Christmas in Ghana

Christmas in Ghana is a fascinating beast. I can tell that today, the day after Ghana's official celebration of Eid, Christmas began. It isn't because silver bells ring out from every street corner, and it sure isn't because of the snow. And although it is unfamiliar to me, Christmas in Ghana has its own sort of magic. There is something in the air here too, there are quite moments of family, there is some gift giving with all the excitement but none of the pressure. And, at least in Cape Coast, there is a sort of trick-or-treating mixed with a play on colonialism.



I can tell Christmas is upon us because each and every one of the main roads was horrifically choked with traffic. I don't know where the cars come from exactly, whether they drive in from afar to shop or visit family or just magically appear like some evil reverse-rapture. Tomorrow I have my last interview for my dissertation project before government workers break for the holiday. I will very likely have to walk the entire 3-4 miles between my house and the Ministries just to make it on time.

I can tell because it grows daily hotter, climbing up into the 90s. And we begin to feel the dusty hotness of the annual Harmattan winds that blow down from the Sahara.

I can tell because restaurants and stores are decked out. Christmas decoration, if not improved in quality, has certainly multiplied in quantity since I last spend the holidays here in 2003. I am convinced that part of this is the fortuitous coincidence that Ghana's national colors are red, yellow and green. Because Ghana just hosted its 50 year independence celebration last March, there are lots of red and green banners available in storage. More delightful still, while sitting in the internet cafe, I am currently being assaulted to some godforsaken electric Christmas music, the sound of so many tortured kazoos. And I think it is being produced by a quasi sentient strand of lights. Uh oh. I think the lights just winked at me. They know!

A friend who visited me here described Ghana as "100 percent market" because each and every available square foot of public space is formally and informally devoted to retail. This time of year, the ubiquitous street hawkers press their wares with extra eagerness. Each wood carving, painting, necklace or craft is wrapped in a smile and then tied with the ribbon of friendliness. Everyone has a story of why you should buy from them.

Gift giving in Ghana is an art I have yet to master, but one that I truly admire. Lately I have been disenchanted with gift-giving in the US. Too often we exchange lists of things we would like that our loved ones can mechanically check off. Or worse still, the pre-ordained exchange of gift cards. My sister loves gift cards, so often I am asked to buy her a specific gift card for Christmas and told she will give me one. While I can appreciate the convenience, it takes some of the magic out of it for me. This year we aren't sending gifts home and our families aren't sending us gifts here either. The postage (and potentially corrupt postal workers) just isn't worth it. But my husband and I will give gifts to several Ghanaian families.

This is always somewhat awkward for me, because I never know how a Ghanaian is going to react. I mentioned earlier on this blog that I gave my friend a few nice pots and pans that I brought her from the US, because good quality cookware is difficult to obtain and very expensive here. But apparently that is the kind of gift a mother gives a daughter for her wedding. On my second major trip to Ghana I gave my host mother a beautiful wind chime with angels on it. Folks here are very religious, and I was pretty sure she would like it. After I handed off the package, I dully followed her from room to room, eagerly waiting for her to unwrap it (like a typical American). She dutifully walked from room to room seeking the privacy to open the present in private (like a typical Ghanaian). I unwittingly had her cornered before she explained the custom to me.

Christmas with most Ghanaian Christian families is sort of what you would expect. Home decorations are uncommon but increasingly popular with the wealthy, including fake Christmas trees and bright sparkly garlands. Mothers and grandmothers gather in the kitchen and prepare a spread of traditional Ghanaian foods, which might include the spicy Jollof rice with fish, rich peanut soup with goat meat, boiled west African "yams" with a spicy spinach sauce, or even fried rice and chicken.

And then there is Cape Coast at Christmas. Cape Coast was the capital during colonial times. It was the city I lived in when I first came to Ghana as a student in 2000. I went back in 2003 for Christmas. I remember, the drums start fairly early in the morning. They seem distant, but they are coming from everywhere. Bit by bit the sound gets closer. I go to our front door, and find a group of children and youth, all decked out in brightly colored home-sewn costumes. The oldest boys drum while the others dance energetically. It is thrilling and fun and fabulous. I am laughing with delight and clapping my hands and soon I am trying to join in. My Ghanaian host mother explains that they go from house to house performing, and each little costumed performer carries his own little box, much like the slot-topped boxes of school children on Valentines. They will drum and dance until you put coins into their box. Sometimes they come around in small groups, lead by an older boy in his young teens. Other times one or two will small children will come around escorted by an adult. Sometimes they come around shyly, sometimes they are quite bold. During Cape Coast's traditional parade of chiefs, held annually in August, these troops perform all together, and the children are joined by similarly costumed adults who do acrobatics. But at Christmas this little traveling performance is just for the children.

Merry Christmas everybody!

More Pirate This!

So we've been watching pirated Nip/Tuck, and like our Desperate Housewives cover, the first three seasons of Nip/Tuck have "Chibonics" summaries of each season. Having seen season one now, the description is remarkable accurate, asuuming you speak broken English and have no idea what is going on in the show. My favorite new phrases that I'll begin employing in my everyday speech:

west graciousness
mmm
shears the face evil (spirit) or (appearance)
continue the hobby which they suffer

and my personal favorite: "the perspiration"

Notice Famke Janssen's guest appearance is mentioned, as "acted that female pheonix in xmen." There are plenty of good times in these descriptions. We can play a game if you wish - a prize goes to the best translation of any sentence. Erin and I will judge. Good Luck!!!


Nip/Tuck Season 1

The Story has a family reputation is “the Macnamara-Troy” the surgical department reshaping surgery center by the south Florida to start, this family surgery center is Doctor Macnamara and Troy doctor. Besides tidies up the room the work, two soon march into middle-aged doctor similarly to have bothering individual life to need to worry about. West graciousness – Macnamara and wife’s sentiment appeared the crisis front, he diligently is trying to let two person of relations restore to is heavy. The Chrystie peaceful – Troy is fills the charm “the dandy”, he does not have the fixed sentimental life, the superficial natural scenery behind also is a lonely heart. Chrystie is peaceful because diverts attention the trouble which and so on other work creates west, all needs Enlai to solve for him. Begins in the first season, two surgeons walked because of drug lord chief Ess – standard Radow. Ess forces two people to implement the free surgery for him, moreover must along with call along with. West graciousness and wife Zhu Liya marriage exactly therefore appears the crisis. First was west graciousness and Zhu Liya a two people of child miscarries, meets west graciousness to inform to call the lucky elegant woman to cherish his child… … This in 2003 begins broadcasting the popular play collection, described two to be in the middle-aged crisis, the future boundless tidies up doctor Troy and Macnamara, fenced the prosperous chest for the of all forms character, attracts the fat, the denaturation… …

Nip/Tuck Season 2

The second season plot development, in the first season foundation, continues to let the leads pitifully, originally the first season ending as if happy people continue each other injury, is tenacious is not willing to understand the other people. Two enter 40 year-old man, participated in party actually not to have other with the son enrichment, several years before past event, mmm, was that rebel’s young people, his godfather, not merely was the godfather is that simple but he to have rebel’s reason, was inferior to said was deliberately bad almost does two good friends to have noisily to divide family property, but brothers which knew under the economical pressure and the ghost the friendship also together are working. But the person really has obtains has loses, Dr. Christian Troy has lost the person of mixed blood child which that lets him grow up. Mmm, has introduced a pp life training, moreover is very intelligent, even if the screenwriter writes she afterwards was letting National People’s Congress fall the eyeglasses, but the actor really was very attractive, acted phoenix female that in xmen. That becomes on of third season master lines shears the face evil spirit appearance, but this time commits a crime also compares is not that crazy, but two doctors both center incurred cough, on basically acting the leading role all that has tidied up surgery table.

Nip/Tuck Season 3

The screenwriters continue the hobby which they suffer acts the leading role, the third season because that bt shears the face evil spirit the participation, nearly becomes the play, but writes a play also really is very can use the psychology and very many other factors, so long as has possibility each people all to be able to suspect, perspiration. Even if knew Dr. Christian Troy is impossible, or writes a play leads to suspect, mmm, self-is her one’s own mother trusts him, coughs, this season discovers his life experience very miserably. This season even more likes pp Kimber, even if the final screenwriter is insincere to her, coughs, or said too bt, actually the beautiful play looked many, some feeling, American how that many bt, mmm, should father have the belief, has the awe person, to child… … (This is real, last year or the year before last remembered any church parish bishop because this kind of scandal left office), this continuously understood very with difficulty, the perspiration, got off the subject, actually was thought sheared face evil that bt, devastated the beautiful woman, very indignation. The plot is darker, that juliy mother has not made clear dies did not have, individual understanding, has died, is juily massacres her not to be unimportant, but she the influence forever also is unable to juily to wear down.

The Busiest Shopping Day of the Year

For those of you who have seen Erin around the Holidays, she's a Christmas FANATIC. She has her favorite obscure Christmas song (Oh Bambino by the New Christy Minstrels), she craves an all-carols-all-the-time existence, and she loves decorating the instant Thanksgiving ends.

As you probably guessed, Ghanaians don't celebrate Thanksgiving (or other colonialist holidays we love so much), and the American ex-pat community is so small that the upscale grocery stores don't bother catering to our purchasing power. For our last Thanksgiving in Ghana we couldn't find a proper turkey at Koala, our local cosmopolitan grocery store—apparently Butterball Ghana Ltd. doesn't exist. Ultimately we purchased a turkey from a local poultry farmer for a price so exorbitant I'd rather not discuss it. This year we are living somewhere new, and our apartment doesn't have an oven (only stove). So this year, after celebrating a non-traditional, Ghana-style Thanksgiving (we watched the season one finale of Nip/Tuck and ate Indian food), we decided to try to make our Ghana Christmas more festive.

Earlier this week we went by Koala and found they were already selling Christmas decorations. We wandered the store, Erin's eyes bright with Christmas possibilities. After playing with lots of ornaments and petting some garland, Erin found a wiry artificial Christmas tree that went up to about my knee. For 20 whole dollars we could own the fake-tree version of Charlie Brown's infamous evergreen. We made a pact that the day after Thanksgiving we'd drop by Koala again and pick one up.

Later in the week, we spoke to some friends who had recently visited "Game" and "Shoprite" – two new stores in Accra. Our friends described Game as a "Target" doppelganger and Shoprite apparently looked like a typical US supermarket. Like Walmart, these places are supposed to have guaranteed low prices. On Thanksgiving we decided that we should take a ride out there to check out Christmas decorating options before fully committing to Koala's tree. The day after Thanksgiving we got up early, jumped in a tro-tro, and headed off for the new stores.

As we approached the stores we both glanced at each other with the "HOLY SHIT!" face. Game and Shoprite are located in "Accra Mall"…Accra Mall is a freakin' suburban US shopping mall! It is not "like" an American shopping mall, it "is" one. As you walk through the glass box of automatic doors, you feel awash with a wave of air-conditioned air. The mall is completely enclosed with faux-marble floors and high ceilings. The shops have full glass fronts and beautiful merchandise showcases. The bathrooms were nicer than your average American mall bathrooms…they were more like high-end department store bathrooms: marble appointments, cherry wood stall doors, turbo-charged hand blowers.

Granted, the mall is not completely finished yet. They are still constructing the second story, and the food court still looks like a concrete shell. That said, it has its two anchor stores up and running, along with, get this, a Sony Centre that rivals the one in Old Orchard Mall (for you Chicago/Evanstonians). Since Puma sponsors the Black Stars (Ghana's national soccer/football team), Accra Mall boasts a Puma store. It also has a handful of local and national clothing boutiques, a teacher/education store, a hair and nail salon, a Pottery Barn-like home store, and a mall optometrist.

It was as if, just in time for Christmas, we had found an oasis of American consumerism, a materialist Mecca, a slice of blue light special heaven.

"Have a FUN-BELIEVABLE Christmas!" and "Guaranteed Low Prices Guaranteed!" signs greeted us as we entered Game. Game really does feel like Target. It is about the same size of a normal target, with about 20 aisles and departments around the outside – electronics, home, sporting goods, office supplies, etc. Game doesn't seem to sell clothes, but everything else is very similar to your low cost superstores. This is kind of amazing for Ghana. Max Mart and Koala, the other major superstores in Accra are about a quarter the size of Game. Rather than 20 aisles plus separate departments, Max Mart and Koala have about 3-5 aisles for each of their two floors. This is a fundamentally new shopping experience for Ghanaians.

"No Way!" Erin exclaimed, "They have Kit-Kat bars here for half as much as Koala or Max Mart!" Chocolate is usually hard to find cheaply here in Ghana, despite cocoa being one of Ghana's top three exports. Last year, the market was flooded with Lindt 70% cacoa chocolate bars, which we could buy for $3.50. Now there is a lack of supply and they are going for $8.00 a piece at Koala and Max Mart. Kit-Kat bars, which you can buy for $1.50 at Koala, were being "regularly" sold for 70 cents, and on sale today for 50 cents. WooHoo! We piled confections high in our cart.

We roamed the store for a while and found the sporting goods section. Erin tried out an "ab roller," and I played around with a cricket bat, trying to figure out why it was flat on one side and beveled on the back side. We checked out the wine section, and found a bottle of Hardy's Chardonnay (which won our wine tasting a couple of years ago) for about $7. We hugged some pillows. We browsed.

We turned a corner and voila! Christmas Central. Two aisles devoted to Christmas decorations. Rather than Koala's limited stock of trees (small and stumpy or large and pricey), Game had about 10 artificial trees to choose from, with a variety of colors (evergreen and snow white) and sizes. The smallest tree was about the same height as the Koala Charlie Brown tree, and at $5 it was a quarter of the price. Ultimately, we found a tree for $35 that is as tall as I am and looks rather full. We grabbed some lights, and some red and gold ornaments that resemble our decorations from home, and walked out of Game less $65 but rich in chocolate and holiday cheer.

We also visited Shoprite, which does resemble an American supermarket. A box of Corn Flakes and other dry cereal often runs you about $10 at other local grocery stores, but at Shoprite you can get you flakes on for only $3.50 a box. They also had frozen pizzas, and tv dinners, conveniences which other stores in Accra don't offer (too bad we can't heat up a pizza without an oven). As we browsed around Shoprite, I noticed how we and the other obrunis were the only folks with full shopping carts, and how the Ghanaians seemed to be walking around, cartless, taking it all in, but without really purchasing anything. It made me wonder about the longevity of the Accra Mall. While there were plenty of shoppers, there wasn't much buying. The boutiques seemed completely empty (except for the salon). Ghanaians haven't been socialized into mall shopping, and it seemed that for them, the mall was merely a spectacle of consumerism (a tourist destination), and a marker of class, rather than a viable shopping option. Without disposable income, a culture of consumerism, or the practice of filling a shopping cart, I wonder if this beautiful, modern mall will survive.

On the one hand, I don't want to encourage rampant materialism in our Ghanaian friends. On the other hand, it felt really nice to "go to the mall" the day after Thanksgiving. As sad as that might sound, it felt like home. It felt like the beginning of the Holidays.

Me and My Day Planner

I have a green day planner and a black moleskin notebook and they go with me everywhere. The moleskin is where I take interview notes, because audio recording makes most people uncomfortable here, and because direct quotes are not as important at this stage as the essence of the information conveyed. In the front of that notebook I have my cell phone number and an exorbitant reward for anyone who finds it (lost or stolen) and returns it to me…no questions asked.

I have a planner, which is a good thing, because I would be hopeless managing my schedule here without it. Every day contains notations about who I am interviewing where and when, plus usually some indication of the directions to get there because there is no such thing as a rationalized address. The day usually also includes indications of who I am supposed to call to set up an interview, as well as who referenced me to that person. Days often also include details that I want to look up and download from the internet: a report from the Ministry of Finance’s webpage, a paper from The Bank of Ghana, the survey summary from the Association of Ghanaian Industries, the CV for a particular academic who does related work and download articles. That sort of thing.

This planner is the el-cheapo-est one that they had at Target on the day that I decided I needed a planner. I think it was $2.50. But organizationally it is fabulous. I love the way it is laid out, so it has always fit the bill. It is laid out by week, and the boxes for the days are beg enough to write in. it has a section in the back for recording to-do lists. Anyone who has seen me make lists knows how this warms my little heart. But recently I noticed a feature I had previously overlooked: each week has some motivational quote at the top.

Some are kind of touchy feely: “Our feelings are our most genuine paths to knowledge” –Audre Lorde. Or overly obvious and cliché: “I believe that life is a learning experience” –Gail Devers. But the last few weeks, when I have been out getting interviews have been more a kick in the butt towards action:
“You must do the thing you think you cannot do.” –Eleanor Roosevelt
“Distance is nothing; it is only the first step that is difficult.” –Marie Anne Du Deffand
“To tend, unfailingly, unflinchingly, towards a goal, is the secret of success.” –Anna Pavlova

This has been strangely useful, because my dissertation involves at least two distinct phases, plus pheriphery informational interviews throughout. First I have to survey approximately 20-30 local experts on their perceptions of bureaucratic quality in the Ghanaian government. Then I use that information to select cases. This means I have to start over again and again. There is no getting in with one group and then comfortably returning to that group day after day. There is just getting up the guts to call another person who has not yet heard of you and sell the project and convince them to give me time. Then when I have cases picked out, there is once again the starting of asking permission to study that group from several supervisors in the hierarchy. The work is fascinating and engaging, but all the starting can sometimes be trying. Especially when it is 95 degrees outside and I am already caked in alternating layers of sweat, dust and pollution.

I’ll grant that some of the quotes are pretty decent, and the part of me that did public speaking in high school still has affection for a rousing quotation from some long dead source of wisdom. Ultimately thought, there is something motivational, but it is not so much from the quotes themselves: rather it is the hovering threat that my potential for inaction might be shamed by some hinky quotation in some cheap day planner.

Bootleg this

Bootleg media is funny. We were recently watching the first season of Ugly Betty. The main menu for the disc features a photo of the entire cast with the large title “Ungly Betty.” Really? Unlike the legions of lawyers interested in the copyright standards, I have found myself highly amused by the copywrite standards of some of these bootlegs being sold on the street.

Recently my fascination with bootleg print copy has led me to the following query: Can words make you feel drunk? And I mean physically simulate that sense of staring forward while the room is spinning a bit and people are talking and just enough of it makes sense that you are sure you are hearing English and it is getting all f*ed up in your central processor, thanks to the recent tequila bath. To this end, we share with you the word-for-word plot summary on the back of a Chinese sponsored bootleg copy of the third season of Desperate Housewives, which of course we would never purchase, being law abiding citizens.

Wisteria lived in the street so a group of housewives: Possession of fourchildren as a child and a husband general Strongwoman Lena Te; always keep the situation of single mothers Susan; always spick-and-span appearance Britten; have to give up marriage and the cause of the derailment but before offering Jiaburuier. Their life seems perfect, but I do not know why always unruffled. Mary suicide story from the gunfire began. In which a shot after a series of seemingly impossible conspiracy and the murder took place in these seemingly ordinary housewife around. Do they cause, family, emotional what should we do?

I am drawn to this paragraph like the verbal equivalent of those damn dot pictures, where if you cross your eyes and weave around stupidly in front of it you are eventually supposed to be able to see a sailboat. I keep reading thinking I will somehow be able to discern the grammatical rules of Chinese by looking at the patterns, and that will somehow make the whole thing make sense.

But mostly, I just want to know what a Jiaburuier is. It appears to correspond to a Chinese character that looks like a capital J with a mustache. Those with theories should feel free to post them here.

John Legend Concert

This past weekend Terry and I were given VIP tickets to a John Legend concert. More accurately it was an “all day” music festival held in Independence Square, a large outdoor venue on the Ocean. The festival was supposed to have musical acts from 1 PM to 1 AM. Terry and I knew that the main acts wouldn’t come on until later in the night, so we ate dinner at home and headed out around 8 PM. As our taxi approached Independence Square we could see a big stage set up with lights, and a large crowd milling around outside. The event was coordinated by a group called “Creative Storm” and so a multitude of young men and women in black t-shirts with white writing were more or less effectively shepherding the crowd. We went through the constructed outer gate that prevented those without tickets from getting a good outside view.

The event was reasonably attended, particularly considering the odd marketing, but the crowd was dwarfed by the vast size of the venue. When we first arrived there was no live act on stage. They were piping reggae through the big speakers. We walked around the outer edge of the square, which was ringed with booths. Most booths sold some kind of food and drink or various rasta do-dads. I have never seen the likeness of Bob Marley fashioned onto so many trinkets. I couldn’t help but think the man himself probably would have been a little taken aback.

We wandered over to the VIP section. The VIP section was just off to the left of the stage and had seats and a canopy overhead. We went in and sat down to chat for a while. Eventually there was a spurt of activity, some mic checking. Then people came on stage to announce the next act, but this was essentially an almost endless chain of each person coming out to MC fanfare, and then simply hyping up the arrival of the next person. Something like this:

Person 1: You know you love her, she is your black queen of Africa, so all you rastas out there make some nnooooooiiiise for Black Coffee!

Rahhhhhh

Black Coffee: Yeah yeah. Yeah yeah. Hello beautiful people. You feel jah love? You feel jah love tonight? Then lets hear you get loud for MC Kofiiiiiiiiiii!

MC Kofi: Whas up? You having a good time tonight? Yeah, I know you are feeling the love. Can you feel the love? I want to hear your love. Because you loooooove Soul Delite!

Etc.

This went on for maybe 25 minutes. It got a little mind numbing after a while. Then at one point twenty-five guys in identical tshirts and baggy jeans all came on stage. We exchanged a look. Was this the act that all that announcing had lead up to? It worked something like this: 23 guys crowded together in the back and did a sort of uncoordinated thuggish bounce move, occasionally waving hands in the air. Two guys came forward with microphones. Recorded music started playing. Then every once in a while one of the guys would lean forward into the microphone and go:

UUUGH!

This amused me endlessly. I could barely contain myself. I looked over at Terry, snarled one side of my lip up for emphasis, and said in my best guttural voice: UUUNGH!

This side show comedy went on for about six minutes. Then one of the previously announced folks (was it Black Coffee? MC Kofi?) came on and said we should “give it up” for whoever that was. I clapped because heck, the Ungh! Talent show had amused me.

Having just sort of gotten the crowd fired up, a new set of people crowded on stage, including a middle aged white guy. Uh oh. This was the first sign of trouble. The folks on stage then spoke for 20 minutes about how this was a benefit concert (this was news to me) to benefit the people in Northern Ghana whose lives and farms had been devastated by recent floods. It probably hasn’t made international news or reached you all, but the floods were terrible for people in the North. They are already anticipating that it will cause lots of trouble down the road with food shortages.

I don’t know about you but I have always found extravagant benefit events troubling. I don’t want my money to consistently mediate the relationship between myself and my fellow human beings in need. Moreover, I find something offensive and distasteful about a lavish evening where some fraction of the proceeds, after event costs, will trickle down to those in need. But from a practical end I can also tell you that mixing a “rocking” musical concert with horrific details about the lives damaged by flooding is an impossible combination of “lets make some nooooise” and “oh my God this is so horrific and depressing.” It just doesn’t work as an awareness raising venue when half the folks in the crowd, furthermore, are rastas stoned out of their minds.

Terry was antsy. A friend of ours had come by and said that John Legend was going to be the last act of the night, meaning he wouldn’t be on until midnight. There was no way we could stay out that late because we would have to wake someone back home to let us in the gate. If we couldn’t stay for John Legend, he didn’t want to sit through any more “uhgn” charades. I persuaded him to stay for one more set.

And just then a bunch of guys came out on stage. Only unlike before, these guys started picking up a variety of instruments and holding them as though they had some training. Sure enough, Black Coffee came out. Short and sweet: “Here he is folks, five time Grammy winner, Mr. John Legend!” We didn’t even need to be instructed to make noise.

He was a wonderful charismatic showman. His songs are glorious and his voice sweet. At one point he brought a woman up on stage to dance with him and I thought she would probably die happy. I was sad to leave at the end. All in all a wonderful night.

And I still occasionally get to sneak up behind terry and go “UNGH!” for kicks.

On the transitive property of wet dogs

Today the lady who cleans and does our laundry came. After she left, I went into the bathroom. Pause. It smelled rank, exactly like wet dog. It smelled so much like wet dog that I actually went outside to see if there was, in fact, a wet dog lurking outside the window.

Back inside Terry found the source of the offensive odor. It went something like this:

Dirty old never cleaned mop + bucket of cold water with no chemical cleaner = smells like wet dog. Then, by the transitive property of stink, when you mop the entire floor with that, the entire floor smells like wet dog.

Grumble grumble. So we will use hot water and bleach and remop the whole thing.

On top of that today it was miserably hot and I spent the whole day either editing, taking fieldnotes, or organizing contacts. The afternoon was devoted to calling around trying to line up appointments. All I managed was to make appointments to call back and make appointments. But these are high level people, so if it only takes me a few such calls, it will still be a triumph.

Phone Etiquette Ghana Style

Phone etiquette, or the complete lack thereof, is a source of endless amusement (okay, in my worse moods, irritation).

This morning at 7:30 AM I woke to the ringing of my phone. I've been having a lot of trouble falling asleep lately, so I was "sleeping late" to 8 AM. When I groggily answered, I was greeted by a crabby Dean of social sciences from University of Ghana.

I have been emailing and calling this Professor since before I left, so for more than a month now. Yesterday I actually went out (hour trip) and stopped by his office. Left a message cause he wasnt there. Last night at 9PM we go out to an obrunyi bar for a pub quiz (Rob and Marta: we got our butts kicked. We need you two). We get back at 11:30 and Im exhausted so I fall asleep.

This morning my phone wakes me at 7:30. It's him. Not only that, but he's pissed because he's been "calling and calling" me. My phone shows 7 missed calls from him...all between the hours of 11 PM and 7:30 AM.

There is simply no division of professional and personal spheres here and it spills over in to what is appropriate in phone etiquette. People answer calls in important small meetings. People answer calls and talk during large forums of business people and the government. Even people on display at the head table. People you just met call at 6 AM just to say hello. If you don't call people or "flash" them (call and hang up before they answer so it registers as a missed call) regularly, they are irritated that you aren't thinking of them and don't love them. Important people get irritated if they can't reach you between the hours of 11:30 PM and 7:30 AM.

Big Events Ghana Style

So our friends invited us out to a BIG awards dinner last friday night: an awards dinner for major businesses in Ghana. This is a pretty big deal - the banquet was held on the grounds of Parliment. This is like going to US Capitol Building for a buffet...a big deal for Ghanaians (and for us). We went to the exact same dinner last year, so based on two consecutive years of experience, here are my fieldnotes:

We arrive in our dress duds - Erin in "National Wear" (Ghanaian fabric, top and down dress), and me in pink dress shirt and blue striped tie. People in official uniforms direct us to the correct building on the Parliament campus (they are many and BIG). Full-on African drums and dancing welcome us - it feels a bit like a formal State function, or maybe the end of Return of the Jedi. Photographers taking pictures, flashbulbs flashing. We reach the top of the stairs and hand over our official embossed invitation to a long line of identically dressed beautiful women who serve as ushers. We receive a packet of information, which includes a menu, official program, and facts and figures about Ghana's exports. We've arrived a little late at around 6:50 (the event begins officially at 6:30, with the ceremony starting at 7, according to the program), but as we found both years, a little late actually means very early.

The place is huge (with maybe 50 8-person tables), and nearly completely empty. We are like the tenth and eleventh people to arrive. On the video screens, old "Tom and Jerry" cartoons were running without the sound (which is what was so incredible about T & J - they were funny without language). The Police Service Dance band is still setting up, in their dress blues. Official military bands in the US (Marine Corp Band, for example) usually play classical patriotic tunes. The Police Service Dance band, "fancified" in their uniforms, JAM OUT to reggae and high life (Ghanaian pop that mixes rock and jazz). Its like Bob Marley and Wailers with cropped haircuts and starched shirts. They were awesome. Amazing.

Time ticks slowly by...

By 7:15, the wait staff begin getting their stuff together, and hands us each a bottle of water. By 7:30, our waiter has opened a bottle of table wine, and assuring me that (I quote his conspiratorial whisper into my ear), "I'm going to take good care of you tonight!" Wow, sounds good!

The MC, a former big time Ghanaian journalist, starts trying to warm the (small, but growing) crowd up. He talks over the music, occasionally providing his own lyrical stylings, and commentary on the band. This is reminiscent of local Ghanaian radio where DJs talk over the music. It's like when you were a kid playing radio DJ, with one hand on the volume control, the other on an toilet paper tube microphone, turning the volume down when you talk, and then jacking it up when the next song is up, only in Ghana, the DJs cut the music mid-chorus. Hysterical.

So the MC tries to get the crowd into it, pulling a group of young Nigerian women (we're talking Nigerian models) out onto the dance floor. As he wipes away his own drool, he encourages brave young men out to dance with these ladies. Classy.

At this point, we're approaching 8, and I've had about a half bottle of red wine. I've been trying to "reduce" so I've cut out beer and liquor for the trip...but for such a special occasion, I thought I'd make an exception. With my empty stomach (oh, yeah, no food yet...more on that later), I was getting a little loose. Which is fun, since there are video cameras EVERYWHERE taking crowd shots and throwing them up on the video screen. So occasionally, I'd be groovin' in my chair to the music, only to find myself, one of the few obruni's in the house, on the big screen for all to see. I could usually tell when I was up by the sudden crowd laughter...

By 8:15-8:30, the place has filled up sufficiently. The President, John Kufour, is expected to show and give a talk (his picture is the first thing you see on the program, and it says "8:30, Keynote Speech, President of the Republic of Ghana, John Kufour"). So maybe that is the delay? Waiting for the President to arrive? Not really. Both years, President Kufour was on the program to speak, and each time a minister gave a speech in his stead. Our event was probably the fifth event he had overbooked.

Finally, the MC opens the floor for the award ceremony. The awards start flowing...the MC announces the organization, and then the representative is expected to walk up to the stage to accept the award. Only this place is so huge that it takes like two minutes to make ones way up to the stage. Oh, and the food hasn't been served. At around 9:30 the MC even made a joke of it...someone had complained and he said "Someone has asked that the food be served. I know you are all strong people, and that you aren't even hungry. You all want to wait for the awards ceremony to finish before you eat." Hmmm, the power of suggestion is strong...I survived that last hour by eating a Nigerian model.

The MC improvised a theme for the award ceremony: gender equality. Everytime a mixed group came up to accept an award, he would comment on the gender ratios of the party. "Ghana Seafood Distributors Limited, Silver Award!" Ghana Seafood approaches the stage: two men, one woman... "Oh, and Ghana Seafood celebrates near gender equality! The lady makes up for it with her beauty!" Classy.

10:30 arrives. Finally, after lots of talks, some pomp and circumstance by a presidential candidate, and after the awards have been handed out, dinner was served. It was pretty tasty. As I eat my rice and beef sauce, the MC starts announcing to the crowd that he is turning the event into a big "house party." He starts the party off with the minister and a queen mother dancing on the floor. The MC instructs the band to play "real ghanaian highlife." They strike up a tune. Immeidately he says "no no no. That is raggae. Don't you know highlife? I want highlife?" After one more false start, when the Police Dance band doesn't play enough high life ("Ghana's greatest contribution to the world," according to the MC), the MC shuts them down and turns the entertainment over to some DJ who starts spinning what he wants to hear.

Eventually people start going up to dance. Erin and I keep looking at one another - it would be fun to dance, but dancing obrunis always attracts attention...sometimes unwanted attention. After some debate, we decide, what the hell? Why not? We get up there and get our groove on, amidst ministers, CEOs, and Presidential candidates. Nothing weird about it, totally fun times.

After a few songs, we go and sit back down to get dessert. We start asking around for some ice cream, but no one seems responsive. I finally find my man - the waiter to promised to take good care of me. I asked for dessert, and he says, "Do you have a small dash? I need some transportation money." Not expecting to be bothered for a tip at a pre-paid dinner, I didn't bring anything small. All I had was a 10 cedi note, which was more than the dinner would have cost. For that matter, all he did for me was hand me a water bottle and pour me a glass of wine...it was a stand in long line buffet kind of meal. I said I didn't have anything for him, but asked if we could still have our dessert. Wishful thinking on my part...he said of course he would "take care of me," and then proceeded to hide in the back of the house for twenty minutes.

We had to give up on him...word got out to the rest of the wait staff that we weren't tipping, so there was no chance anyone was going to get us our ice cream. The MC started to wind down the party, and we decided to give up. We stood up, held our heads high, and walked out of parliament impatient, awarded-out, and ice-cream-free.

Where everybody knows your name...

Okay, well actually I think nobody knows our names exactly here, but today a momentous thing happened: we became "regulars."

I actually feel a little conflicted about this development. We are regulars at Frankies, and for all you former obrunyi's out there, you know all this implies. It is air conditioning, wireless internet, and a wide array of well-prepared Western food. You can get a stack of fluffy pancakes that rival any in the US, they make the best and possibly only Greek salad in Ghana. They have milkshakes and mochas. They have an awesome chicken schwarma sandwich. For all these reasons, I love them. And I am not alone. It turns out all the other obrunyi's love them too, so Frankie's is a classist establishment where middle class Ghanaians mix with the expat community in a small haven of Western food and comfort.

I used to resist Frankies, but even in that term--"resist"--I acede to its pull for me.

With each trip back to Ghana I have made more compromises, fused my American self with my Ghanaian self. The first time I was here I dressed according to custom, I woke at the crack of dawn, and I hand washed my own laundry every Saturday at 6 AM. On this, my upteenth trip back to Ghana I have made room for not eating Ghanaian food every day. We now pay someone to wash our laundry. When I need to get somewhere that isn't convenient to the main traffic roots I take a taxi. And we have been coming to Frankies. A lot. It is the best and fastest internet access near our home, and better still we can get on with our own computers, which is quite convenient. And for all this benefit the hourly charge is identical to the slower internet cafes.

If we come in the morning we customarily order coffees, although if I'm feeling indulgent I get a mocha, which they top with incredible real whipped cream. This makes me realize that cafes in the US use "whipped cream" not whipped cream. When we come in the afternoon we typically order two tonics (like gin and tonic, without the gin) and possibly some food if we haven't eaten.

Today we waltzed in at 3 PM. On the steps up I had been debating breaking the mold and ordering a chocolate shake. The waiters here are wonderful and they love us because we consistently tip well and don't run them around too much. I know that this love has a clear financial root, but it is still nice to be liked. Well at any rate today we sat down and one of the regular waiters dropped off menus and said something as he walked away. It sounded like "I'll get the drinks." I thought he meant he was serving someone else.

And then he comes back with two glasses of filtered ice, slices of lime, and two tonic waters. He smiles. He knows us and what we order.

Strangely both terry and I smile back. We had just been debating what to have and now that it is here, it is perfect.

I'm a regular.

On plates

Plates are a funny thing in Ghana.

For starters, I LOVE a good coffee cup. That wide mouthed china white cup that holds the foam just so? It is the stuff of my dreams, a tangible feature that confirms my ideal of scholarly thinking. This is why (combined with some righteous environmentalism of course) I was so irritated when so many coffee shops in the US started switching to using only disposable, tall cups. Like some fragile, anorexic ideal of womanhood that invaded the squat, plump ideal of the romantic era, I resent these intruders. A cappucino is just not a cappucino when my foam is all crowded into that skinny necked abomination, more a "glass" than a coffee cup.

But in Ghana when you go somewhere they serve coffee, they still serve coffee like it is both an art and craft, not a matter of mechanical reproduction of a sterile medium. My coffee comes out in a rotund elegant bone-white urn. I pour this slowly into my squat china-white cup, resting on its saucer. Warmed cream comes out in a matching pitcher. Delightful.

And in the quirky way of Ghanaian restaurants, I notice that my sugar spoon is stamped with two hearts and the words "I love you." This gets me thinking. At the middle-range restaurants that use washable plastic plates, it is not uncommon to eat your way to the bottom of your plate only to discover things like "I love you" or "my dearest one" written there. It is not something understand very well. It may be an overly familiar sentiment between customers and owners originating in ideals of hosting that have migrated into the commercial setting.

Of course, it is equally likely that someone in Sri Lanka had a load of loving plastic plates that made their way to the Ghanaian harbor, where they were sold for cheap. You never know.

Looking for a Good John

One of the blessings of Ghana is that it forces you to be more relaxed and have a sense of humor about yourself. It also teaches you to appreciate the many things you would otherwise take for granted. Like the toilet. The toilet, like the proverbial baseball umpire, is something that you don't notice unless it isn't doing its job well.

We just had a new toilet installed in our house. It's nice...except that it leaks. And I'm sorry to report that it leaks out of the exit pipe, if you get my drift. It's not massive, but it's a steady leak from every flush and a real pain. It means mopping sewage several times a day. This is another one of the glamorous features of research off the beaten path. We come up with creative solutions (which mostly involve going at any restaurant we visit), but it has really made me appreciate a good john. So for those of you who have taken your toilets for granted, I present a typology.

Toilets in Ghana tend to fall into three categories:

1. Fully functional, fully appointed. These are mostly at your very high end restaurant and hotels. We're talking a toilet, with a seat, that will flush when the handle is pulled. And, for bonus points, they provide toilet paper.

2. Functional but not fully appointed. Here you've got at least a bowl and it will flush when you pull the lever, but you may not have a seat and you probably don't have toilet paper. No one has spent more than six months in Ghana without looking at the semi-softness of newspaper in a whole new light. Because these toilets are quite common, you learn quickly to always carry a packet of travel kleenex and hand sanitizer.

3. Non functional. I ran into one of these yesterday, strangely enough at the bathroom of a restaurant affiliated with the UN Food and Ag Organization. Here there is just a bowl. No toilet paper, no seat, and no flushing. If you want to flush you have to go into the attached shower area, fill up a bucket and dump it in. This isn't exactly unfamiliar territory either. If you ever have to do this, be sure you dump the water slowly onto the side so it creates a nice circular flushing action.

So folks, as you go to your comfortable homes tonight and settle your little tushes on those luxury flushing toilets, appreciate what a grand innovation it is.

On the other hand, I found myself thinking of the underground tour of Seattle, and appreciating that at least we didn't have a toilet that "back flushes" and sends a spouting geyser of sewage into our home.

ArachnoRoachoPhobia

Ok, so I have a little arachnophobia. Erin has cockroach-o-phobia. We split critter killing duties in our household.

First night in the new place, I'm unpacking a bag we had left with our lovely friend Hannah. I'm unpacking it, and as I pull out some tupperware, right there in the middle of the bag is a GIANT (dead) spider. Oooky. I scream like a girl, "ERIN!!! There's a big-ass dead spider in the bag and you have to do something about it!" At this point, I trust the whole ordeal will be taken care of by my hero.

A short time later, Erin mentions to me that I have a "target" to aim for when I pee. The water is out for the whole block, so Erin couldn't flush the spider down the drain. NO FREAKING WAY. This only makes things worse...much of my fear of spiders comes from this story I heard as a kid about some construction worker who went to use a port-o-john, and was bitten on the ass by a black widow...he subsequently died of the poison. I was traumatized by this story as a kid, and would always check under the toilet seat for my imminent death in spider form. I mean, come on, can any of you come up with a worse way to die? Poisoned and slumped over in a portable toilet (probably without any toilet paper no less?).

So Erin's placement of the carcass in the toilet did little for my mental health - I did NOT want to use the bathroom that day...

That night, we decided to try the restaurant across the street, the "Banana Leaf" restaurant (or "Banana Leafz" restaurant if you trust the sign out front). Banana Leaf specializes in over-priced, over-salted, unappetizing food with "unique" service strategy - the owner's wife constantly hovers over your table (we were the only folks in the place, a bad sign), while the food takes FOREVER to reach the table. Well, while at the restaurant, I made sure to use their rest room, in an effort to avoid the toilet at home. Whew!

Later that evening after we've returned home, I run into the kitchen to get some water, and as soon as I turn on the light, a MASSIVE cockroach runs along the wall. That roach was about three and a half inches - and THICK. The house hasn't been lived in for a while, so in the absence of human inhabitants, apparently other life forms have taken over. It is my turn to take responsibility for the trespasser...With a toss of the shoe and a second whack for good measure, the problem was solved. Erin called from the other room "What was THAT?" "You don't want to know," I replied. "Was it a roach??" "Yes, I have to find a broom to take care of it." "Or you could just let it stay over night, and hope the ants take care of it..." In our old place, the ants were pretty crafty, and would take care of dead roaches for us - it was quite the arrangment. I kill, they clean up.

I followed Erin's advice, in the hopes that our local ecosystem would right itself. Sadly, the ants and I haven't signed a treaty, and the roach stayed where it was for me to clean up the next morning.

So, after the late night excitement with the roach, Erin and I went to bed (around 11). At three a.m., I come the realization that I had not only paid for awful food, but also a late night "emergency." I jumped from the bed, hustled to the toilet, flipped the lid, and PRAYED that my stomach would settle itself. The last thing I wanted was that spider to reanimate and attack. How bad Erin would feel if she found me poisoned on the toilet the next morning! After a few seconds ruling out other options, I closed my eyes, sat on the seat, and gave in. The spider had beaten me...Round One: Spiders 1, Terry 0.

Hello Lights! Goodbye Kettle! (A minidrama)

Well, this is a bit ironic after writing a post romanticizing the loss of electricity (what is the opposite of bitter grapes? sweet grapes? where you sweeten something you know you are stuck with anyway? No--I meant what I wrote). We asked our new landlady when we should expect the next blackout, and she said never. Allegedly, as of October 1 there are no more scheduled blackouts. Now there are just run of the mill blackouts if they are doing service on the lines or something goes wrong at our power station. Yowza. Thrilling.

Additionally we just got new bright lights installed in the living room and today we're getting a new toilet. All sorts of new stuff. We could really use a new bed, as I can feel each of the wood slats, but in some odd way it isnt really uncomfortable.

We did have a scandal yesterday. It went like this.

Erin: I'm going to clean out this electric kettle. How exciting, I never had an electric kettle or hotpot in college. I love this. My mom always said to clean coffee pots with a mix of vinegar and water (pouring some vinegar and water in). Now we just plug it in and let it boil a bit.

Terry: (5 minutes later) Umm, do we need to watch the pot?

Erin: No, i dont think so. We should let it run for a while.

(unspecified amount of time later)

Terry: (shouting from other room) Oh Shit! We have a problem!

Erin: What?! What's wrong? Are you hurt? (racing into kitchen)

Terry: (frantically waving dishtowel to dissipate smoke. acrid smell of burning rubber) Fire!

Erin: Fire?

Terry: Well, smoke. Hot. Yikes

Erin: Unplug it

Terry: I did!

Erin: Oh shit. I can't believe I ruined the freaking kettle. (Looks at plug). Good grief, its all melted to hell. One of the prongs from the kettle even came out and is all embedded in this plastic goo mess. Sheesh.

Terry: Look how hot its glowing. The water must have been boiled away for a while.

Erin: I'm really really sorry. I can't believe I did this. You warned me too.

Terry: It's okay.

Erin: You are a better person than I am. I can't believe you can resist doing a little "I told you so" dance. You were right.

Stream of Consciousness: Electricity

i have known since living in africa that being without electricity is incredibly thought provoking. this is something like the effect of driving your car without a radio. it makes you talk. if you cant talk, it makes you think. and in those radio silences I always had such good thoughts, and it makes me wonder if i drown them out all those other times.

friday night the lights went out for four hours and i could hear there was a drum circle somewhere. and we lay be candlelight and i said i want to be the kind of person who just goes out and investigates and joins that drum circle. and terry is very much too shy for that, but eventually i convinced him to at least go to our gate and check it out. we leaned against the gate in the odd brightness of the moon with all the surrounding darkness without the electricity. it turns out the sound was the beginning of a three night funeral party, and it was hosted inside the neighbor's compound. knowing that it didnt seem appropriate to try to join, or we felt too shy at least. still when i returned to laying in the candlelight i felt better for having tried.

it makes me want to host 'lights out' parties where no electricity is allowed.

The Eagle Has Landed!

A big collective sigh of relief. We finally moved into our own place! As lovely as it was to stay with our friend Victor (and we certainly got a lot more quality time that only roomies get), it is nice to finally be able to unpack our things.

We still have one more load of things to bring over. Because apparently we overpacked, at least relative to the size of Ghanaian taxis. You'd think we'd moved here for four years or something. But still, nice to flop over on ones own bed. The settling in will turn to nesting when we finally stock the pantry and start cooking in our new house.

On more academic note, I found out the World Bank has a new survey whose results i am VERY interested in. So I have been wrestling their frustrating interface for nearly an hour. How can something that seems to determined to LOOK helpful be so utterly the opposite?

On houses and friends past

This blog entry began as an email to our friend Rebecca Napier-Moore. She is a native Texan (although not of the big hair and dont-mess variety) who is now married to a British guy and living in England. We met her and her lovely husband Phil the first week we were in Ghana last year. They quickly became two of our favorite folks who we spent lots of time with until they left us. Fortunately, shortly after their departure we were randomly introduced to Rob, Marta, Brian and Aaron. We met those four at a pub "quiz night." Soon we were learning bridge, being talked into trying curling, and generally socialized for our impending Canadian citizenship.

The friendship trail goes back to my first visit to Ghana. Each and everytime I was unusually blessed to find one or two people whom I absolutely clicked with. In circumstances that seem tailor-made for friendships of convenience, I strangely found intimate true friends who I would chose to be with anywhere in the world, whom I would select out of a line-up of 100. On my study abroad term there was Kourtney. She was an African-American woman from Texas attending Harvard. On the surface, particularly given the racial tension in our study abroad program, we were strang bedfellows. But she and I had oddly similar outlooks on life, perhaps because we were both very close to our mothers, had younger sisters, and had fathers who were uncannily similar (and not always in the best ways). Her father also died suddenly about six months after my own. In my heart, even if we talk only twice a year, we will always be strangely sisters.

When I came back for my Fulbright, I found more friends than I could have hoped for, and first developed my endearing obsession with small northern european countries. I hit it off with Mark an older Dutch guy who was forwardly against making friends with the many expats who came and went through the house for a few months at a time. I apparently overwhelmed his resistence and we eventually shared a flat. I also adored Pernille, a Danish woman, who eventually went on to date Mark. They now have a child together and are living in Denmark, and I am eager for the day I can visit them again. On that Fulbright year I was doubly blessed to also meet Julie and Jeremy. Julie came along at a time when I was sincerely doubting my Americanness. I had met several Americans whom I really disliked, and here I was enamored of these northern Europeans. Maybe something was wrong with me. But when I met Julie I loved her instantly. It was not long before I discovered she was also from Wisconsin. This was when I realized that no matter how far I travel, I will have Wisconsin encoded on my heart, my way of seeing, my interactions with others. Towards the end of our time there we also met Lothar (he of the new housing fame) and his wife. Lothar was also a social scientist doing a PhD on Ghanaian immigrants and the impact of their remittances on their families at home. We have since met Lothar for coffee nearly once a year, anytime we fly through Amsterdam on KLM. I feel so fortunate to have found such a wonderful colleague who so closely shares my interest in Ghanaian migrants, who is also a warm and charming person.

All this nostalgia was brought about because today we saw our new house. for the first time we will not be living with ante C at the guesthouse where I have spent a total of more than a year. I feel a strange mix of emotions. On one hand, the new place is not as spacious as the apartment we shared in the old obrunyi guesthouse. on the other hand, the landlady is really nice and friendly. it goes without saying that this is quite a change from our former landlady who was businesslike but a bit...well, lets just leave it at that.

We will have the place to ourselves, which also cuts both ways. On one hand, it means we are insulated from the random obrunyi coresidents at the old guesthouse, usually an assortment of young 20s expats from Europe and North America. Many are there on medium or short term engagements with NGOs. Like when I was in college, I have often found that I have very little in common with folks who want nothing more than to go out and drink beer and hang out in a bar. Like Dr. Suess, I will not enjoy it here, I will not enjoy it there, I will not enjoy it in a car at a bar. I will not enjoy it at home in college, I will not enjoy it while living afar. I do not like beer Sam I am.

On the other hand, as my thoughts above indicate, I have also been regularly blessed to find incredible friendships, most of which originated in one way or another at that old guesthouse compound. As Terry and I walked away from our new home I said:

Erin: "I feel a little funny."
Terry: "I like it. It's gonna be good."
Erin: "I know. I just hope we meet some nice people. We have every other time. I hope that means it is inevitable. But I suppose it could mean we've used up all our good Ghana friend karma."

Operation House the McDonnells

I am knocking on all kinds of wood, hoping that I don't pull a "Bush" prematurely declare "Mission Accomplished," (no offense to my mom and our other Republican readers) but it seems as though yesterday we found a house! Sincere thanks to everyone who played "Operation House the McDonnells" from afar. We had a number of strong entries in this year's competition. The happy housing award goes to Lothar Smith, of the Netherlands, a friend of ours from my Fulbright time back in 2003.

It is a whole house, 2 bedrooms, to ourselves in a great location, with a wonderful warm landlady. Luckily for us, she is very choosy about who stays with her (she proudly told us the assistant deputy to the UNDP was just staying with her for the last few months). I am 100% certain that she only said yes because our friend Lothar stayed with her in 2003 and she LOVED him and his wife.

We met with her yesterday and I sort of botched the interview, because I didn't understand what was going on at first. I was used to Antie C's guesthouse where it is sort of all business and no family, so I was talking to her like a potential tenant. She was looking at me as someone who could be sharing her compound for the next few months, and she was interviewing me as family. So I did all sorts of things wrong, like brought up our issue (needing a place to live) too early in the conversation before formalities were done. Then later I asked about rent when she seemed to want to talk more about our families back home and our studies. I forgot to tell her that Terry and I were officially married, sanctioned by God and the state, so she had to ask delicately, "Sooo, its a two bedroom house, would you each be looking to rent a room separately?" Things like that.

But we've seen the place before, the location is right, the price is right, so it seems DREAMY right now. I'm even slowly getting used to the idea of a landlady who might like us like family, rather than bring me in to berate me about how the light bulb burned out. I'm holding my breath to believe it is real for when we move in, but it seems if I can avoid putting my foot in my mouth when we come over in Thursday to officially see the house, we're golden.

Terry, Where's your bag?

So, Erin and I went grocery shopping on Friday at Koala supermarket (more like superstore - it is functionally a very small wal-mart with a lack of market consistency...WHERE ARE MY LEMON COOKIES?). We have some Ghana favorites, goods and meals you can't effectively make in the US that we crave when we're away. For one, there are these incredible lemon cookies made in Sri Lanka, which Koala didn't have in stock. But we found many of our other favorites. Locally made Lebanese yogurt with muesli and honey, strawberry FanYogo (frozen yogurt in a hot pink plastic pouch which you suck like nectar from the bag), and other exciting favorites.

After checking out at the register (and after some confusion about money - they've redenominated the cedi since we left, so now one cedi is approximately a dollar, but locals still use old short hand. 50 cedis used to mean 50,000 cedis which is approximately 5 bucks...when they now say 50 cedis, it confuses us because it should mean US$50), we headed outside to find a cab. Taxi drivers line up outside waiting for the next fare, and after negotiating with a driver for a ride to Victor's house we were on our way. A fair price to Victor's neighborhood is 3.5 cedis, but the driver insisted on 5...we brought him down to 4, which was a feat since he had a posse of other drivers with him that insisted a fair price was 5.

On the way Erin had a rather nice conversation with the driver (Willy) about politics (Ghanaians abroad shouldn't have the right to vote absentee for elections), and about Willy's da job as a graphic designer. Erin gave him a rather brilliant idea for a new t-shirt (one that says OBRUNI on the front, the local nickname for "white person"), and Willy gave him his business card.

Well, Willy takes us safely to Victor's place. Groceries in tow, I reach my hand around an unlock the gate's padlock while working to settle Victors 6 dogs (two rottwielers, two GIANT African dogs who are trained to subdue lions, and two plump Jack Russell terriers). As we get in the gate Erin says "Hey Terry...Where is your BAG?!" At which point I crap my pants...my bag has my computer, my cell phone, and a notebook full of all my Ghana contacts and fieldnotes from our last visit. This is all too funny, since 1) I never lose things - Erin is the "loser" in our family, I am the "finder," and 2) just the night before I tried to leave the same bag with the same contents in a restaurant until Erin realized I had left it.

OH MY GOD! I'm thinking...what can we do. Well, Erin has his business card and our handy cellphones. She gives him a ring and he says he'll be right back. WOO freakin' HOO! I step outside the gate, and Erin proceeds to become the sole target of the dogs' attention - they LOVE her because she's allergic to them...She starts freaking out (a little) screaming for Victor's employee Elijah for help. After I ask if she's getting mauled and needs help (how chivalrous of me), Erin makes it in the house. Whew!

So back to my bag. After standing outside for ten minutes, I start my panicking. "He just left, what could be taking him so long? Is he deciding whether to keep the bag, computer, cell phone for himself? Has he been considering writing a dissertation on AIDS media in Accra, and lo and behold, here is a book full of fieldnotes?" Luckily he rounded the corner shortly thereafter - he had already picked up another fare and felt he had to drop them off before returning my bag. I tipped him generously, praised him for his kindness, and maybe wept a little.

I find my way back inside the house, only to find complete darkness. The power is out for its 5 day cycle, and we don' t have any idea where the candles are. Luckily our cellphones have little key lights in them that last for maybe 20 seconds of light. Erin runs to the bathroom and blindly cleans off dog slobber. I scamper around the house with my cell phone looking for candles (should have thought to ask victor about this earlier). I ultimately find two candles to light the giant house, hoping they don't burn down before the power turns back - otherwise we'll be sitting in the dark playing word games, again.

Luckily, this comedy of errors comes to a close just minutes after the candles are lit, when the juice flips back on. Erin and I immediately turn on the tv, open a bottle of water, pop some popcorn, and remark on the lessons learned. Lesson 1, Ghana 2007: make friendly with cab drivers and always get their phone numbers.

We're Ghana Love It Here!

So we're homeless, my stomach's upset, and we're about to be soaked...

As Erin and I hide from the insta-monsoon that is presently keeping us trapped in "Palace" internet cafe, I decided I should start a new blog for our Ghana trip. Welcome to Be Wise, Don't Urinate Here! Named after my favorite phrase from the Accra Metropolitan Assembly, posted (or rather painted) on walls throughout the city, often with a picture of a guilty local hunched near the wall, or with an image of a local cop policing improper public pissing. If only the cop had a text bubble over his head: "Charlie, go for the gutter next time...go for the gutter." Like a good sociologist, I'll be sure to post a picture as evidence.

No housing yet. Auntie C, whose guest house is our typical haunt, is all booked up for the foreseeable future. We are working our other contacts, but no luck so far. We'll keep you up-to-date.

We're staying with our lovely friend Victor, who is kind enough to put us up at this beautiful house (hot showers, a/c, playstation 3 and all) until we a) find an apartment, or b) overstay our welcome. It is certainly a nice way to transition into "African Living." His mother (whose medical clinic is on the property) is a great cook, and has been feeding us Jollof rice...she'd better stop being nice to us or else she'll have two adopted children on her hands.

Most of the day my stomach has been upset - I blame myself. The first opportunity off the plane at Victor's place I brushed my teeth...using the water from the tap. I just wasn't thinking...there I was at this nice house! If I've done anything to risk Montezuma's wrath, that was it.

The weather has been cool for Ghana (low 80s) and breezy. Apparently all the rain we are having has cooled Accra down. Damn, I'll pay for an umbrella!

Internet at our favorite ex-pat, American diner style place has sped up since we were here in December. That is good news for us. Erin's computer has a camera, so we might be able to set up video chat for all of you folks with webcams. If not, we have skype accounts and can probably have a solid phone conversation with you over skype.

Ok, that is all for now. More updates down the road. Much love!
Terry