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?