The journey from the Church to the reception was smooth. Jeff is a good driver and anticipates that actions of others. He would make a great Road Seller, but unlike them Jeff is educated. I value education and have been on a great learning journey throughout my life. I did not excel at school, but I did receive an award aged 16 for the best achievement in terms of what was expected and what was achieved. My peers and I were expected to average 1 Ordinary Level each. I got 5 and 3 CSE Grade II's. A massive score and I received a cup at the school assembly. My achievements were driven by the behaviour of another person. The Careers officer had told me that I needed to get five O levels, and that this was not possible. In the words of Michael Appiah, I kept hope alive and broke the myth. This is what has always driven me to better things. Jeff seems to have the same energy and determination. Like Michael and the Amissah family, they also value education. Mrs 'G' values education as well.
The reception takes place in a grand hall of two storey's in height, with gaps amongst the block work and no nets. I ask about the Mosquito's. "There are none around here" Nigel replies, "Okay" I say. Okay is a Ghanaian thing, I'm learning fast. We sit at tables with six seats. they are nicely decorated with a name plate in the middle. No one sits at the 'Justice' table, but I grab the 'Passion' one. Jeff and Tamara join me, but not before Nigel makes his way across.
The Bride and Groom arrive and the MC draws our attention and we clap and cheer. They take their seats on the podium. A stage about four foot higher than the floor of the hall. I smile and wave, they smile back. The MC uses a microphone and those that are asked to speak do the same. A profile of a person is read out and he is announced as the Chairperson for the Reception. He joins the happy couple and sits at their table. Everyone claps, even me, well he does seem like a nice chap. Another profile is read out, "A fine CV" comments Jeff. I'm not really interested, I am smiling at Mr and Mrs Appiah. They are smiling back from their table on the stage and then the words hit home, the MC is talking about me. It's English, but it is also African. The structure and emphasis is different, the words are kinder and more generous. Jeff beckons me to stand, I stand, I smile and I wave. "What are you doing says Jeff, you're spoiling it. Get going, you have to join them on the stage". 200 people clap and I move swiftly to join my other friends. The clapping continues, I'm humbled again.
The speeches are good, the microphone is not. I am asked to make a speech, but I have none prepared. 400 eyes look at me, there is silence. I grab the microphone and bid them good afternoon in Welsh and then explain. I'm Welsh, I am not English. England, Wales, Scotland and Ireland came together to form a Union. I see Patricia's and Michaels Wedding as a Union. A coming together of two great families. I explain that they have honoured me as a special guest, but that I am not special. "Each of you are special", I tell them. Because your families came together and you have attended this grand event to support Michael and Patricia. I explain that I am saddened that some stayed away, but ask those that are present to join me in a round of applause for the happy couple.
No sooner than I sit and we are beckoned to take some food. We leave the stage and approach the caterers. This is a grand affair, the food runs the whole length of one of the walls of this great hall and there must be seven or eight people serving. I go for rice, rice, and rice. Not any old rice, and none of it is the same. The very spicy brown rice is my favourite, especially with some Shitdo. But not too much unless you have a good supply of water. I ask Jeff what the pie thing is, he replies "chicken". I look again and realise that he is right. Jeff's always right. There's pasta and some sauces that I would have tried but my plate was looking full. I asked for a white thing, the person next to me and the person serving looked surprised. "Are you sure?" "Yes" I said. "Break him some off" came the reply, "just in case he doesn't like it". He did. It wasn't potato and it wasn't yam. It may have been based on maize, but I'm not African so I don't know. It tasted good, and didn't need the Shitdo. I walked back to the table clutching my plastic knife and fork. Well there were no finger bowls and everyone else was doing the same. The problem was, I forgot that we had silver cutlery on the top table. Everyone laughed, so did I. Things are different in Africa, but not alien. The Wedding presents are deposited on the 'Gift Table' which is attended by two appointees. They ask you to sign a gift register and then hand you a personalised thank you card. The gifts are not opened in front of the guests. They are opened in the evening, the next day or after the Honeymoon. This is different and may seem strange. But when comparing to European behaviour we must recognise that opening the gifts in private prevents any embarrassment. Guests are not clocked when placing a gift on the table or walking past. No one really knows who placed what, if anything. There is no competition and no disappointment. This is Africa, there is a lot of poverty and who would want a friend to stay away (or feel that they should stay away or feel less of themselves if they attended) just because they can't afford a gift? The true gift is being there for the couple, and not the value of the physical item.
Last night, Patricia's traditional wedding dress made from Indian silk shimmered. Today my food did. The table was sprinkled with Glitter. Not 'Gary', but the tiny sparkly stuff that my daughters apply with their make up. The ceiling fans were spinning and the white guy was glad. The sprinkles drifted in the air, my chicken sparkled. It didn't matter, they caught the light and there were only a few. Anyway, I now looked pretty, and even the Maid of Honour took an interest. Far better than last night, when I caught her in the kitchen eating and holding two plates of food. She assured me that she only had one, and the other was her Mothers. But Alice told me different. I must admit Alice and the other Bridesmaid also shimmered. I hadn't had any alcohol, this was the educated tribe. They are good stock and Michael knows how lucky he is. The second plate of food did not belong to Josephine, Alice had caught on; I like a tease.
He stood and delivered his speach like a politician. There was heckling, but not from his European friend. I listened carefully, especially when he orchestrated the ending with the care of a preacher. Michael asked us; who would have thought that when his brothers and sisters were shipped as slave's, that one day a Black man would be elected as the Presidential Candidate for a major party in the States. He gave years and dates, forty two years since so and so, forty years since this and that. His audience were listening, the heckling was subdued. He concluded, that his Wedding had been planned for over a year, and in the same year as the monumental success of his kin, he would also marry his bride. 2008, an African date to be remembered, and Michael Appiah had made his first contribution towards his destiny. The party ended, Mr and Mrs Appiah stood and the guests made a line to venture forward and shake their hands. All 200 of them and my journey had almost come to an end.
30 August 2008
No water and no lights
I don't mind leaking, but I do hate leaking unnecessarily. Gosh it's humid tonight. The sweat is glistening on my arms as I type. I drank a fair bit, the worst part being that most of it was water. Mind you, as soon as this is posted I am off to get a second bottle of beer. I would get a Fanta, but the beer is bigger and I need a big drink. Having a little amount of available water is one thing, but a power cut as well - YOU GOTA BE KIDDING - it happened, not at any old time, but during a blogging session. All lost, start again. I tried to turn on the light. No chance, something has fused. I went to the bathroom, no chance, no light. I turned on my mobile. Not to call for help as there is no one out there to help. I used the light to find my way to the pantry. At least I was cool, and after a while I found the candle that I had clocked earlier in the week. Better still I had also clocked matches in a different location. Like the Road Sellers of Accra I am becoming observant. I went to a light switch to turn on the light in the corridor outside of my room. No chance, that wasn't working either. It would have been useful as it casts a good light onto the table in my room that has the Internet connection. How is that you must ask, you wrote that the light is in the corridor? This is Africa, some rooms don't have solid walls on all sides; as it would be too hot. My corridor has a large window, a window that is bigger than the biggest one on the front of my home back in Wales. This window like those on the outside of the house has glass slats rather than window panes. They move up and down in two sections. But they are always down and this is the cold season. On the outside of the window in the corridor like the windows on the outside of the house there is a fixed mosquito net. Between the net and the glass slats on my external window and the corridor window there are steel rods. Not like prison bars, but welded units that make 1 foot by 6 inch rectangles. You can't get through but the windows are always open.
I have been told to lock the front door with the key whenever I am in the house. At night there is a steel gate that swings across the door and is secured with two bolts. The main door opens inwards that the steel gate will prevent any forced entry. It's dark, Mr Jeff and Tamara are in Accra at a show. I didn't go as it's a comedy and in the wrong language. I heard Ruben the Caretaker earlier. I let him in, I had locked the door with my key but yet again I forgot to remove it from the lock. I needed Ruben now, as it was dark and he may know where the fuse box was. I called out, he didn't answer, but I heard him again. Some of the lights were working, but not mine. I called out yet again, I could see him in the shadows. He answered, it wasn't Ruben. Apparently Jeffers had forgot to tell me that he had another house guest. Ruben's father. He was lucky, I could have been a girl from the Northern Region. If I had been, he would have swiftly met his fate. He was lucky, I was relieved. I recognised the facial similarities and his English was good enough for me to comprehend. It's a good job that he wasn't speaking Ga. More importantly, with all of the steel bars and the key, he had to be an insider or he wouldn't have got in. He tried to fix the lights, but like me he gave up. Elias told us about insider and outsider groups, but in my short time in Africa some of that work has not been apparent. I am astonished by the way that I have been readily accepted, and humbled by the hospitality. I have also been humbled by the values that many of my new friends hold.
The beer is flowing, well it has to as I am leaking so much. The humidity, the heat from the laptop and the heat from the candle next to my arm. The sweat is getting worse, but the frogs have just started to sing. It's going to be yet another great night in Africa. I wonder if the singers will return?
I have been told to lock the front door with the key whenever I am in the house. At night there is a steel gate that swings across the door and is secured with two bolts. The main door opens inwards that the steel gate will prevent any forced entry. It's dark, Mr Jeff and Tamara are in Accra at a show. I didn't go as it's a comedy and in the wrong language. I heard Ruben the Caretaker earlier. I let him in, I had locked the door with my key but yet again I forgot to remove it from the lock. I needed Ruben now, as it was dark and he may know where the fuse box was. I called out, he didn't answer, but I heard him again. Some of the lights were working, but not mine. I called out yet again, I could see him in the shadows. He answered, it wasn't Ruben. Apparently Jeffers had forgot to tell me that he had another house guest. Ruben's father. He was lucky, I could have been a girl from the Northern Region. If I had been, he would have swiftly met his fate. He was lucky, I was relieved. I recognised the facial similarities and his English was good enough for me to comprehend. It's a good job that he wasn't speaking Ga. More importantly, with all of the steel bars and the key, he had to be an insider or he wouldn't have got in. He tried to fix the lights, but like me he gave up. Elias told us about insider and outsider groups, but in my short time in Africa some of that work has not been apparent. I am astonished by the way that I have been readily accepted, and humbled by the hospitality. I have also been humbled by the values that many of my new friends hold.
The beer is flowing, well it has to as I am leaking so much. The humidity, the heat from the laptop and the heat from the candle next to my arm. The sweat is getting worse, but the frogs have just started to sing. It's going to be yet another great night in Africa. I wonder if the singers will return?
Gold Ties
Taking photos and being directed to join in was good fun. But it was still hot and my jacket was now done up. I smiled and leaked and smiled some more. I mopped my brow, but not secretly as everyone else was doing the same. I stood out, not because of my skin colour, but because the groom and his team were wearing wine coloured ties and Jeff and I had chosen Gold. There were lots of photos, and those that I did not take I will be able to access from my friends. We cheered, we clapped, we shook hands. Those that I knew were greeted with the correct handshake. Yoggi was there, I smiled and said "Yoggi, you found me". Remember I was never lost, he lost me. It was a warm smile and although our time together was short I still consider him as a friend. It was not his fault, he was busy. Not out of choice, it was work. We all have to make a living and I understand these things. Hopefully one day Yoggi will understand too. By then Michael will probably be President of Ghana and Mr Jeff will be a Headteacher or in the government and in charge of education. It is all mapped out for each of us, and I see a great future on the World stage for Michael and teaching success for Jeff. They are both lovely people, like Yoggi, Jess, Cudjo, Mrs 'G', Tamara, Eleanor, Beatrice, Theresa. Alice, Jones, Nigel and those whose names that I cannot recall. The difference being, and there always is a difference; Michael, Jeff and I have great taste in ties. Why oh why, didn't I buy more?
The Blessing
The streets were heaving, there was plenty of human traffic again and far too many cars. We needed a siren, but all we had was gridlock. I started hissing, but Jeff and Tamara didn't notice. Jeff was confident that the wedding wouldn't start on time, but hey folks I had travelled to Africa for this one and I was getting to the Church on time. We alighted, and Tamara slid across to the driver's seat. Not an easy task, I was in the back and this was three-door. Worse still as we opened one the heat hit me. I leaked and grabbed my jacket. Jeff thought he knew where it was, but the man from Europe showed him the way. The street sellers couldn't sell, as I simply wasn't interested. I was striding along on the mid day sun. No sun block, it was too hot and it would have run.
The 'Solemnization' of Holy Matrimony between Michael and Patricia took place at the Presbyterian Church of Resurrection in Accra Central on Saturday the 30th August 2008 at twelve noon. We arrived at 5 to, and I needed the bathroom. No problem, only a handful of people had arrived but this would swell to 200 by the time the Service started. Jeff was right, I was wrong. This was Africa and the Service wasn't going to start in a hurry. I took some photos, well that's not true, I took a lot. So did Jeff and the others. Michael looked good, well he should for after all he is an Ashanti. The Church was decorated with large ribbons that run for many metres in several directions, matching coloured balloons and flowers. The people were decorated as well. Some in traditional dress and many in suits. I was passed a flower, but only if I wore my jacket. I put it on and leaked more. I didn't think it was possible to leak any more, but I did. There were chairs at the front for the bride and groom and I was ushered to sit on the first row on Michael's family side of the church. A great honour.
I stood outside and watched the Bride arrive. A noisy affair and to me somewhat dangerous. The video guy was in the lead taxi. Well, not exactly inside. He was stood on the side of the car exposed to every hazard and filming with the camera resting on the roof. Tricky for most people, but this guy was filming at speed. The crowds parted as the the taxi followed by the BMW swept along the road, with horns so loud and frantic that they sounded like a siren. In fact when I heard them in the distance, I thought that someone had been knocked down. I was wrong, it was the girl from the educated tribe coming to marry the man from the warrior tribe. Good effort, what an entrance!
The car did not have white ribbon, instead there were ribbons of many colours. Unlike Patricia who looked lovely in white. I must admit, so did the maid of honour. Her future husband, whoever he is, is going to net himself a fine catch. What he doesn't know yet, is that like many societies including ours, he doesn't get to choose; the woman does. Then there is a negotiation.
I sat back down inside the church and took a few more photos. Don't panic, I had asked and everyone else by now were doing the same. The Bridal March began. A slow moving affair consisting of many people that were led by the choir. Patricia took her place beside her husband and they sat. The 'Salutation' was followed by the first of 6 hymns, the last one being a solo piece. Hymns were interrupted by the 'Declaration of Purpose', 'Exhortation', 'Solemnization of Marriage', a Sermon and Prayer & Benediction. The Sermon was the one about the poison lady. I guessed the ending prior to the main part, let alone the conclusion. Mr Jeff and I have discussed religion and concluded that Sermons are pitched at the lowest level; an educated person can quickly lose interest. No chance of that today, I smiled and clapped and sang. It was a good sermon, the emphasis being on working at it together. Not everyone guessed the ending, and I kept quiet. The Wedding March was preceded by African singing, which took place while the Register was being signed. It was a long Service, more intense than anything that I had experienced back in the UK. The Hymns seemed different, my favourite being 'This is my story, this is my song'. I sang, those that know me, know that I don't sing. But this is Africa and I had travelled an epic journey to be with my friend. I sang, not as well as 'the singers of the night', but for me; I sang well.
The 'Solemnization' of Holy Matrimony between Michael and Patricia took place at the Presbyterian Church of Resurrection in Accra Central on Saturday the 30th August 2008 at twelve noon. We arrived at 5 to, and I needed the bathroom. No problem, only a handful of people had arrived but this would swell to 200 by the time the Service started. Jeff was right, I was wrong. This was Africa and the Service wasn't going to start in a hurry. I took some photos, well that's not true, I took a lot. So did Jeff and the others. Michael looked good, well he should for after all he is an Ashanti. The Church was decorated with large ribbons that run for many metres in several directions, matching coloured balloons and flowers. The people were decorated as well. Some in traditional dress and many in suits. I was passed a flower, but only if I wore my jacket. I put it on and leaked more. I didn't think it was possible to leak any more, but I did. There were chairs at the front for the bride and groom and I was ushered to sit on the first row on Michael's family side of the church. A great honour.
I stood outside and watched the Bride arrive. A noisy affair and to me somewhat dangerous. The video guy was in the lead taxi. Well, not exactly inside. He was stood on the side of the car exposed to every hazard and filming with the camera resting on the roof. Tricky for most people, but this guy was filming at speed. The crowds parted as the the taxi followed by the BMW swept along the road, with horns so loud and frantic that they sounded like a siren. In fact when I heard them in the distance, I thought that someone had been knocked down. I was wrong, it was the girl from the educated tribe coming to marry the man from the warrior tribe. Good effort, what an entrance!
The car did not have white ribbon, instead there were ribbons of many colours. Unlike Patricia who looked lovely in white. I must admit, so did the maid of honour. Her future husband, whoever he is, is going to net himself a fine catch. What he doesn't know yet, is that like many societies including ours, he doesn't get to choose; the woman does. Then there is a negotiation.
I sat back down inside the church and took a few more photos. Don't panic, I had asked and everyone else by now were doing the same. The Bridal March began. A slow moving affair consisting of many people that were led by the choir. Patricia took her place beside her husband and they sat. The 'Salutation' was followed by the first of 6 hymns, the last one being a solo piece. Hymns were interrupted by the 'Declaration of Purpose', 'Exhortation', 'Solemnization of Marriage', a Sermon and Prayer & Benediction. The Sermon was the one about the poison lady. I guessed the ending prior to the main part, let alone the conclusion. Mr Jeff and I have discussed religion and concluded that Sermons are pitched at the lowest level; an educated person can quickly lose interest. No chance of that today, I smiled and clapped and sang. It was a good sermon, the emphasis being on working at it together. Not everyone guessed the ending, and I kept quiet. The Wedding March was preceded by African singing, which took place while the Register was being signed. It was a long Service, more intense than anything that I had experienced back in the UK. The Hymns seemed different, my favourite being 'This is my story, this is my song'. I sang, those that know me, know that I don't sing. But this is Africa and I had travelled an epic journey to be with my friend. I sang, not as well as 'the singers of the night', but for me; I sang well.
Sausage roll
The pastry was flaky, very messy and I had my shirt and tie on. I was sat in the back of Jeff's car, fortunately he had continued to run the Air Conditioning. Tamara had returned to the car with a pastry and cold drink for me and a pastry each for them. Very kind, but I am not surprised. With a Mother like Mrs 'G', kindness isn't just a personal value, it is an inherent trait. The pastry was good, flaky and warm and very tasty. I wondered if it was Goat. It looked like a large sausage roll, but wider and the texture inside was too smooth to be one of them. I asked, "it's beef replied Tamara". "Okay", I said. Okay has a meaning of it's own in Ghana. I suspect it means that I don't believe you, or maybe, yeah but I am suspicious. It probably means a lot more. Remember; just because it's English, it doesn't mean that it is the same.
Hissing appears to mean the same each time. I like hissing, I heard it again today. This time to attract the attention of the drinks lady and ensure that water was placed on my table. She didn't respond the first time, he hissed again. This time with emphasis, she turned. He hissed again, she moved faster.
When a Ghanaian shakes your hand, it may not be an act of friendship. The males have their own secret handshake. A combination of a European handshake followed by a clench using the thumbs and as the hand moves away each uses one finger so that together they click the two fingers that touch. Togetherness is an important part of their heritage. How else would they overcome the slave traders as they were shackled and sailed to foreign lands?
Hissing appears to mean the same each time. I like hissing, I heard it again today. This time to attract the attention of the drinks lady and ensure that water was placed on my table. She didn't respond the first time, he hissed again. This time with emphasis, she turned. He hissed again, she moved faster.
When a Ghanaian shakes your hand, it may not be an act of friendship. The males have their own secret handshake. A combination of a European handshake followed by a clench using the thumbs and as the hand moves away each uses one finger so that together they click the two fingers that touch. Togetherness is an important part of their heritage. How else would they overcome the slave traders as they were shackled and sailed to foreign lands?
The Big Tipper
We arrived at the bank. Not what I was expecting at all. The car park was opposite the bank and we had to cross a busy road. There was a Zebra crossing, but this was Accra. Step out and you could be doomed. Unless of course you are a Road Seller, as they seem to lead a charmed life. Like Jeff's car the bank was air conditioned. I needed it, it's hot in Africa. I settled in a chair, Jeff banked, I sat more. The water was cool, and the guard smiled. There is one guard outside the bank and another inside. It is the same in the majority of public buildings. In the banking centre there are armed guards everywhere. Different uniforms but the guns are similar. Like the fish, the guns are big. We crossed safely to the bank. A large guy in a simple uniform. He carried two sticks, one with a green flag and one with a red flag. He waved, the traffic stopped and I felt safe. When we left the bank Jeff and Tamara did not see me tip him a 1 Cedis noted. You can't put a price on safety. As my girls will tell you, crossing the road is a big thing with me. 1 Cedis, it was a good price. No negotiation, just a swift hand movement like a handshake and a four way folded note inside resting in the palm of the hand. You don't have to be visible to be kind. He was worth more, but I had to keep my money as I didn't know where my African journey was taking me next.
Wedding Photos
We intend to try and upload some late tonight. For friends and family there will be a collection on my Facebook account if we can upload successfully. A few of the photos from Facebook will be placed into the blog.
Checkpoint Charlie
The guys with the AK47's do worry me, but as I have explained the are present to protect everyone. Sometimes in the City, in blue or camouflage. The latter blending well with the trees. Sometimes a lone policeman, sometimes with his gun off his shoulder. That's a scary sight, a machine gun balanced in one hand as someone walks through the streets. The checkpoint loomed in the distance, bugger, we were on the way to the Church. Some were let through, but not us. The policeman waved us off the road. We obliged, guns or no guns, who is going to argue? They will find some somewhere, Africans have mobile phones and two way radios. She looked the car up and down, she also checked us out. The policewoman was confident, she showed that she knew what she was doing. Checking the car details, the disk, the tyres. She smiled, and we were on our way.
The Pantry
The pantry is always the coolest room in any house. The same applies in Africa. I got up and beat my all comers records, not half a bucket, instead I used only one bowl of water this morning. Collecting water is a labour, not of love, but of necessity. I carried twelve buckets of water and poured them into the 25 gallon tank yesterday. There was no way this water was going to be wasted. Irony is not wasted on me, and I thought given our current drought, that it was ironic that Mr Jeff received his water bill today. I think where I come from, the utility company would have received what is known in the trade as 'a Bennett Broadside'. A dismissive letter of sufficient length to deliver a worthwhile message. Theirs would have been 'Get Lost'. It was only 8 a.m. and I moved into the pantry to get my breakfast. Cereal in sealed containers to protect the food from the insects. I open the tub and started leaking. Who turned on the tap? I leak a lot and this was going to be the most leaky day of the trip. European clothes are a bit heavier than African. I had been promised traditional wear, that's one piece of clothing and lots of air gaps with one shoulder bare. My suit was two piece. Worse still, a heavy two piece. Jeff and I wore similar ties, white shirt and gold tie. Dark suit. He buys his from Burton and I buy mine from where I can. I left the pantry and I leaked more. I put on my socks and the real leaking started. I paused, it was a long pause, I did not start again until 9 a.m. I had cleaned my shoes in the bowl of water. In fact I managed to bathe, clean the mud of two pairs of shoes and flush the toilet with the same bowl. Not bad for a European. Jeff ironed my shirt, I don't do ironing. I used to, but I became lazy. Pauline does the ironing, and a grand job she does as well. I think Jeff and I agreed that the ironing was in exchange for the twelve buckets of water yesterday. We had negotiated. The funny thing was, I thought that I had the better deal. The shirt looked good. Trouser, and shoes were added, but by now I was leaking a lot. It was 0930. I dived into the pantry. I emerged cooler, but where was the climate control that I use daily in my car? I struggled to put on the tie, it was too hot. I mentioned to Jeff that some friends laughed when I mentioned taking a suit to Africa. The suit, shirts and extra trousers were carried all the way in my suit holder. Jeff laughed back, "It is a good job that you did, everyone will have a suit on". The tie was done up, we had to leave for the Church. No African bus today, instead we travelled in style in Jeff's 4x4. "I'll be there now", I shouted. I just had to pop into the pantry.
Another African meal
The fish was big, very big, it filled the plate. I did consider using a knife and fork, but I am big on the history of manners, and to do so would have been rude. Anyway, I had my right hand. I pulled at the flesh, taken with it some tomato and raw onion. The fish was salty, but no salt is added during cooking. "It is naturally salty" explained my host. The bones were huge, and it was dificult to pick through them without a knife and fork. I paused, and had another beer. Life is good in Africa, but only if you have money or the farm is running well. Sometimes your luck can desert you. Things change, and people move on. Mr Jacko has moved on; it appears that he prefers to live in the bathroom. I'm cool, well not quite. It's hot in Africa.
Popcorn Fish
The Atlantic Ocean crashes against the coast. It is a fine site, the waters fed by the Gulf of Guinea. We eat in the restaurant at the bottom of the cliffs next two the water. Our table did not have a light, but Jeff had a torch which he placed on the wall that went around the restaurant. We were inside, but yet outside and connected to the beach. The roof was made of straw; the cooking took place at the end of the hut. I don't drink much, not very often and when I do, it is usually very little. I had a Fanta at the Wedding. Fanta is big in Africa, so are the fish. Jeff hissed, the waiter turned and approached our table. We click or half raise one arm, Jeff hisses. They don't call it hissing, but hissing it is. It's not a friendly thing, but on this occasion it wasn't a nasty thing either. I read a guide on the net before I travelled. It appeared to be an official one, hissing was explained using a different word. "It is a greeting", oh yeah, pull the other one. I heard it in the street, I smiled. I heard it again in the house. Tamara was annoyed because something did not work. "Did you hear that?" asked Jeff. "Yes", I replied. "They tell us it is a greeting, now I know it is not". The Waiter did what he was told; Jeff asked me if I wanted a nibble before our meal. "Finger food", well nothing new there then. The price was discussed for the meal, I heard Jeff say "no chips". He asked me what I wanted, "It's Africa, I will have what you have, and if there are different meals then two of us will have the same so that I know that I am not being treated special". We all agreed, it was decided; it was going to be 'Popcorn fish'. The finger food arrived, Jeff challenged the Waiter "did I order two?", Tamara supported her future husband. One was left and one was taken away, but not before I smiled. The bag was opened and Jeff and I helped ourselves to popcorn. I don't normally share finger food. I don't eat from snack trays in a bar. But this was different, Jeff is a friend. I smiled again, Tamara laughed, Jeff looked as if he didn't understand. "They only eat this in the Cinema", Jeff understood. Tamara's kebab starter arrived. We eat the popcorn. My new friends had me in mind with the kebab, no not the skewer bit but a sausage that had been ordered for me. Jeff warned me it was hot and suggested that maybe I should not try it. Try stopping me. He challenged me, he warned me, he encouraged me to let them eat it instead. I pushed forward, this was my kebab and I was having it. I took a bite, now I wanted popcorn. Jeff asked me a question about the food, I could not reply. I was not choking, the spice in the sausage had taken my breath away, it was time to start drinking again. I like STAR, it's a good beer, I also like STONE. Especially when there is a hot sausage involved. Unlike the sausage the beer was cold. Popcorn, hot sausage and now beef kebab. Not any old beef kebab, but the one with the extra hot spice sauce on the side that the stupid European has to dip his kebab into. Ok, so the sausage was cold. The bowl arrived. Do I drink it, do I wash, do I wash now or after the meal. Good job I didn't drink, it was for washing. The fish arrived, it was huge. Worse still there was one each. It was accompanied by yam, but not yam as you know it. This was another one of those Kinky sessions, but this wasn't kinky. They told me that I wouldn’t make it through without a knife and fork. It was too sticky they said, not the fish the yam. The sauce was tricky too. Hot and runny, where's my spoon? We eat the lot, and had another beer. It's cool on the coast, but it gets warm when you eat the hot sausage.
New friends
I was tired last night. The market trip earlier in the week had left me with four hours sleep. The night after, less than six. It was hot, although I do keep myself well hydrated. The internet played up and the Wedding posting crashed and was lost when almost complete. I went to bed around 2 a.m. But I was happy, my friends were married and my new friends may one day get married. This was a time of happiness. It's hot in Africa, the ceiling fan was on number 5. Normally it is on 1 or 2. The frogs sang, Mr Jacko was no where to be seen and I slept. The noise disturbed me frequently throughout the night. The beat of the drum, the loud singing outside of my window. It was calming, but it was also annoying. They were so close. Jeff complains when the music is loud, but Jeff had travelled with Tamara to Mrs 'G's and would not return until the morning. I could not complain, it was a language thing. I slept on, the party continued. Twi, Ga, Ewe, but they sang. Oh boy they sang, loud, different and clear. The frogs sang, the music grew. The frogs stopped, the lead vocalist sang. I'm not sure if it was a man or a woman, the language is a barrier, sometimes the words are difficult to notice. They were close, very close. I suspect outside of my window. I stirred and came to. Yes, they were there. They were lying or sitting in my room. Looking, and smiling, there was a lot of them. I checked again. Yes they were there. I turned and drank some water, and then went back to sleep. Maybe it was the heat, maybe the food, maybe dehydration, but they were there, weren't they?
The Dress
By blue of course, I mean a mixture of colours, that to me and in that light gave an impression of blue. It was full length with a high neckline. The sleeves were a different colour. At first glance they looked beige, maybe brown. I supsect that it was a light almost see through cloth stitched over the dress and its colour and that of the dress combined to make the effect. The were subtle patterns all over the dress and it shimmered in the light. The patterns appeared to be flowers. The sleeves were cut below the elbow but not as far as the wrist. As Patricia sat, I noticed that her legs were also covered beneath the dress. The material was similar to that which had been used for the arms and maybe this was a two piece outfit, or three pieces made to look like two. Alice is a seamstress and I have seen her handy work so I am not surprised by the quality of the cloth or the stitching. Not that Alice made this one, I simply do not know who made the dress, although I suspect that it was made in or around Accra. Nothing was worn on the head, but there were bangles on each wrist, very thin on the right hand side and very wide on the left. The one on the right looked like silver, the one on Patricia's left wrist looked like gold. She wore a necklace, and there was embroidery at the top of the dress that raised the material so that the line around the neck was straight. The Wedding dress fell slightly off one of the shoulders. Patricia wore sandals, they looked traditional.
"Married, Married, Read all about it"
The Bride and Groom are now united. It was a great night and the blog post below explains the events in great detail. This post is about our journey home and the link into something that hapened earlier today. The journey back to Haatso was no where near as bad as the journey out of Accra earlier. Mind you, this evening it was gridlock. Whereas tonight's hold up was caused by several Police armed check points. Vehicles were being pulled over and people questioned. They beckoned us through the first one, but an armed police officer at the second checkpoint took an interest in the white guy. We slowed down as instructed, he clocked us and ambled past. Suddenly the colour caught his eye and he turned back towards the passenger door. He shone the light from his torch at Jeff and Tamara. He was checking them out, I thought it was a rich European thing, but as Jeff pointed out he was just checking that I was safe. It's nice to have someone on the road side that cares. Normally they just want to sell you something. "Plantain" is yelled by those selling the crisp like bags. Apples, CDs, chewing gum, whatever. If it can be sold then there is a buyer somewhere. The lanes are often packed by these road sellers. Some carrying their stuff on their head, some not. Our seller had a tie rack. An observant fellow, he realised that I was interested. Like the policeman, he missed me the first time, but maybe the colour prompted the change. He spun around and headed back. Yeah I was interested, I like a good tie. So it seems does Jeff, given the number he bought. But then again I am a Cardi and every penny or peswar counts. He swiveled the tie rack, the seller that is, not Jeff. Yeah, he had me hooked, now came the negotiation. Just like the Wedding a price had to be agreed. I wound down the window, so and so Cedis the seller shouted. I wasn't listening, I already knew what I wanted to pay. That's the problem with a negotiation, you both have to contribute. I flashed him a smile, "how much? You got to be joking". The car moved off, he ran after us. A good run, maybe not Olympic 100m standard. But fairplay, he was carrying a tie rack. The negotiation continued. We hit 3 Cedis, well he did, I had 2 cedis and 50 Peswar in my hand. Not too close to the window mind you, after the incident with the mobile phone. He held out for 3 Cedis (£1.50) and I wound up the window. Well who in their right mind would pay £1.50 for a silk tie with a HB lable? No not the sauce silly, Hugo somebody or the other. The tie rack moved swiftly to the other side and to the front of the car. Like the policeman he checked out my companions. Only this guy wasn't armed with an automatic rifle. "3 Cedis, 3 Cedis, it's a good price." Jeff went to buy it, I leant forward and handed over the money. All 3 Cedis, but you know what? It was a good price. And for the tie rack guy a good sale, Jeff bought three. I wish I had now. Oh why, oh why did I become a Cardi?
It's a Tribal thing
I have mentioned Elias many times in my Blog. His insight into mankind, his German Jew origins, the oppression of the Nazi regime and his strong links with Ghana where he was Head of Sociology between 1961 and 1964. In many ways this trip has been a pilgrimage. I am so fortunate to have studied under, amongst others, world renowned Professor Andrew Linklater. A true disciple of Elias, Andrew opened my eyes to harm. Not that I'm in the harm business. Effective interaction between human beings is key to our future success, given the magnitude of weapons that exist it is probably key to our very existence. How can we get the bigger things right, if we cannot control the little things?
The Bride looked splendid in blue. The traditional Wedding that took place tonight is known as the Engagement. The Christian Wedding tomorrow is known as the Blessing. There can be no Blessing without an Engagement. It just can't happen. So tonight was a momentus occasion for the Bride and Groom. As we approached Patricia's mother's home, I noticed Patricia and her helpers in traditional wear. They were in a corridor gathering around a doorway and preparing the Bride. We swept past the door opening and into the main room. There were three sets of chairs. Two sets facing one another and one set facing them. My friends Tamara and Jeff sat in the guest section, I moved forward. Several people stopped me and beckoned me to sit immdeiately behind Michael in the section set aside for his family. A great honour, I embraced Michael and smiled at others within the room. This is a complicated affair, the arrangements have been taking place for at least a year. Michael is Ashanti, Patricia is not. 'Dim ots', Patricia is a biochemist, a well educated woman whose mother is also a professional in health care. These are quality people, this is a quality family. Ashanti they may not be, but Patricia is more than a worthy wife for Michael. Elegant, strong, educated, and with good values. Michael knows her worth.
Prior to the Engagement both families met to discuss and agree the price. There is nothing alien in this practice, for after all what marriages exists without any financial consideration? It may be who pays for the cake, the cars, the flowers or the dress. But nevertheless a price is agreed, it's just that we agree in a different way. Te price was fair, but many months ago I asked Michael what he would do if the price was too high? I know the price and it is a lot, but it would be wrong for me to declare here. Michael explained to me that "this is the woman that I love, and I am going to marry her". It is a pity that his father did not think the same way. More so in that I had brought along a small gift for the parents at the Engagement and two other gifts from Pauline, the girls and I for tomorrow.
Pauline and the gang would have loved to have been here for the Wedding. The Groom remianed seated, he was faced by an array of adults, all bar one in traditional wear. I smiled at some, I vaguely recognised them. A recent test showed that I am poor at remembering faces and names. But watch out if I have to remember a complex string of moves in a chess game, or recall exactly what you said on a given date and what you were doing when you said it. But that wouldn't happen tonight as everything was in Twi or Ga, or both. Or maybe one of the many other languages that are common in Ghana. I simply do not know. We were faced by a warrior tribe, but we had some handy people in our team. I was there watching Michael's back, but the fine thing was that it didn't need watching. The agreement is between the families and not between the parents. Aparently if things go wrong the families will put it right. This was not an arranged marriage, this was a coupling of love. Eleanor was on our side as well, tonight she looked more like 39 than 48. Not bad given that she is 60+ The lads looked good, traditional costume, smartly turned out. We were a good team, but Mr 'A' wasn't there. It's a tribal thing, but the agreement is between the families, and many who approve and love the bride and groom were there. No insignifcant thing, given the lateness of the hour. Made worse by our late arrival and their willingness to wait. Almost two hours to squeeze our way out of Accra. There are a lot of people in Africa.
The Bride entered the room accompanied by her entourage. Everyone sang, well almost everyone. I couldn;t so I clapped. Not like we do, but in timing with the music, while taking my lead from a gentleman sat in the corner of the room. He raised his hands so that I could see and keep time. Not a straight clap, but more like a drum beat. The bride sat down and the talking started. One person officiated, showed some items to others. Then people on both sides talked. I thing we were challenged to sing, their team had sung a lot. We sung, I hummed. Oh, and I clapped. Gifts were also exchanged and at one point I thought there was another negotiation. I was probably wrong, it had after all - been sorted far in advance. I knew it was a done deal when Patricia was beckoned to sit by Michael. I hugged them, and took yet another photo. It is a hot night, but the food was hotter. No finger food here, well that's not true. What I mean is, no buffet. This was a full blown meal of epic proportions. Goat soup to start, followed by rice, yam, hot stew and plantain. The soup was hot, or so I thought until I tried the hot stew. The fanta was cool, the music was cool, but the night remained hot. Patricia's uncle and Michael's uncle represented each family, they also remained seated. To me they were the family elders. The music continued, the gifts continued, I like everyone else received a gift for being there. This was my opportunity, I took a chance with the mosquito's and made my way to the car. A long path with no lighting, lots of mud and water. A few mosquito's and a lot of noise. I returned with a bottle of wine for each of the family elders and of course a cigar. Well it's tradition isn't it? It's what our tribe do.
The Bride looked splendid in blue. The traditional Wedding that took place tonight is known as the Engagement. The Christian Wedding tomorrow is known as the Blessing. There can be no Blessing without an Engagement. It just can't happen. So tonight was a momentus occasion for the Bride and Groom. As we approached Patricia's mother's home, I noticed Patricia and her helpers in traditional wear. They were in a corridor gathering around a doorway and preparing the Bride. We swept past the door opening and into the main room. There were three sets of chairs. Two sets facing one another and one set facing them. My friends Tamara and Jeff sat in the guest section, I moved forward. Several people stopped me and beckoned me to sit immdeiately behind Michael in the section set aside for his family. A great honour, I embraced Michael and smiled at others within the room. This is a complicated affair, the arrangements have been taking place for at least a year. Michael is Ashanti, Patricia is not. 'Dim ots', Patricia is a biochemist, a well educated woman whose mother is also a professional in health care. These are quality people, this is a quality family. Ashanti they may not be, but Patricia is more than a worthy wife for Michael. Elegant, strong, educated, and with good values. Michael knows her worth.
Prior to the Engagement both families met to discuss and agree the price. There is nothing alien in this practice, for after all what marriages exists without any financial consideration? It may be who pays for the cake, the cars, the flowers or the dress. But nevertheless a price is agreed, it's just that we agree in a different way. Te price was fair, but many months ago I asked Michael what he would do if the price was too high? I know the price and it is a lot, but it would be wrong for me to declare here. Michael explained to me that "this is the woman that I love, and I am going to marry her". It is a pity that his father did not think the same way. More so in that I had brought along a small gift for the parents at the Engagement and two other gifts from Pauline, the girls and I for tomorrow.
Pauline and the gang would have loved to have been here for the Wedding. The Groom remianed seated, he was faced by an array of adults, all bar one in traditional wear. I smiled at some, I vaguely recognised them. A recent test showed that I am poor at remembering faces and names. But watch out if I have to remember a complex string of moves in a chess game, or recall exactly what you said on a given date and what you were doing when you said it. But that wouldn't happen tonight as everything was in Twi or Ga, or both. Or maybe one of the many other languages that are common in Ghana. I simply do not know. We were faced by a warrior tribe, but we had some handy people in our team. I was there watching Michael's back, but the fine thing was that it didn't need watching. The agreement is between the families and not between the parents. Aparently if things go wrong the families will put it right. This was not an arranged marriage, this was a coupling of love. Eleanor was on our side as well, tonight she looked more like 39 than 48. Not bad given that she is 60+ The lads looked good, traditional costume, smartly turned out. We were a good team, but Mr 'A' wasn't there. It's a tribal thing, but the agreement is between the families, and many who approve and love the bride and groom were there. No insignifcant thing, given the lateness of the hour. Made worse by our late arrival and their willingness to wait. Almost two hours to squeeze our way out of Accra. There are a lot of people in Africa.
The Bride entered the room accompanied by her entourage. Everyone sang, well almost everyone. I couldn;t so I clapped. Not like we do, but in timing with the music, while taking my lead from a gentleman sat in the corner of the room. He raised his hands so that I could see and keep time. Not a straight clap, but more like a drum beat. The bride sat down and the talking started. One person officiated, showed some items to others. Then people on both sides talked. I thing we were challenged to sing, their team had sung a lot. We sung, I hummed. Oh, and I clapped. Gifts were also exchanged and at one point I thought there was another negotiation. I was probably wrong, it had after all - been sorted far in advance. I knew it was a done deal when Patricia was beckoned to sit by Michael. I hugged them, and took yet another photo. It is a hot night, but the food was hotter. No finger food here, well that's not true. What I mean is, no buffet. This was a full blown meal of epic proportions. Goat soup to start, followed by rice, yam, hot stew and plantain. The soup was hot, or so I thought until I tried the hot stew. The fanta was cool, the music was cool, but the night remained hot. Patricia's uncle and Michael's uncle represented each family, they also remained seated. To me they were the family elders. The music continued, the gifts continued, I like everyone else received a gift for being there. This was my opportunity, I took a chance with the mosquito's and made my way to the car. A long path with no lighting, lots of mud and water. A few mosquito's and a lot of noise. I returned with a bottle of wine for each of the family elders and of course a cigar. Well it's tradition isn't it? It's what our tribe do.
29 August 2008
Air Con
I am sat in the Air Conditioned Computer Suite at Jeff's school. It beats the heat. The school is very nice indeed. A modern swimming pool, lovely walkways and playing areas, and good quality equipment. But this is an International School and your average school in Ghana does not meet this standard. Remember Mrs 'G' and her profound comment regarding the Slate. As a fatalist I know that everything happens for a reason. Jeff introduces me to one of his British Colleagues, he mistakes me as coming from the North of England, I explain that I am Welsh. Jeff has a small chess set on the side at home and I had already decided a gift that I am posting to Africa. Perception is reality, but never make an assumption, as you will often get it wrong. I thought Jeff dabbled, and I shirked his offer of a game as I didn't want to embarrass my host in anyway. It turns out Jeff has an ELO rating. A pretty good one at that, well at least his colleague does. But then again those that play chess understand the variations in the grading systems and that some countries have weaker ELO ratings but stronger players. The quality of the pool of players is what matters and regular weekend tournaments tend to hone your skill. An English 1900 player is a very strong player especially if he is in practice. A decade ago, chess was big in my life. Now my family are, and to a lesser extent and in a different way so are my friends. At one time I organised the largest Chess Club in Wales and donated equipment and my time to schools throughout Ceredigion. I was also a qualified International Chess Arbiter, and this is probably why I turned towards being a football referee in the late 90's. But like chess that is also back in a former life. Jeff's colleague wants to meet, and I was polite. But this is Africa, time is short and I would rather sit with Jeff and Tamara, Michael and Patricia, Mrs 'G' and Cudjo, Alice et al., and let them all win than play a competitive game with a stranger. Now that's a change, because in the past I would have let no one win. Ask my girls, and Jodi played for Wales. It certainly is a small World.
Flying again
I slipped again today. This time on the way to the shops. Luckily it was near a gate and the pillar stopped me hitting the floor. Unfortunately, the pillar did not stop my left footing landing in the frog ditch. I could have blamed the frog that distracted me as I ambled along the path. A crazy creature that lept infront of me, jumped to my right and then headed towards me while I was taking a step. I shuffled, he made it through the gap and into the water. There's no Highway Code in Ghana. "Fancy driving on the right" I thought. I could have blamed it on my sandals after yesterdays fall. But that would have been unfair as I was wearing a new pair that I had haggled for at the Market. Nope, it was plain stupidity. Wet wood, smooth soles = no grip. Luckily only my pride was hurt, anyway I had my sunglasses to hide behind and I just knew that no one could see my sodden left leg. "Hey ho" as Pauline says.
Who turned on the tap?
The rain has stopped, but I am now leaking. I bathed only an hour or so back, and I cannot find out who has turned on the tap on top of my head. Writing about heads is important, as many turned my way as I walked to the shops to buy my hosts and others a drink. "Who is that crazy American" they must have been thinking as I ambled past with an umbrella. A few Africans also had an umbrella, but I was the only one wearing sunglasses. I got rid of the sunglasses, the rain stopped and I put away the umbrella. It didn't help much, the child in the Newspaper Stand screamed as I walked past. No, he wasn't hungry, it was probably the first European that he had ever seen. Now I know how Captain James Cook felt. Wrong area for sure, but the principle is the same. Elias (The Civilizing Process, the Germans) and Niall Ferguson (War of the World [20Th Century history]) tell us about the insignificant differences between mankind. We are all one species but too often than not we regress into tribal behaviour and deem one group civilised and others not. Simultaneously the second group deem themselves to be civilised and cannot comprehend the barbaric behaviour used against them. In many ways, that's real irony. Sometimes two armies coming together and both shouting to God but in different languages, supported by different cultures and with different values and behaviours. The reality is; neither group is wrong, neither group is un-civilised, we are all simply different. Mankind is one species, all of the current inhabitants descend from Africa. Climate, the need for hunter/gatherers, facial and body preferences, and many other factors may have shaped us, but we are all the same. The child carried on screaming, his sister waved and his mother laughed. There was no language barrier; as the smiles, the waves and the signs said it all. I wish they had spoken English, as I would have asked them how to turn off this tap.
The net
Yes there is electricity in Africa and many people are connected to the information super highway. My host know's what he is doing with Information Technology, and he is a dab hand at proxy's, serial ports and wiring. Accra, like many major cities, has several Call Centres and Telecommunications Buildings. Unfortunately for those of you who are techies, this part of my Blog is not about the World Wide Web. It is instead an appraisal of that yellow bit of net hanging in one of the three rooms that adjoin one another with a single entrance door and collectively make up the bathroom. Well I say 'bathroom', but of course there is no bath as water is scarce in Africa. Athough you wouldn't think so during the current rainy season. Those that have been following the Blog will know about my speculative comparison between the flannel that I use at home (and so far on this visit) and the pieces of net used for washing in Africa. Well I think that I had it weighed up just about right. Except for one small point; the net is far more effective at creating soap suds than I could have ever imagined. The Mains water is still turned off and the 25 gallon drums inside the house are starting to run dry. Not a problem for drinking as we use bottled water or the water dispenser that my host runs in his kitchen that is just like those which we find in many office blocks in the UK. We also use lager :-)
But water shortage means careful bathing, cutting down on the laundry and careful but effective dish washing. Water that is used (if it has waste in it then it is tipped away) can go into the flush and not down the sink. With the heavy rain, there is so much water, but yet so little. Those with a house and sloped roof can collect the water relatively easy. Not so easy if you live in a small shack and can hardly afford to eat let alone buy numerous buckets etc., But the net was good and my water use has been decreased yet again - but my hygeine is as high as ever. I must remember to disconnect the shower when I get back home. But before I leave, I need to pop to the local shop (if it's open in this weather) "Four nets please, and a very large bar of Ghanaian soap".
Hi Bloggers
Don't forget if you are new to this Blog - you should scroll to the bottom and read that message first. Please note that this Blog is aimed at my African friends as well as my British friends and family. It's not just a message home to my wife Pauline and my daughters, it is a collection of thoughts and reflections that are written while the memory is fresh. I have tried to draw comparisons between the UK and this part of Africa and everything has been written in good faith. If you are one of the family and friends and want an amendment, then please contact me on Facebook and I will make the correction when I am next on line. Photographs of my visit will be uploaded soon, but this might be after I return to the UK. I also hope to write some Blog when I arrive back at home in Wales.
Father Time and Bob the Builder
So much to do and so little time to do it in. I am off to Abelemkpe this afternoon to visit the school where Jeff' is a teacher. It is next to the Kasapa telecommunications building. I never tell the taxi driver where I want to go, I always show him the words. Language is a barrier and it's worth writing down where you want to go. Those who know me, know that I plan and always try and develop a strategy. My African strategy is to get home safe each day. To do so, I have taken photographs of the neighbourhood, the street where the house is, the house, and a close up of it's complex address details. If I wanted to mail someone, you do not address the letter to the house like we do in the UK. There are too many houses, and some do not have addresses. It is always to a PO Box number. So if you are doing business with someone in Africa do not be surprised when they offer you a PO number and not a house address. I know the house number and the street but there are many numerals and a lot of detail on a wall plate near the gate. Similar details exist, often scrawled in paint on the walls of many other houses.
That is, those houses that have walls. It is so difficult in a blog to explain the variety of architecture and settlements that exist in this small part of Africa. Some wood, some concrete block, many with corrugated roofing and most sturdy structures constructed in block work. Lintels are supported during construction with bamboo. It is an astonishing site to see some of the five storey buildings construction in this way. The finished article looks good, but the building site activities do not look safe. three storey scaffolding towers, I recently went up a single storey one and it wobbled, and that was with a ladder tied to support it. These are crazy height towers for not so crazy workers. Poverty is forever present and those that work do what they are told or do not receive pay. There are no safety harnesses and no bump hats. Most of what we take for granted in the UK is no existent. But a lot of what we don't have is here in abundance; humility, kindness and social responsibility for your fellow man. This is a great country and these are great people.
That is, those houses that have walls. It is so difficult in a blog to explain the variety of architecture and settlements that exist in this small part of Africa. Some wood, some concrete block, many with corrugated roofing and most sturdy structures constructed in block work. Lintels are supported during construction with bamboo. It is an astonishing site to see some of the five storey buildings construction in this way. The finished article looks good, but the building site activities do not look safe. three storey scaffolding towers, I recently went up a single storey one and it wobbled, and that was with a ladder tied to support it. These are crazy height towers for not so crazy workers. Poverty is forever present and those that work do what they are told or do not receive pay. There are no safety harnesses and no bump hats. Most of what we take for granted in the UK is no existent. But a lot of what we don't have is here in abundance; humility, kindness and social responsibility for your fellow man. This is a great country and these are great people.
Rain, rain, don't go away
There are three good things about the rain: the heat stops, the heat stops, and the heat stops. Well by heat, I mean a combination of the sun's glare and the crushing humidity. I was walking along the other day and I heard someone say "oh, he carries his water with him". Boy oh boy, do I carry my water. Not on my head like the weightlifters of the Northern Region (I wouldn't want to mess with them in a fullscale battle - fast, strong and quick thinking. Probably the worst possible adversary). Music is big in Cudjo's life, military history is big in mine. Rain means no heat, water collection in buckets and bowls (well in anything that is to hand), a dampening of the dust, and the lovey sound of what must be Crickets (but I am not sure). The rain just stopped, and so did the music. The heat has began, and the day is already moving at a pace. In a few minutes I shall be having my bucket shower and stepping out with a stride. This week has been full of turmoil, the Groom fell ill, the Wedding was likely to be postponed until the week after I return to the UK and everyone has been feeling the pressure. I have been feeling the heat and humidity - bring on the rain.
Michael just rang and explained that the traditional wedding is going ahead this evening and the church wedding as scheduled tomorrow. Apparently I place my gifts on the 'Gift Table' and the ladies teach me how to dance. Not at the church (although there is a Gift table there as well)but at the Reception. It's is being held in a large hall with the brickwork deliberately gapped to allow the cool (sic) air through. Let's hope Cudjo is invited and he treats the guests to an African melody.
Michael just rang and explained that the traditional wedding is going ahead this evening and the church wedding as scheduled tomorrow. Apparently I place my gifts on the 'Gift Table' and the ladies teach me how to dance. Not at the church (although there is a Gift table there as well)but at the Reception. It's is being held in a large hall with the brickwork deliberately gapped to allow the cool (sic) air through. Let's hope Cudjo is invited and he treats the guests to an African melody.
Traditional Ghanaian Music
We stopped at the red light, the street sellers swarmed around our car. The music blaring nearby - the beat was on. It sounded good and there was serious activity in the urban jungle. The seller had parked his van, complete with nightclub sound system, at one of the busiest junctions in Accra Central. The tailback that we had endured was due to his marketing activities. My eldest daughter took a Masters in Audience Theory and Reception Theory and is now a Marketing Officer at the Welsh National Opera. I bet they never taught Jodi the 'two into one roadblock ploy'! Two busy lanes into one and gridlock as a result of the mayhem. But hey ho, it was good for business and the young girls and boys were plying their music trade well. For these children I did not despair, it is still school holidays for many in Ghana for another two weeks. Carrying CD's and tapes of the artist playing in our street disco, they approached our car. There was no hesitation, Mrs 'G' bought a gift for her daughter and I thought "good choice". The strange thing was, I didn't think of buying one myself. Maybe I shall explain to my hosts and new friends about the Cardi Tradition. I am an extremely bad singer and my music choice ranges from Jazz, through certain Opera and some easy listening (Eagles and Dixie Chicks), and onto Pink Floyd. My daughters love music and entered the Eisteddfodau to sing traditional Welsh songs. Each of them sang/or still sing in a choir and listen to their music with passion. Cudjo loves his music, and sings a combination of (if there is such a thing) African Jazz and traditional Ghanaian songs. "We enter this World to prepare ourselves for the next, and music is my way of preparing for when I die." He is 25, Cudjo is not ill. It is simply his belief and the strong religious conviction that he holds as a practising Catholic. Cudjo uses one of two recording studies (but these are very expensive and I get the impression it is about recording live music rather than mixing to improve for resale. So a user is paying for the studio time and not the expertise of the sound technician) and he plays keyboard and I suspect is the lead vocalist. When he sings, the movement is trance like as he projects an image of someone who is in tuned in completely with the lyrics and meaning of the song. The meaning is probably more important than anything when the traditional songs echo out in the night. They are historical stories, a way of learning and passing their value set down from generation to generation. There's no drum, no keyboard, no tapping. Just words that everyone (other than the White European guest) knows. But Cudjo translates at pace and with passion. For this is his heritage and probably his future.
Hey folks, who stole the roads?
Last night's taxi drive was a true adventure. Never mind the 4x4 that got stuck next to Mrs 'G's, this was Africa and we were in a beat up Ford Escort. A bog standard vehicle, with no raised suspension but as I found out it did have a flexible floor. I say we, as my African Minder Cudjo accompanied me on my long trek home to ensure my safety. Not so much that I was unsafe, but 'perception is reality' and I perceived insecurity due to the language barrier, and the length of the journey in the dark. There are few street lights in Africa and hardly any along the roads that we travelled. These were not single vehicle tracks, they are major arterial roads between large communities. In Ghana, unlike Britain, they drive on the same side as Continental Europe. But last night there was no left or right, just weaving in any direction to overcome the potholes and trenches that had been created by the rain. Not British potholes, but African - the best! Cars stopped as our driver carefully picked his way through the road jungle. We crunched, bashed and scraped our way along. At one point I felt the floor in the back of the car lift and descend as we crossed one of the potholes and emerged at the other side. That Landrover Discovery would have come in handy again. Who needs to go on Safari, when so much activity exists on your doorstep? From the vultures of Ghana University (see earlier post), to my pet Lizard (Mr Jacko), and the potholes of the Adente to Haatso connection; it all exists in Ghana.
All things African
Another cup of hot sweet tea with Mrs 'G' and her extended family. It is quite apparent that Vivian is the bedrock of her community and so many depend on her and the shop and small bar that she runs towards the end of what I can only describe as a Shanty Town. Ghana is a Third World country, and to suggest otherwise would be self-deception. Those who can afford little, can always afford something at her small part of the World. An extended family that is not necessarily related kin, these are not just her blood relatives, but are friends from the community. No wonder so many call her "mother". Vivian' hospitality, like many others that I have met during my African journey will lead me to extend my value set even further. I thought that I was generous and extremely caring, but to be in the company of such people as the Ghanaian's that I have spent time with is a truly humbling experience. Lunch consisting of fu-fu, light soup and Chicken [around 4.30pm] was prepared by two women and a young man. The man lit the charcoal fire, and provided the heavy work for the fu-fu, while one woman cooked the chicken and the soup and the other woman took charge of the fu-fu. This is made from Yam, that is turned and watered with one hand like making dough. This might sound easy but while the single hand [clean right hand] is doing the dough like action, the yam is being mashed by a strong lad holding a six foot pole that is smashing itself down into the bowl where the moving hand is operating. Each crashing thump, landing exactly where the hand was only a second before. I had a go, the hand moved quickly. I don't blame her, it was a heavy pole, I didn't know what I was doing, some of my strokes landed no where near the yam, and everyone was laughing. Strangely, she wasn't.
The heavens opened up and more water fell on Ghana than I had seen in a lifetime. It probably came as no surprise to the others, that I fell. Slipping on the path as I made my way to the Bar. I bet the yam bowl lady was glad that I slipped after using the six foot stick and not while I was bashing away. Mind you, the nurse sprang into action and my African Minder applied the alcohol. Unfortunately not in a glass, this shot was straight onto my grazed knee. While we waited for lunch, I listened to Ghanaian traditional drum music with Cudjo the musician singing traditional songs. When he was not singing, he translated the Ghan into English so that I understood the music.
Lunch was fantastic. The light soup tasted like hot pepper soup but there is no pepper involved. Ginger, Garlic and Onions were present and a few things that I did not recognise. The meal was served at the table and as a European in line with Norbert Elias and his work on Manners; I was offered a spoon. I was also offered a small bowl in which to wash my hands prior to eating, in case I elected to eat with my right hand - not not the soup silly, the chicken on the bone! The yam sits in the plate like a stronger version of our mashed potato, but mashed potato it ain't. A new host, and yet again the host appears surprised that I am willing to try a traditional dish and that I finish the meal. Mind you, spooned bony chicken is a difficult task. But to my credit I managed it and after the initial shock of the heat of the soup [and I don't mean the temperature], I even managed all of the soup as well. The rest of the afternoon and into the evening was taken up by listening to my host and three others singing traditional African songs as we watched the waters run by the house. Slow songs, but fast water. The road had become two rivers and someone in a 4x4 got stuck outside of the house. I laughed, "should have bought a Landrover Discovery", I thought to myself. Mind you, his car was pretty good for Africa.
Vivian Gyapang, I salute you.
The heavens opened up and more water fell on Ghana than I had seen in a lifetime. It probably came as no surprise to the others, that I fell. Slipping on the path as I made my way to the Bar. I bet the yam bowl lady was glad that I slipped after using the six foot stick and not while I was bashing away. Mind you, the nurse sprang into action and my African Minder applied the alcohol. Unfortunately not in a glass, this shot was straight onto my grazed knee. While we waited for lunch, I listened to Ghanaian traditional drum music with Cudjo the musician singing traditional songs. When he was not singing, he translated the Ghan into English so that I understood the music.
Lunch was fantastic. The light soup tasted like hot pepper soup but there is no pepper involved. Ginger, Garlic and Onions were present and a few things that I did not recognise. The meal was served at the table and as a European in line with Norbert Elias and his work on Manners; I was offered a spoon. I was also offered a small bowl in which to wash my hands prior to eating, in case I elected to eat with my right hand - not not the soup silly, the chicken on the bone! The yam sits in the plate like a stronger version of our mashed potato, but mashed potato it ain't. A new host, and yet again the host appears surprised that I am willing to try a traditional dish and that I finish the meal. Mind you, spooned bony chicken is a difficult task. But to my credit I managed it and after the initial shock of the heat of the soup [and I don't mean the temperature], I even managed all of the soup as well. The rest of the afternoon and into the evening was taken up by listening to my host and three others singing traditional African songs as we watched the waters run by the house. Slow songs, but fast water. The road had become two rivers and someone in a 4x4 got stuck outside of the house. I laughed, "should have bought a Landrover Discovery", I thought to myself. Mind you, his car was pretty good for Africa.
Vivian Gyapang, I salute you.
Batman and no Robbing
Yet another day passed off without an incident. Accra is safe providing you take care. If alone, then walk with purpose. Irrespective of being alone or with others, don't open your wallet in public places. I keep my money in my wallet, some more in my shirt pocket and some tucked away in my sunglasses pouch. If I am paying for goods, I use the notes or change in my pockets or the pouch and avoid showing my wallet, unless I am in a safe place. The drive to the mountains involved a journey along the main autoroute out of the city. As the car began to slow for a red light, Mrs 'G' mentioned the bats. All around us were thousands of birds, except when I looked closely, these were bats, each the size of a pigeon. Although they pose a health hazard, apparently the officials will not kill them as there is an inherent love of animals throughout the country. But come on guys, these were pigeon size bats flying around in broad daylight! I don't mind a few in a cave or in the loft, but monsters next to the main hospital? Talking about disease, Mrs Gyapang reminded me that "a mosquito does not distinguish between the Black Man and the White, it will bite anyone" and for that reason we detoured to my temporary residence to collect my Malaria tablet. You may recall, that I couldn't eat at dawn and the tablet has to be taken with or after food. One tablet a day for two days before the trip, one a day while in Africa and one a day for seven days thereafter. When we collected the tablet, I also picked up my insect repellent lotion. I had sprayed my arms and legs in the morning but something had a good nibble of my cheek. My fault, you live and learn. Spray is good for the arms and legs, but use lotion for the back of the neck and the face. It was also good later on into the evening, as the Mosquito's stayed away while biting others. But I have to ask; who is going to invent anti-bat spray for the pigeon bats of Ghana?
A Busman's Holiday
Well it had to happen, didn't it? There was no way that I could travel to Africa and not pop into the Central Fire Station. The pump was positioned outside of the main doors resting on the forecourt just like in the UK. The officers wore the traditional Fire Service rank markings and are referred to as Divisional Officer Grade III, Divisional Officer Grade II and Senior Divisional Officer. They also wear red lanyards or a black shoulder cover on one side. Unlike the choir who wear yellow polo shirts. Yes, you heard it here. The Ghanaian Fire Service have a uniformed choir, all of whom were sat in the appliance room awaiting their next activity. We were treated well by our hosts and I chatted at length with their Control Room ladies, well you have to, don't you? It would have been unpolite not to have given them some attention. My African minder had become a dab hand with my Sony phone camera and was snapping everyone like David Bailey. I am going to enjoy getting these shots developed back in the UK. I carry two cameras, both of which are connected to my belt to avoid losing them in the crowd. You cannot afford to travel from one Continent to another and risk losing your only set of pics. The Control staff challenge suspected false alarm malicious calls. Whereas the firemen, shirk off the heat and use the larger 75mm diameter hose to fight their fires. Language was not a barrier as all of the officers spoke excellent English. So much so that Cudjo, Mrs 'G' and I joined them in the Officer's Mess. Well it was 0930 and the sun was blazing again. One cool drink later we bid our farewells, thanked them for their hospitality and set off again through the Human Traffic.
28 August 2008
Human Traffic and the 60KG + ladies
The journey into the market was well timed, as although we beat many with our Dawn adventure, the roads were still busy. Vivian, or Mrs 'G' to you, drove well especially seeing that there were two African neighbours in the back of her car from the Mountain region. Both in traditional dress and one with a very large basket. Made worse by the absence of handles. We dodged the various examples of the African Bus, the street sellers who stand in the middle of three lane roads and even overtook one car. Mrs 'G' has a lovely car, I believe it was a gift from her Doctor son. We dropped off the basket lady and parked the car in the main car park. I quickly realised that Cudjo [Pronounce Koojoe] in his African splendor was there to protect me. I was unable to turn or cross the road without his guiding arm on my back. For once, no one came near the European. Mrs 'G' may be retired, but she sets a mean pace. Tamara like Patricia is also from good stock! I now realised why we left as dawn broke. This was no ordinary shopping trip, I thought we were there to find the best fresh produce at the best prices. No we were there to beat the Human Traffic. In and out of many alleyways we walked, nearly everyone chatting to Vivian as we passed and many as a result wanting to chat to me. A regular and popular customer of great standing in front of the shop keepers. Wherever we went, people stood up and beckoned Vivian to sit. I now realised who the slight girl carrying a large and empty metal basin was. This girl had approached as and chatted as we entered the market. This was an epic adventure and no weekly shop. Item after item was bought and the slight girl was to carry the lot. There we were, three adults, two of whom were strong male adults and this slight girl from the Northern Region was about to do all of the work. Head balancing carrying is a fine art of poise, strength and balance. Three ladies walked past, each carrying 6 plastic tubs with each tub weighing 10KG. To your average Aberystwythian this would have been considered as a feat of huge proportion. But hey ho, this was the week after the Olympics and my money was on the slight girl to walk away with the Gold Medal. And boy was I right. One bag, which I hasten to add was one of three, was too heavy for me to lift and took two people to put it into the basin and to lift it up to head height. I could hear the Ghanaian National Anthem and the people of the Northern Region cheering their success. The different tribes are identifiable by facial and body characteristics. I can identify someone from the Northern Region now, mainly because so many of them work hard in the market carrying produce and goods for the customers. I am also beginning to recognise Ashanti and other groups. The thing that strikes me as a European is the facial markings that must have been inflicted using a scalpel or similar tool. Europeans may cringe at this practice, but the reader must recognise that we are considering tradition that in the main stemmed from real need. In a time of crisis such as combat or flight, it is essential that you instantly recognise your kin, or you will kill or flee from the wrong person. We wondered through the market and I enjoyed hot sweet tea and an egg sandwich. Well to be quite honest, we all did. Mrs 'G' bought me a cup for the occasion, no not a cup of tea, but the actual cup to put my tea in to ensure that it was clean - and instructed the teamaker to boil the water. Basic stuff really when you are a nurse. Mrs 'G' worked in hospitals in the UK, Germany and Ghana. She is a proud and strong mother who cares for everyone in her community and is proud of her children. Her daughter is fluent in Ga (spoken in and around Accra), English, German, Ewe and Twi (spoken by about 15m people in Ghana). And I mean fluent, she reads German magazines and changes from language to language without hesitation. Now you only get that good with an education, and this is Africa and education costs money. Education unfortunately is not open to all, and the social commentary in the newspapers that I have read consider that slavery is still in Africa. Slavery of children who clean, or work for their family instead of going to school and receiving and education. While we were in the market I found some pieces of slate that had addition, multiplication and tables imprinted on them. "Fine things" said Mrs 'G', "from those you can make a doctor, a teacher and a judge". Jeff is a teacher, so all is well there then. Education is so important, and I am so impressed by how my host sets off to teach sometime around 0630 and returns at 2000 to settle down and to prepare his lesson plans before retiring after 2300 to get up again. With these work ethics and desire to do good for his community, weekends must be so precious. Work ethics is something the girls from the Northern Region do not lack. Very hard working, extremely polite and instantly to the aid of their sponsor at that moment in time. There is no slacking on their shift and quite rightly so our slight girl was well looked after. As we broke for breakfast I bought her water, and when we finished the epic shopping expedition, Vivian handed her more than most adult workers would receive for a day's wage, and I tipped her at 50% of her final payment. Those stood around were genuinely surprised and pleased for her. But boy, oh boy could she lift some serious weight. 60KG, ladies? Nah do yourself a favour and find someone from the North, they can carry more.
An African Dawn
I awoke at 0420 and saw Mr Jacko just above my head. Scary or what? But as I came to, I realised it was the light switch, phew! My bucket of water, or should I say as a new conservationist my half bucket of water, stretched to three tasks this morning. I shaved, showered and flushed the toilet with what was left. We are talking two full kettles of water here ladies and gents and not the Rheidol Dam. Shower, you may be thinking. How is that possible? Well you use one good flannel and squeeze water prior to applying the shampoo, and then the same flannel dipped in the bucket with the soap. Lot's of splashing and very little waste. I now understand why African's use a net as a shower flannel/sponge. It does not absorb sweat and does not need to be washed out frequently and is subsequently more hygenic than our European behaviour. A plus side is that the net will also remove dead skin and needs little water as there is no absorbtion. By 0515 I was outside and enjoying hearing the birds sing. Which was a welcome change to the Frogs! The frogs sang throughout the night, and at one stage I thought I was also croaking, but woke up just as my snoring finished. My breakfast this morning consisted of a large coffee [Nescafe in a tin], and apple juice with water. Well what did you really expect? Not even I can eat at this time of the night :-)
Back in Haatso
It is 9.15 pm and I have just got back into Jeff's home at Haatso, and I am enjoying a large coffee, banana cake and some orange biscuits. But not like anything you have eaten in the UK. It has been a great day, and I look forward to updating my Blog over the next hour or so. I had planned to have a very large beer, but unfortunately the shop was closed as we pulled up in the taxi.
Beep, beep, beep, beep
The last time I woke up at 5 am it was to get dressed and respond to an emergency call after my pager went off. Tomorrow's 0500 alarm [I have set two already] is to go shopping. Tamara’s Mum has offered to collect me at 5 a.m. and to take me shopping in Accra as she is driving in and likes to do her shopping early. My wife Pauline also likes to do her shopping early, but 5 a.m. – You can’t be serious. Mrs Gyapong is serious and I don’t mess with a serious lady. So my alarms are set and if I am lucky then I might get to see the beach or maybe one of the sites such as the National Theatre, New Parliament Building or my preferred option of a row of African huts being erected some two miles down the road. Anyway, it’s almost midnight here and I must get at least five hours sleep. But before I go, you may be asking yourself while all this blogging and not being out there living the experience further? Well, there are no street lights where I am staying [as in most of Africa], Mosquito’s come out after dark [not like WallJecko he is around all the time] and the heat is intense. So, settling down under a ceiling fan with one or two large beers, reliving the memories before they fade seemed like a good way to spend my vacation. Plus of course, those of you who haven’t been to Africa get to know a little bit more about this tiny part of a huge Continent. So, good night bloggers and remember “Ma we ni ngye” – Be Happy
Finger Food
What a meal, my hosts just cooked me a milled corn that is the size of a large bun and is called something that sounds not too dissimilar to ‘Kinky’. I think it is Kenke. Tamara is a great cook and the corn was accompanied by a fish and a separate [but on the same plate] hot tomato based sauce. I hesitated and looked around for the cutlery and the realisation dawned on me that this was to be eaten using my fingers. You must only use your right hand, and the idea is to break off a bit of the corn and spread it to scoop/soak the tomato sauce. A truly wonderful experience; in taste, and texture, use of my fingers. Sounds easy, but it’s quite difficult using just one hand when you are a finger virgin. Oh, and yes. It was washed down by another one of those exceedingly large beers!
Hi Roger, I seen you in Church on Sunday
Dozing in the mid day sun, Eleanor appeared. A pensioner of 60+ who looks like she is 48 – 49. A relative of Patricia’s, my friend Michael is marrying into good stock. Eleanor escorted me around Accra and we visited the resting place of the first President of Ghana following the declaration of Independence from British Colonial rule in 1957. Low and behold, the chicken man was there as well, he had moved pitches and spotted his old friend from Europe. “You buy, only 2 Cedis.” So this time the price started at a reasonable level, but my position was unchanged. A nice toy, but everything is nice and where do you stop? We also visited the old Parliament house. There is a new one in a different location and the Law Courts. It appears that justice is administered that is fitting to the circumstances of all concerned, and not necessarily a decision based on our principle of; “beyond all reasonable doubt” for criminal cases. One poor fellow was escorted from the courts by two wardens in military wear, one of whom had a hefty looking automatic rifle. The Warden beckoned the traffic on the main road to stop, nobody argued. Prisoner number 1 climbed into the packed coach with the wire mesh windows and off to a poorer life. I gathered a few more postcards and stamps for those who don’t know about my African Blog and sightseeing was followed by a meal in a restaurant that cost 5 Cedis [£2.50] per person including a bottle of water, and a very long trip back to Haatso by African Bus. This was a scorching hot day for this European although it was a relatively cool day for Ghanaians and other Africans [March is their hottest month]. It was a long slow packed bus journey along some dusty roads, but Ebenezer Plaza loomed in the distance and I shouted Papao, Papao,
Lost in a city of Millions
En-route to the book deposit I met the chicken man. He held a small wooden paddle with three wooden chickens pecking the fixed seed, with a piece of wood and cotton underneath the paddle operating the chickens. “Morning Papa, 5 Cedis to you,” “I’m sorry” I responded. I only have money for my lunch and a taxi back to Haatso. “No problem, you can have it for 3 Cedis.” It is good to negotiate, and you never pay the asking price in Ghana unless the price is written on the object or where the object is located. “No, I replied. It is worth more than that.” A look of surprise on the sellers face was worth a photograph, but this is Accra and as a White European it would be foolish to pull out my camera while unaccompanied. “No, I have many look.” At which point he showed me five or six more of these toys resting in his right pocket. “I’m sorry my friend, but I am not a rich European and I must keep what is left of my money to buy my lunch and pay to get home.” He would not be deterred. “Ok, for you 2 Cedis.” My answer remained the same, at which point he recalled some basic understanding of economics and offered me the toy for nothing on the understanding that I would return tomorrow and pay for it. In the space of five minutes he had negotiated his price down, from 5 Cedis to zero and 24 hours credit. And we think that there is a worldwide credit crunch. I smiled and explained my circumstances again and bid my farewell. The traffic moves fast and crossing the road takes a lot of time. I made it to where I wanted to be but I couldn’t quite find the Book Deposit. I asked a policeman which is always a good strategy to ensure your safety (but be careful asking a soldier with a machine gun, as they don’t seem to like to be talked too, especially if you ask to take their photograph!). The policeman directed me, walked with me for a while and then declared that he was wrong and directed me back to where I had been. Phew, it’s a good job one of us knew our way around Accra. The book deposit was a welcome sight, and a chair in the shade with the Fanta that I had carried all morning was a much needed break. The church guards and I chatted about Colonialism and slavery and a healthy hour was spent relaxing.
The Arts Centre
We arrived in Accra around 1045 and I walked to the African Centre of Culture. After a cool bottle of Fanta at 50 peswas (25p) sat in the shade of a cafe, I roamed the craft shops. I bought some small presents for my daughters and my grandson. I picked up a present for my wife later in the day while walking through the streets of Accra. I also managed to pick up a new strap for my mobile phone, not the great piece of African art that I wanted, but nevertheless a functional strap that allowed me to secure my phone to my belt and then place the phone in my pocket. I did not want to concern my family, but I had an eventful first day in Ghana, whereby I was intimidated at the airport by three guys who were pretending to be security personnel in order to extort money from me [never, ever step out of the airport until your lift is organised and your friend or escort is waiting for you (my friend failed to arrive and left me at the mercy of those who wanted my money. I probably felt more intimidated than necessary, but nevertheless it was a painful experience)]. The same night I had my new mobile phone and camera combination stolen by a man with no legs who reached into our car while moving himself along on a skateboard. He was astonishingly strong and fast with a powerful torso and swift movement on the skateboard. In the split second that he broke the wrist strap and seized the phone, I gave him a true look of disappointment and unbelievably he repented and threw the broken phone (it had separated into three parts) back into the car. So a new strong strap for my main camera and phone contact was an essential part of the day. My Sony phone is working fine as we find the third part when we stopped and checked inside the car. The phone is minus its original strap. But fine nevertheless. Selecting the presents was also fun and after photographing a monkey on the main gate of the ‘Arts Centre’, who patiently waited for me to take the shot, I then made my way towards the Presbyterian Book Deposit next door to the Presbyterian Church.
Accra, Accra, Accra
A stunning hot morning and the factor 40 was on before I left Papao 11 Street in the Community of Haatso [pronounced ‘hachoo’ as in a sneeze (achoo)]. I patiently waited at the designated bus stop and I was the fourth one to arrive. You hear horns everywhere in Ghana, especially when a Taxi Driver sees a European. The horn is sounded to get your attention in the hope that you will take his taxi. I have written ‘his’, because there is a predominance of male drivers on the Ghanaian roads. They toot, even when you are stood at a designated bus stop. Fourth in line, but yet 15 fellow passengers beat me to the first few buses. You have to learn quickly in Ghana if you are to survive. Along came another African Bus, the money collector [there are no tickets] hanging out of the side window waving his right arm and shouting; ‘Accra’, ‘Accra’, ‘Accra’. The price was low at around 50p for many, many miles. But 21 of us were in the Minibus and every time someone decided to alight, then I had to get off as well and then climb back on.
27 August 2008
Peanut Butter Goat Soup
My host, or should I say his girlfriend is a wonderful cook and I enjoyed a traditional African dish this evening of peanut butter soup and rice. The rice being cooked to perfection and the peanut butter soup initially reminding me in a slight manner to the taste of a Chinese curry. But only initially as the soup was by far tastier and hotter than the takeaway curry back home. The dish is served with a spoon and not a knife and fork. No, there are no Peanut Butter jars involved. There is one type of jar that can be used in the UK but apparently the taste is not as good and you must never use a jar that contains sugar. This is a traditional recipe and while eating the meat I noticed that I had never seen bones like the ones that I removed from my dish. I asked about the meat and you can guess by the heading that some poor army somewhere is without its regimental mascot. But Peanut Butter Goat Soup and Rice all washed down with a very large bottle of beer is a meal fit for a king.
WallJecko
The trip to the University of Ghana in Accra was wonderful as my hero Norbert Elias was the Head of the Sociology Department at the University between 1961 and 1964 and I was able to visit the faculty and chat to one of the Professors. Lunch was a stunning array of rice, beans, pantain [spelling may be wrong], noodles and chicken washed down by Orange Fanta. Yoghi and Jess showed me around the campus and joined me for lunch in the Refectory. I encountered a multicoloured Lizard outside of the Sociology Department and five Vultures at the back of the campus. Seagulls are bad enough on the seafront of Aberystwyth back home in Wales. But can you imagine Vultures? It is almost like a trip to the zoo, in that I found my host has a pet Lizard. He lives in my bedroom and is two inches long. He is not really a pet, he/she is a wild one that lives mainly on the walls high up like a spider and is known as a WallJecko. I freaked - a spider will never faze me again after bumping into Mr Jacko this morning. I have been humming THRILLER all day, and intend to sleep while standing upright in the lounge tonight. No we didn't capture it, it's too fast and we were all too tired. The African wildlife story includes two chickens that flew into the garden this morning and were promptly chased by the guard dog. Boy he moves fast, and these chickens should have been used in the CHICKEN RUN movie as they made it over the high railings through sheer determination as the hound bore down on them. Woof, woof readers.Breakfast and then Uni
The raspberry jam and slices of Chelsea bread without butter went down a treat. The coffee and Frosties, but not in the same dish, were grreaaaAAT! as well. The problem occurred when I finished the meal. The mains water had been shut down and the dishes and other things had to be cleaned. I did the best that I could and left Jeff a note. But I had missed the many large drums strategically located throughout the inside of the house. Remove the lid and hey presto, water for washing and cleaning whenever the mains are switched off. So does dim 'shower' oer am fi yfory, [no cold shower tomorrow] as I am washing with a cold bucket of water and a flannel instead. Yep all over, and there's a lot to cover so it's a big bucket and a modest flannel and I bet it's colder than popping under the cold shower. As Mr Frostie reminds us, gr8. I could write a bit more but the frogs are singing loudly and I am worn out after all that sun, mind you I did sleep on the reclining chair between 9pm and 10pm while listening to African music. Jeff told them to turn it down, but they took the hump and turned it off instead. See, in many ways it's the same the World over and ASBO's could work in Africa as well.
26 August 2008
Ghana University
It is Tuesday the 26th and I ventured out alone this morning in the Hattoo community on Papao 11 Street where I am staying. It was 0800 and it was already as hot as the hottest midday sun back in the UK. I walked to Exchange Sterling but they were closed. So I walked up and down the main road for an hour looking at the roadside huts that are often metal shipping containers that are called shops. I took many photographs one of which was a guy, a bench, some wheels and some new tyres all under a tree. In the UK that would be KwikFit. This was a stunning message as to the differences in our communities, the African existence for many people is so basic. I managed to change twenty pounds for 41 Cedis and bought some Rasberry Jam, a Chelsea Bun that is the size of a Loaf and is called, wait for it... CHELSEA Bread. It is also labelled as the one you need. As promised I returned my two Fanta bottles to a grateful shop owner and bought a tin of Fanta and a tin of Nescafe Coffee. Like ours, but in a tin with a sealable lid instead of a jar. The Jam was expensive at 4 Cedis 40 which is about 2.25 THEY EARN A LOT LESS THAN US so this was a killer price. Frosties were 7 Cedis 50 but the bread was i Cedis, i.e. 50p"Bottled water is great but Fanta is huge"
In case the World News is misleading, the serious flooding is in the north of the country and nowhere near me. Mind you, this is the rainy season [hence the flooding] and the skies opened lunch time with what was like a monsoon. Even inside the house the sites today were amazing with women mainly and some men walking past with huge bags, basins, boxes on their head and not holding on. Every corner and street has traders and everyone is out to make money as there is no social care system. Education is a problem as children are a commodity that can clean, cook and earn money for the family instead of going to school. It's cool by the way, I'm sat here with my water and under a ceiling fan. Bottled water is great but Fanta is huge. I didn't have any today! Coke is also cool and Juice of any kind is massive. The main Fanta story is that the shop wanted me to drink it there and then as they don't let the bottles leave the premises as they are valuable. The bottle is worth more than the Fanta and they are charged less if they return bottles. We talked them into allowing me to take the bottles unopened and during tomorrow's adventure I intend returning the two bottles...
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