching their way out the lot, many of them completely empty save the mate (the guy who collects fare) and the driver.
Meanwhile, commuters and the vendors with bags of candy and bread on their heads are scattering everywhere. You get spun around like a top in the sea of bodies. “What in the hell?” you think, and start wandering around seeing if anyone is planning to stick it out, and maybe take you home. As usual, you become lost.
A helpful Ghanaian man comes along, as is inevitable when a silly obruni is very visibly confused and walking into poles and cars in the tro tro station. “Where you going?” he yells. You tell him a rough approximation and he grabs your hand and drags you across the lot. You narrowly get clipped by about three large tro tros and then he drags you across approximately twelve lanes of traffic.
All around you, cars are screeching, honking, speeding, crashing to a halt, gridlocked and airless. Between the cars, people clamour for shelter. You think about bombs and subways in London and wonder if this is what it was like. Bad terrorism analogies aside, it does feels like people are bracing themselves for a fury of biblical proportions all around you.
“HERE!” the man yells. You move towards him and nearly get squashed by a careening cab filled with men yelling directions at the top of their lungs. At this point the sky opens and water pours from the sky. The panic is compounded times a thousand. Another man joins your group and yells at the first man that “OBRUNI HAS TO TAKE CAB!” He flags you down a vehicle while the other man asks for your phone number. All three of you are now drenched. You make up a half-hearted lie to the first man, thank the second man for going out of his way, and leap into the taxicab.
TO BE CONTINUED!
Friday, October 12, 2007
How to spend your first two weeks in Ghana
+ Arrive at the airport. Make sure you are immediately assaulted by the sultry air. Freak out. Make sure a lovely Ghanaian lady sits beside you on the plane and keeps warning you to watch your luggage.
+ Take a look around the airport. You will see a sign that warns against pedophiles and sexual deviants entering the country. You will later make a series of bad jokes to friends about how they shouldn't come to visit.
+ You wait while your colleagues deal with their luggage. Or lack thereof. It builds character to have British Airways misplace a piece of your luggage, especially if it happens to everyone on your flight. Two-hour queues at the Lost and Found desk also build character.
+ Go to the hotel. Open your backpack and note that someone has already done so for you. This person has also absconded with all toiletries, including shampoo, conditioner and AfterBite. This person has also kindly inspected your Costco-sized bottle of Purell and left the cap loose, leaving you with a backpack of Purell-scented clothing.
+ You are now in your first week. You become amazed at how accustomed you become to being hissed at - in Accra, this is the way people get each other's attention, and isn't considered rude the way it is in Canada. You skip over open sewers like hopscotch lines. You eat banku and fufu and dip it in crazy soups that have pieces of goat intestine floating in it. You eat some intestine in an attempt to impress your first Ghanaian friend. Your Ghanaian friend is not impressed and instead laughs his ass off.
+You move to a great neighbourhood in a house too lavish for what you're paying. You are surrounded by women carrying baskets on their heads and speaking on cell phones. Men wear Tupac shirts and lead morning prayers before they start their day. You had heard about the contradictions but they continually astound you.
+ You grow accustomed to people laughing a lot at you in general. Obrunis - foreigners - are hilarious here, what with our weird accents and constant tendency to make mistakes. When you are a female obruni nearly six feet tall with short hair, a weird tattoo and a tendency to trip over objects in the road, you become extremely funny.
+ You learn a couple of key phrases in the Twi dialect - how are you, I live in Labone, etc etc - only to realize that half the people here speak another dialect called Ga. Or another dialect called Fanti. Or another dialect that you haven't even heard of. You come to terms with the fact that people are always yelling things at you and you are never 100 percent sure what is going on.
+ You go to work at local radio station and spend more time being confused. You are not sure whether to enforce or momentarily put aside CBC style training. The newsroom also thinks you are very funny, especially when you bring in fried yams. You have yet to see any reporters accepting bribes, although one prison conference gave out fried chicken. And yes. Ethics be damned, you were hungry.
+ Speaking of eating! You eat everything in the freaking city and don't get sick. Hah! Take that, JHR fear-mongerers! You do, however, come down with a ridiculous cough that lasts basically forever.
+You go to a hospital in Accra thinking the cough is malarious, and after much confusion and hissing, the doctor diagnoses you by....making fun of you. "You can't get malaria after four days in country," she says. You shrug and inwardly give yourself a high-five. Yes. Yourself.
+ You go dancing and realize you are afflicted with a common symptom amongst obrunis in Accra. It's called White People Should Never, Never Dance in West Africa. After one embarrassing incident involving Rhianna, hips and a strange blue drink, you promise yourself and everyone within earshot that you will abstain from the dance floor forever. But this is impossible. People dance everywhere here....in the street, in the bars, at postal service rallies.
+You get lost approximately five times every day. To your own house.
+ You go to an evangelical church service, your first in any country. Sweaty, exhausted, wearing torn jeans, your hand is clasped by a woman who wears vibrant traditional prints and a headscarf, like all other women in the congregation. You are surrounded by soaring female voices. You feel disgusting and overwhelmed. You cry.
+ You cry a lot, but not solely due to homesickness, sadness, etc. Your colleague describes it as a perfect heartbreak. And it's true. Ghana is breaking your heart gloriously.
It's been two weeks since your arrival in country.
+ Take a look around the airport. You will see a sign that warns against pedophiles and sexual deviants entering the country. You will later make a series of bad jokes to friends about how they shouldn't come to visit.
+ You wait while your colleagues deal with their luggage. Or lack thereof. It builds character to have British Airways misplace a piece of your luggage, especially if it happens to everyone on your flight. Two-hour queues at the Lost and Found desk also build character.
+ Go to the hotel. Open your backpack and note that someone has already done so for you. This person has also absconded with all toiletries, including shampoo, conditioner and AfterBite. This person has also kindly inspected your Costco-sized bottle of Purell and left the cap loose, leaving you with a backpack of Purell-scented clothing.
+ You are now in your first week. You become amazed at how accustomed you become to being hissed at - in Accra, this is the way people get each other's attention, and isn't considered rude the way it is in Canada. You skip over open sewers like hopscotch lines. You eat banku and fufu and dip it in crazy soups that have pieces of goat intestine floating in it. You eat some intestine in an attempt to impress your first Ghanaian friend. Your Ghanaian friend is not impressed and instead laughs his ass off.
+You move to a great neighbourhood in a house too lavish for what you're paying. You are surrounded by women carrying baskets on their heads and speaking on cell phones. Men wear Tupac shirts and lead morning prayers before they start their day. You had heard about the contradictions but they continually astound you.
+ You grow accustomed to people laughing a lot at you in general. Obrunis - foreigners - are hilarious here, what with our weird accents and constant tendency to make mistakes. When you are a female obruni nearly six feet tall with short hair, a weird tattoo and a tendency to trip over objects in the road, you become extremely funny.
+ You learn a couple of key phrases in the Twi dialect - how are you, I live in Labone, etc etc - only to realize that half the people here speak another dialect called Ga. Or another dialect called Fanti. Or another dialect that you haven't even heard of. You come to terms with the fact that people are always yelling things at you and you are never 100 percent sure what is going on.
+ You go to work at local radio station and spend more time being confused. You are not sure whether to enforce or momentarily put aside CBC style training. The newsroom also thinks you are very funny, especially when you bring in fried yams. You have yet to see any reporters accepting bribes, although one prison conference gave out fried chicken. And yes. Ethics be damned, you were hungry.
+ Speaking of eating! You eat everything in the freaking city and don't get sick. Hah! Take that, JHR fear-mongerers! You do, however, come down with a ridiculous cough that lasts basically forever.
+You go to a hospital in Accra thinking the cough is malarious, and after much confusion and hissing, the doctor diagnoses you by....making fun of you. "You can't get malaria after four days in country," she says. You shrug and inwardly give yourself a high-five. Yes. Yourself.
+ You go dancing and realize you are afflicted with a common symptom amongst obrunis in Accra. It's called White People Should Never, Never Dance in West Africa. After one embarrassing incident involving Rhianna, hips and a strange blue drink, you promise yourself and everyone within earshot that you will abstain from the dance floor forever. But this is impossible. People dance everywhere here....in the street, in the bars, at postal service rallies.
+You get lost approximately five times every day. To your own house.
+ You go to an evangelical church service, your first in any country. Sweaty, exhausted, wearing torn jeans, your hand is clasped by a woman who wears vibrant traditional prints and a headscarf, like all other women in the congregation. You are surrounded by soaring female voices. You feel disgusting and overwhelmed. You cry.
+ You cry a lot, but not solely due to homesickness, sadness, etc. Your colleague describes it as a perfect heartbreak. And it's true. Ghana is breaking your heart gloriously.
It's been two weeks since your arrival in country.
Wednesday, September 26, 2007
That Ol' Intercultural Jive
Today the JHR group completed the first part of pre-departure training. The first three days were all about becoming "interculturally effective people." Parts were incredibly helpful and comforting, and parts made me realize I don't respond well to touchy-feely "development-ese" - language used by the course facilitator to help us with adjustments, get ready for possible scenarios, etc. All of you who have travelled overseas through CIDA or other NGOs will probably know very well what I am talking about.
Really - I'm not cynical. I appreciated this training, I really did! I realize it is very well-intentioned, and I appreciated the efforts to prepare our group in as unifed a manner as possible.....but really, let's simplify all of this, shall we?
And thus, through all the euphemisms and group work, the message that came through to me loud and clear was "Don't be a stupid white Canadian. Don't talk. Listen." Really. That's all the facilitator needed to say. And it's what I've been thinking about since the final session ended a few hours ago.
This week, we were presented with many possible work-related scenarios that could result in cultural confusion, and how to manage them. The facilitator asked for input on a particularly Confusing and Awkward Intercultural Scenario. I raised my hand.
"I have no idea," I told her. "When you are already very awkward in a Western context....well.....I can't even imagine how to get out of this very Confusing and Awkward Intercultural Scenario." She laughed. I wasn't joking.
I was also struck by all the little social things that will become so important once I start working in Accra. Those visual and verbal cues. Watching my eye contact. Giving the right gifts at the right times. Shaking hands properly. Hell, we've got to watch which hands we use (doing anything with the left hand is a big no no Ghanaian culture.) Dressing better. Watching, period. And waiting.
None of these things are particularly my forte, especially the "dressing better" bit. After a year of going to work basically in my pyjamas, with hair-stylings that would make Amy Winehouse look like Anna Wintour, the whole "dressing/grooming for radio" thing is a fairly significant adjustment. But this is of course what travelling is, no? This new awareness of all the stupid little things you ignore at home, and how they influence the ways people perceive you overseas, and how effectively you can get along and do a good job. As an inexperienced traveller, I'm already amazed at the things I've become aware of before even landing in this country.
Of course, such "awareness" doesn't mean the experience won't be rife with culturally-related gaffes and errors. As many of you know, the words "Alison Lang" and "socially appropriate graces" do not necessarily coincide. I gush. I spill beverages. I laugh at the wrong times and wrong volumes. Also, I am a snort-laugher. I often involuntarily sneeze....in eights. Or twelves.
Right.
Thankfully, I have also learned over these past few days that Ghanaians, though proud and classy, are also kind. And, I suspect, forgiving....of bumbling, well-intentioned young Canadian women. Let's hope.
Really - I'm not cynical. I appreciated this training, I really did! I realize it is very well-intentioned, and I appreciated the efforts to prepare our group in as unifed a manner as possible.....but really, let's simplify all of this, shall we?
And thus, through all the euphemisms and group work, the message that came through to me loud and clear was "Don't be a stupid white Canadian. Don't talk. Listen." Really. That's all the facilitator needed to say. And it's what I've been thinking about since the final session ended a few hours ago.
This week, we were presented with many possible work-related scenarios that could result in cultural confusion, and how to manage them. The facilitator asked for input on a particularly Confusing and Awkward Intercultural Scenario. I raised my hand.
"I have no idea," I told her. "When you are already very awkward in a Western context....well.....I can't even imagine how to get out of this very Confusing and Awkward Intercultural Scenario." She laughed. I wasn't joking.
I was also struck by all the little social things that will become so important once I start working in Accra. Those visual and verbal cues. Watching my eye contact. Giving the right gifts at the right times. Shaking hands properly. Hell, we've got to watch which hands we use (doing anything with the left hand is a big no no Ghanaian culture.) Dressing better. Watching, period. And waiting.
None of these things are particularly my forte, especially the "dressing better" bit. After a year of going to work basically in my pyjamas, with hair-stylings that would make Amy Winehouse look like Anna Wintour, the whole "dressing/grooming for radio" thing is a fairly significant adjustment. But this is of course what travelling is, no? This new awareness of all the stupid little things you ignore at home, and how they influence the ways people perceive you overseas, and how effectively you can get along and do a good job. As an inexperienced traveller, I'm already amazed at the things I've become aware of before even landing in this country.
Of course, such "awareness" doesn't mean the experience won't be rife with culturally-related gaffes and errors. As many of you know, the words "Alison Lang" and "socially appropriate graces" do not necessarily coincide. I gush. I spill beverages. I laugh at the wrong times and wrong volumes. Also, I am a snort-laugher. I often involuntarily sneeze....in eights. Or twelves.
Right.
Thankfully, I have also learned over these past few days that Ghanaians, though proud and classy, are also kind. And, I suspect, forgiving....of bumbling, well-intentioned young Canadian women. Let's hope.
Friday, September 21, 2007
take the dysentery bets now
Hi. This is your friend Lang!
I have unceremoniously started my umpteenth blog in hopes that it will give you a little bit of insight into what it's like when a 25-year-old white chick from suburban Ontario decides to go to Ghana for 8 months and help a radio station cover human rights stories. Hopefully it will fare better than my other blogs, which were arguably about things a little more in the "I like boys, I am angsty and Live Journal" realm and "blah blah blah, my apartment building is full of drug addicts" realm. So....welcome to the "Massively Scary Life Event" realm! Stay awhile!
Basically, my aims are to do a good job, learn as much as possible, not be a jerk, have fun, avoid dysentery, and hopefully write things here every once in awhile that will keep you somewhat entertained....and let you know that I'm not dead or anything.
If you want to give a listen to JOY, or get an idea of the daily news stories in Ghana, the link is here:
http://www.myjoyonline.com/
And if you want to learn more about Journalists for Human Rights, go here:
http://www.jhr.ca/
One more week. Till then.
Lang
.
I have unceremoniously started my umpteenth blog in hopes that it will give you a little bit of insight into what it's like when a 25-year-old white chick from suburban Ontario decides to go to Ghana for 8 months and help a radio station cover human rights stories. Hopefully it will fare better than my other blogs, which were arguably about things a little more in the "I like boys, I am angsty and Live Journal" realm and "blah blah blah, my apartment building is full of drug addicts" realm. So....welcome to the "Massively Scary Life Event" realm! Stay awhile!
Basically, my aims are to do a good job, learn as much as possible, not be a jerk, have fun, avoid dysentery, and hopefully write things here every once in awhile that will keep you somewhat entertained....and let you know that I'm not dead or anything.
If you want to give a listen to JOY, or get an idea of the daily news stories in Ghana, the link is here:
http://www.myjoyonline.com/
And if you want to learn more about Journalists for Human Rights, go here:
http://www.jhr.ca/
One more week. Till then.
Lang
.
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