The home stretch is a bear people. A bear.
Somehow in the last few days a strange array of little things have all conspired to go awry. Big things going awry I have always been good at. When many little things go funky it feels like getting caught in one of those sci-fi movies where a million little flesh eating mechanical wasps buzz around. At least, that is how I always imagine it.
But mostly I think T and I have both agreed that this is more the effect of being on the home stretch and really looking forward to seeing people we love again, being back in the world of hot showers, back to a place where the electricity and water always run, and where you dont sweat the minute you step out of the shower...yes, even if we have to give up poolside tropical days.
see you soon!
Be Wise!
Saturday, March 15, 2008
Tuesday, February 19, 2008
Colds, the Heat, the Schedule and everything that gets in the way of "the schedule"
The Harmattan has left us too soon. Harmattan brings winds down from the Sahara, making for hot dry and dusty days, and blissfully cool nights. It meant that at night I could curl up comfortably under a sheet. It meant I actually wanted a light long sleeved shirt in the evenings or early mornings. On the down side, it also meant that the cold water shower was physically painful.
But almost as soon as it was here, this year it was gone. Only about two weeks. I am glad that once again I can shower without cringing or inventing intricate poses to only expose one small part of my body to the icy water at a time.
But now that the Harmattan has gone, we are in a nasty hot spell. I am already sweating even as I am still toweling myself off from the shower. I steadily melt in my suit until the suit alone stands there walking down the road and I am only a puddle on the ground. I don't know how hot the temperature is, but it is brutal and humid. Even Ghanaians are shaking their heads and complaining, "It's toooo hot."
And so, somewhat ironically, all this heat has given me a cold. I have been sneezing and blowing my darn nose since the Harmattan left me. This is bad because this is also my busiest period of work, these last five weeks. I have at least three interviews scheduled for every day. This is well beyond break-neck speed for Ghana. In my busiest day I did six interviews in one day. It was amazing.
Other days I haul myself around, sniffling and sneezing and generally viewing the world through a fog (is that my stuffy head? a heat induced haze? both?). On monday I did three interviews before noon, and then hustled home to get out of my suit and into something more light-weight. I chowed down some soup for lunch (spicy soup believed to help clear the sinuses) and ran off down the street to catch a tro-tro to the University. I wound up having to walk about half a mile before I got the tro-tro. I sat packed like a sardine for the 45 minute ride. I wanted to apologize to my seatmate for sweating all over him, but he was also sweating all over me, so I suppose we were even.
I got out at the University stop, and walked another half mile or more to the office of the Dean I was supposed to meet. I arrived a bit breathless (I had to hustle to be on time) only to find a note, apologizing that he couldn't be there to meet me. He was called to an emergency steering meeting. This happens when you try to work with folks who have big appointments and many people calling on their time. Nevertheless, all stuffy and tired, I was a bit disappointed for all the time it took to get out there, not to mention all the hiking. So I tried to buy a book at the bookstore (nope, they don't carry it). Dejected, I marched back to the bus stop, caught a tro-tro home.
This sninanigans took the whole afternoon, so I found myself at 37 (a transport hub) around 4:30. Determined to give myself a little succor to nurse my wounds, I went shopping at MaxMart, one of the big fancy international grocery stores. Garron, our recently departed cheese-loving friend, would have been envious. I picked up some delicious herbed chevre and crackers. Adding to the luxury, I decided that I somehow deserved a 1 kg sack of "small lobsters." I eyed some lobsters that were larger than anything I had ever seen, we are talking lobsters the size of the Governator's biceps. But I figured even with my current suffering, I couldnt justify the $28 price tag. Of course, that is what a skimpy lobster would cost in the US. I picked up some chocolates. In a turn to the reasonable, I got some flat bread, green peppers, and a nice cut of beef so Terry and I could make fajitas. Finally I picked up some of the awesome hand-made daily baklava. One of the small pleasures of living in a place where all the best grocery stores are Lebanese-owned.
So yeah. The food was tasty. But my nose is still runny. You can't shop your way out of a cold. I'm powering down the oranges and hoping I can keep this thing at bay, because I can't be thrown off schedule in the home stretch.
Can't wait to see everybody at home soon!
But almost as soon as it was here, this year it was gone. Only about two weeks. I am glad that once again I can shower without cringing or inventing intricate poses to only expose one small part of my body to the icy water at a time.
But now that the Harmattan has gone, we are in a nasty hot spell. I am already sweating even as I am still toweling myself off from the shower. I steadily melt in my suit until the suit alone stands there walking down the road and I am only a puddle on the ground. I don't know how hot the temperature is, but it is brutal and humid. Even Ghanaians are shaking their heads and complaining, "It's toooo hot."
And so, somewhat ironically, all this heat has given me a cold. I have been sneezing and blowing my darn nose since the Harmattan left me. This is bad because this is also my busiest period of work, these last five weeks. I have at least three interviews scheduled for every day. This is well beyond break-neck speed for Ghana. In my busiest day I did six interviews in one day. It was amazing.
Other days I haul myself around, sniffling and sneezing and generally viewing the world through a fog (is that my stuffy head? a heat induced haze? both?). On monday I did three interviews before noon, and then hustled home to get out of my suit and into something more light-weight. I chowed down some soup for lunch (spicy soup believed to help clear the sinuses) and ran off down the street to catch a tro-tro to the University. I wound up having to walk about half a mile before I got the tro-tro. I sat packed like a sardine for the 45 minute ride. I wanted to apologize to my seatmate for sweating all over him, but he was also sweating all over me, so I suppose we were even.
I got out at the University stop, and walked another half mile or more to the office of the Dean I was supposed to meet. I arrived a bit breathless (I had to hustle to be on time) only to find a note, apologizing that he couldn't be there to meet me. He was called to an emergency steering meeting. This happens when you try to work with folks who have big appointments and many people calling on their time. Nevertheless, all stuffy and tired, I was a bit disappointed for all the time it took to get out there, not to mention all the hiking. So I tried to buy a book at the bookstore (nope, they don't carry it). Dejected, I marched back to the bus stop, caught a tro-tro home.
This sninanigans took the whole afternoon, so I found myself at 37 (a transport hub) around 4:30. Determined to give myself a little succor to nurse my wounds, I went shopping at MaxMart, one of the big fancy international grocery stores. Garron, our recently departed cheese-loving friend, would have been envious. I picked up some delicious herbed chevre and crackers. Adding to the luxury, I decided that I somehow deserved a 1 kg sack of "small lobsters." I eyed some lobsters that were larger than anything I had ever seen, we are talking lobsters the size of the Governator's biceps. But I figured even with my current suffering, I couldnt justify the $28 price tag. Of course, that is what a skimpy lobster would cost in the US. I picked up some chocolates. In a turn to the reasonable, I got some flat bread, green peppers, and a nice cut of beef so Terry and I could make fajitas. Finally I picked up some of the awesome hand-made daily baklava. One of the small pleasures of living in a place where all the best grocery stores are Lebanese-owned.
So yeah. The food was tasty. But my nose is still runny. You can't shop your way out of a cold. I'm powering down the oranges and hoping I can keep this thing at bay, because I can't be thrown off schedule in the home stretch.
Can't wait to see everybody at home soon!
Friday, February 15, 2008
Valentines in Ghana
Hmmmm, so it all started out with good intentions.
For some time the plot had been to score a nice high-end dinner on Valentines Day, and more specifically to check out Le Magellan, one of the three upscale French restaurants in Accra. I have been running like a madwoman this week, but before 6AM, and averaging five or six interviews a day. Today I had four places to be before 11 AM. That may not seem like much to you Americans, but it pretty much makes me Hercules here. And to top it all off, when I was getting ready this morning our water was out, so that meant a bucket shower and then into my best suit (aka my own personal sweat lodge).
By 4:30 today, utterly melted, I struggled home. Still no water.
When I got home we talked about making reservations. It was the sort of conversation that began, and then petered out somehow before coming to resolution. I never really knew if Terry called or not, I was just mentally checked out after mentioning the idea of reservations.
When the time came, I tried on no fewer than four different dresses to decide what to wear. I haven’t worn a stich of make-up since I got to Ghana and never get a chance to do more with my hair than comb it and maybe, maybe put it in a rubber band. So I decided to try to make some kind of an event out of it. I hauled out what qualifies as my best dress. I even decided on some shoes that were essentially flats but with a slightly dressy top to them. I figured that we were just going to take a taxi to the restaurant anyway. Its not like I was going to be trekking. Ahh, famous last words.
To start, we discover that we may not have enough cash on hand to pay for a nice dinner, especially since we don’t know how fancy this place is. So instead of hopping in a cab, we go off walking down the road to our bank to get some cash out of the ATM. At this point I am clomping along a bit, and of course already sweating profusely in the 90 degree heat. But I’m smiling and trying to make the best of it. So what is a little clomping on Valentine’s Day?
We get to the bank, which is only a solid 6 minute walk from our house, to discover that both ATM machines were straight out of cash. Sigh. We debate whether we can get by on what we have and decide we’ll try to pass by another bank on the main road and see if, even in Ghana, we can use our ATM card at another bank machine.
On our way out of the bank parking lot, feet already pinching a bit, we are accosted by a small troop of street-children aggressively begging for money. I have seen these children begging for money on the streets for more than three years now. They are professional, and I hate contributing to making a child profitable on the street while the parents sit off to the side collecting the child’s take. They are particularly aggressive tonight, grabbing my hands and bodily hugging me to prevent me from passing.
We get to the next bank and manage to take out some cash. Woohoo! Although at this point we could walk the 15 minutes to the restaurant, I am making a sort of wincing sad face at Terry (about my shoes) and he springs for a taxi.
We cannot find our restaurant. We know we are in the area, its on this street, but we can’t find it. Our cabbie is staring at us impatiently, so we just get down on the side of the road, and start walking around looking for the restaurant. At this point I am losing the good fight. I want to be the cool and patient easygoing gal, and sadly I discover that I am not. And I am certainly not that way when I haven’t been sleeping well, when I’m hot, I’m tired, and hungry. So Terry is awesome and patient and trying to make me laugh and I’m being a minor pain in the butt.
We get to the restaurant and lo, the security guard outside prevents us from going in. He explains they are booked solid for the night. What?! We are in Ghana, the land of the “I come two hours late.” Reservations aren’t even accepted at many of the mid-level hotels, and they are a total oddity at most restaurants. It was the sort of thing that I only really suggested because I was American and it was a reflex. We had never seriously considered that reservations would overrun all restaurants in Accra for Valentines Day. I mean, heck, it is even a totally imported holiday, and a recent one at that.
Okay so no Magellan. Arg. Notch that P.I.A. a little more. We debate the merits of going elsewhere, but I am worried that we may face this problem anywhere. We decide to look into Monsoon, which is also swanky and local, and so if we are disappointed at least we won’t have trekked half way across town. On the way to Monsoon I try to haul myself out of my funky mood by making jokes about just getting a take-out pizza if we failed at Monsoon too.
On the way upstairs we thought we had struck gold. In the big restaurant there were maybe only two or three tables with people sitting at them. Amazing! Awesome! We go in smiling. And immediately we get a snobby turn down. If we don’t have reservations we simply can’t hope to be seated. I look in disbelief at the totally empty restaurant to my left. I gesture hopelessly and say, “But, but there is no one there!” which was apparently an affront to his swanky ways, and he gestures to the right, “That is because all of those enjoying themselves at the bar have reservations and expect to be seated.” So Terry and I turn heel while talking about how odd restaurant management in this place is if on a night when you are booked solid you have people packed into a bar and 90 percent of your restaurant tables sit totally empty.
At the base of the stairs I tell Terry I’m just not up for another round of rejection. We opt to actually get pizza take-out and watch movies at home. We go into the food court (just below Monsoon) and order our pizza. As we turn to wait, I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. The food court is full of people, and not too far away sits a family of six. The mother is dressed up. She’s wearing a pink satin dress, like a Prom dress, with a rinestone necklace. Her hair is done in a stylish up-do. My first reaction is that at least I’m not the most over-dressed person here.
And then I feel immediately humbled. Because for this family, this is a place to be dressed up, this is a place to aspire to eat at…a special occasion.
It winds up being a nice quiet night at home. We put on our PJs, watch Dexter DVDs that Terry’s parents sent us, and eat our pizza. After pizza, we toast the event with a very small bottle of ice wine that I brought with us for just such an occasion.
So in the end it was actually amazingly romantic: because I behaved like a total troll and my husband loved me anyway and spent the night making me laugh.
For some time the plot had been to score a nice high-end dinner on Valentines Day, and more specifically to check out Le Magellan, one of the three upscale French restaurants in Accra. I have been running like a madwoman this week, but before 6AM, and averaging five or six interviews a day. Today I had four places to be before 11 AM. That may not seem like much to you Americans, but it pretty much makes me Hercules here. And to top it all off, when I was getting ready this morning our water was out, so that meant a bucket shower and then into my best suit (aka my own personal sweat lodge).
By 4:30 today, utterly melted, I struggled home. Still no water.
When I got home we talked about making reservations. It was the sort of conversation that began, and then petered out somehow before coming to resolution. I never really knew if Terry called or not, I was just mentally checked out after mentioning the idea of reservations.
When the time came, I tried on no fewer than four different dresses to decide what to wear. I haven’t worn a stich of make-up since I got to Ghana and never get a chance to do more with my hair than comb it and maybe, maybe put it in a rubber band. So I decided to try to make some kind of an event out of it. I hauled out what qualifies as my best dress. I even decided on some shoes that were essentially flats but with a slightly dressy top to them. I figured that we were just going to take a taxi to the restaurant anyway. Its not like I was going to be trekking. Ahh, famous last words.
To start, we discover that we may not have enough cash on hand to pay for a nice dinner, especially since we don’t know how fancy this place is. So instead of hopping in a cab, we go off walking down the road to our bank to get some cash out of the ATM. At this point I am clomping along a bit, and of course already sweating profusely in the 90 degree heat. But I’m smiling and trying to make the best of it. So what is a little clomping on Valentine’s Day?
We get to the bank, which is only a solid 6 minute walk from our house, to discover that both ATM machines were straight out of cash. Sigh. We debate whether we can get by on what we have and decide we’ll try to pass by another bank on the main road and see if, even in Ghana, we can use our ATM card at another bank machine.
On our way out of the bank parking lot, feet already pinching a bit, we are accosted by a small troop of street-children aggressively begging for money. I have seen these children begging for money on the streets for more than three years now. They are professional, and I hate contributing to making a child profitable on the street while the parents sit off to the side collecting the child’s take. They are particularly aggressive tonight, grabbing my hands and bodily hugging me to prevent me from passing.
We get to the next bank and manage to take out some cash. Woohoo! Although at this point we could walk the 15 minutes to the restaurant, I am making a sort of wincing sad face at Terry (about my shoes) and he springs for a taxi.
We cannot find our restaurant. We know we are in the area, its on this street, but we can’t find it. Our cabbie is staring at us impatiently, so we just get down on the side of the road, and start walking around looking for the restaurant. At this point I am losing the good fight. I want to be the cool and patient easygoing gal, and sadly I discover that I am not. And I am certainly not that way when I haven’t been sleeping well, when I’m hot, I’m tired, and hungry. So Terry is awesome and patient and trying to make me laugh and I’m being a minor pain in the butt.
We get to the restaurant and lo, the security guard outside prevents us from going in. He explains they are booked solid for the night. What?! We are in Ghana, the land of the “I come two hours late.” Reservations aren’t even accepted at many of the mid-level hotels, and they are a total oddity at most restaurants. It was the sort of thing that I only really suggested because I was American and it was a reflex. We had never seriously considered that reservations would overrun all restaurants in Accra for Valentines Day. I mean, heck, it is even a totally imported holiday, and a recent one at that.
Okay so no Magellan. Arg. Notch that P.I.A. a little more. We debate the merits of going elsewhere, but I am worried that we may face this problem anywhere. We decide to look into Monsoon, which is also swanky and local, and so if we are disappointed at least we won’t have trekked half way across town. On the way to Monsoon I try to haul myself out of my funky mood by making jokes about just getting a take-out pizza if we failed at Monsoon too.
On the way upstairs we thought we had struck gold. In the big restaurant there were maybe only two or three tables with people sitting at them. Amazing! Awesome! We go in smiling. And immediately we get a snobby turn down. If we don’t have reservations we simply can’t hope to be seated. I look in disbelief at the totally empty restaurant to my left. I gesture hopelessly and say, “But, but there is no one there!” which was apparently an affront to his swanky ways, and he gestures to the right, “That is because all of those enjoying themselves at the bar have reservations and expect to be seated.” So Terry and I turn heel while talking about how odd restaurant management in this place is if on a night when you are booked solid you have people packed into a bar and 90 percent of your restaurant tables sit totally empty.
At the base of the stairs I tell Terry I’m just not up for another round of rejection. We opt to actually get pizza take-out and watch movies at home. We go into the food court (just below Monsoon) and order our pizza. As we turn to wait, I see something that stops me dead in my tracks. The food court is full of people, and not too far away sits a family of six. The mother is dressed up. She’s wearing a pink satin dress, like a Prom dress, with a rinestone necklace. Her hair is done in a stylish up-do. My first reaction is that at least I’m not the most over-dressed person here.
And then I feel immediately humbled. Because for this family, this is a place to be dressed up, this is a place to aspire to eat at…a special occasion.
It winds up being a nice quiet night at home. We put on our PJs, watch Dexter DVDs that Terry’s parents sent us, and eat our pizza. After pizza, we toast the event with a very small bottle of ice wine that I brought with us for just such an occasion.
So in the end it was actually amazingly romantic: because I behaved like a total troll and my husband loved me anyway and spent the night making me laugh.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
African Cup of Nations 2008 Quarterfinals Results
It is 7:30 PM and it is mayhem outside. The Ghanaian Black Stars have just defeated their arch rivals the Nigerian Super Eagles in the Quarter-Finals of the 2008 African Cup of Nations. The Nigerian side were considered favorites coming into the 2008 CAN; they have the highest FIFA world ranking (19) of any of the current African teams. Yet they struggled in the preliminary rounds against the powerful Ivory Coast team, and came out of their bracket in second place. The Nigerian team, whom many commentators felt had not played to their potential in the early rounds, came out of the gates swinging against their long time rivals, the Black Stars. In recent history the Nigerian team has had a way of frustrating and defeating the Ghanaians, and it was almost as if meeting these historic rivals awoke the hunger within the Nigerian side.
One section of the stadium was packed with Nigerian fans; their characteristic white and Kelly green standing out starkly from the sea of Ghanaian red, gold, and green. This section erupted into madness when their team scored the first goal off a penalty kick just after the first half hour of play. Going up on the Black Stars 1 to 0 gave the Nigerian side an increased boost of confidence. Whereas the Ghanaian team had enjoyed a 60-40 share of ball possession for the first thirty minutes, after that penalty goal and for the rest of the first half the Nigerians evened the time of possession.
At the risk of sounding fickle, I have to admit that I was a bit afraid. The Nigerians began the game fiercely, and only picked up their efforts. From my seat as an amateur sporting commentator, it seems to me that the Ghanaian team tends to start matches sitting back a bit. Optimistically I’d be tempted to say they are taking it easy and trying to observe, get a read on the other team. But the juxtaposition of the two is anxiety provoking for the fan: the Ghanaian team seemingly sitting back while the Nigerians charged ferociously (and with no shortage of penalties and a few yellows).
The Ghanaians picked it up in response to the Nigerian penalty goal, but as the final minutes of the first half ticked down, it appeared we would head for the locker rooms down by one. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Essien “the darling boy” put a header just insie the left goal post, with enough spin on the ball to rickochet it into the net. Ghanaian fans in the pub where we were watching lept up. A caucaphony of horns, whistles, shouts, chants and screams filled the too-small space of the pub. People were caught in between jumping and dancing in a movement that reminds us that adults are sometimes still only bigger kids.
During half time we have to leave the pub to send our visiting friends off to the airport. After packing them safely away in a taxi, we go to a small local Caribbean Jerk Chicken restaurant, where the interior of the restaurant is packed to capacity with Ghanaians. As we enter, we wave to Francis, who lives on our compound and always hangs out there. The second half is as stressful and exciting as the first. The Ghanaians are storming the Nigerian goal, take more shots, but the shots either go wide or are defended by the goalie. At one point we have a series of three consecutive corner kicks against their goal but we fail to capitalize on any of them. The fans are getting antsy as the time of the second half ticks down. With the game still tied, we are looking at overtime.
Then, just like the first half, just as the fans are resigned to the score, Junior Agogo puts one into the back of the net on a brilliant cross from left field. Junior Agogo is my favorite of the Black Star players, although he is not a fancy big-ticket premiere league player like Michael Essien or our injured captain Appiah. But he is a work horse who has consistently gotten it done for the Black Stars when they really needed it, seeming never to tire. He played the game even though he has been complaining of illness all week. Although he wasn’t playing at his usual full capacity, he was still a force to be reckoned with on the pitch. After the shot went in he stripped his jersey off and streaked around to the Black Stars bench, where several team mates jumped off the bench to pat and congratulate him. They all seem to have a characteristic post-goal move, some shimmy or shake. In the midst of the jumping pile of Black Stars, Agogo, smiling broadly, was pointing both hands forward and doing something that looked like a new take on “walk like an Egyptian.”
And then followed what felt like the longest minutes of my life. We played down the time to the official game end, and then there were three minutes of stoppage time. (For those unaccustomed to soccer: the clock runs continuously throughout the game, and then the referee adds “stoppage” time at the end to make up for the time lost along the way). These three minutes passed in an excruciating onslaught from the Nigerians. Several times the ball was like a foosball being batted back and forth within feet of the goal. Everyone in our room was leaning forward, drawn to the gravity of the television as the seconds ticked down and the ball continued to bang furiously within the inner goal box. Finally, Junior Agogo got a foot on it and booted the ball well out of scoring range. The clock wound down and the referee blew the whistle.
We were borne out on the wave of enthusiastic fans who rushed out of the tiny restaurant where we were viewing the match and raced the streets trying to burn off excess energy and excitement. Terry and I walked home and sat in front of our gate, watching the cars full of fans race by, flags waving, horns blaring, faces hung out the window shouting. As each roared by in celebration we, on the sidelines of this parade, enthusiastically roared back in response. Even Dinah, one of the women in our compound, was sitting out front, waving her Ghana flag as the cars zoomed by. From time to time she would cluck her tongue, “These Ghana people, we like celebration too much!” But then she would crack into a smile and chuckle a little.
Thinking of everything that has gone on in Kenya recently, and a hundred other ethno-political acts of violence on the continent, I couldn’t help but find myself pleasantly amazed that at least when Ghanaians offer stereotypes, they offer national stereotypes. And there are worse things in the world than being a little too eager to celebrate. The newspapers the next day would all feature the game on the front page, with some variation on the headline “Black Stars Victorious” or “The [Nigerian] Super Eagles Don’t Soar!” but not a word of any violence or fighting among the fans of these two rival teams.
One section of the stadium was packed with Nigerian fans; their characteristic white and Kelly green standing out starkly from the sea of Ghanaian red, gold, and green. This section erupted into madness when their team scored the first goal off a penalty kick just after the first half hour of play. Going up on the Black Stars 1 to 0 gave the Nigerian side an increased boost of confidence. Whereas the Ghanaian team had enjoyed a 60-40 share of ball possession for the first thirty minutes, after that penalty goal and for the rest of the first half the Nigerians evened the time of possession.
At the risk of sounding fickle, I have to admit that I was a bit afraid. The Nigerians began the game fiercely, and only picked up their efforts. From my seat as an amateur sporting commentator, it seems to me that the Ghanaian team tends to start matches sitting back a bit. Optimistically I’d be tempted to say they are taking it easy and trying to observe, get a read on the other team. But the juxtaposition of the two is anxiety provoking for the fan: the Ghanaian team seemingly sitting back while the Nigerians charged ferociously (and with no shortage of penalties and a few yellows).
The Ghanaians picked it up in response to the Nigerian penalty goal, but as the final minutes of the first half ticked down, it appeared we would head for the locker rooms down by one. Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Essien “the darling boy” put a header just insie the left goal post, with enough spin on the ball to rickochet it into the net. Ghanaian fans in the pub where we were watching lept up. A caucaphony of horns, whistles, shouts, chants and screams filled the too-small space of the pub. People were caught in between jumping and dancing in a movement that reminds us that adults are sometimes still only bigger kids.
During half time we have to leave the pub to send our visiting friends off to the airport. After packing them safely away in a taxi, we go to a small local Caribbean Jerk Chicken restaurant, where the interior of the restaurant is packed to capacity with Ghanaians. As we enter, we wave to Francis, who lives on our compound and always hangs out there. The second half is as stressful and exciting as the first. The Ghanaians are storming the Nigerian goal, take more shots, but the shots either go wide or are defended by the goalie. At one point we have a series of three consecutive corner kicks against their goal but we fail to capitalize on any of them. The fans are getting antsy as the time of the second half ticks down. With the game still tied, we are looking at overtime.
Then, just like the first half, just as the fans are resigned to the score, Junior Agogo puts one into the back of the net on a brilliant cross from left field. Junior Agogo is my favorite of the Black Star players, although he is not a fancy big-ticket premiere league player like Michael Essien or our injured captain Appiah. But he is a work horse who has consistently gotten it done for the Black Stars when they really needed it, seeming never to tire. He played the game even though he has been complaining of illness all week. Although he wasn’t playing at his usual full capacity, he was still a force to be reckoned with on the pitch. After the shot went in he stripped his jersey off and streaked around to the Black Stars bench, where several team mates jumped off the bench to pat and congratulate him. They all seem to have a characteristic post-goal move, some shimmy or shake. In the midst of the jumping pile of Black Stars, Agogo, smiling broadly, was pointing both hands forward and doing something that looked like a new take on “walk like an Egyptian.”
And then followed what felt like the longest minutes of my life. We played down the time to the official game end, and then there were three minutes of stoppage time. (For those unaccustomed to soccer: the clock runs continuously throughout the game, and then the referee adds “stoppage” time at the end to make up for the time lost along the way). These three minutes passed in an excruciating onslaught from the Nigerians. Several times the ball was like a foosball being batted back and forth within feet of the goal. Everyone in our room was leaning forward, drawn to the gravity of the television as the seconds ticked down and the ball continued to bang furiously within the inner goal box. Finally, Junior Agogo got a foot on it and booted the ball well out of scoring range. The clock wound down and the referee blew the whistle.
We were borne out on the wave of enthusiastic fans who rushed out of the tiny restaurant where we were viewing the match and raced the streets trying to burn off excess energy and excitement. Terry and I walked home and sat in front of our gate, watching the cars full of fans race by, flags waving, horns blaring, faces hung out the window shouting. As each roared by in celebration we, on the sidelines of this parade, enthusiastically roared back in response. Even Dinah, one of the women in our compound, was sitting out front, waving her Ghana flag as the cars zoomed by. From time to time she would cluck her tongue, “These Ghana people, we like celebration too much!” But then she would crack into a smile and chuckle a little.
Thinking of everything that has gone on in Kenya recently, and a hundred other ethno-political acts of violence on the continent, I couldn’t help but find myself pleasantly amazed that at least when Ghanaians offer stereotypes, they offer national stereotypes. And there are worse things in the world than being a little too eager to celebrate. The newspapers the next day would all feature the game on the front page, with some variation on the headline “Black Stars Victorious” or “The [Nigerian] Super Eagles Don’t Soar!” but not a word of any violence or fighting among the fans of these two rival teams.
Our Christmas Story
Until about a week before the event, Christmas in Ghana was looking like a solitary event. Many of the foreigners we had known had left the country, either to return home or to visit. The Ghanaian family I have been close with for eight years was busy preparing for an upcoming wedding (post forthcoming) so weren't doing anything special. We had plans to visit some of our good Ghanaian friends and deliver a few presents, but otherwise it was just going to be T and I. Terry has been down lately. The double whamy of turning 30 and his first Christmas out of the country had really gotten to him. Our efforts to craft a connection to the meaningful traditions of our home focused, perhaps not surprisingly, on food.
We had decided that Christmas morning we would try to make cinnamon rolls. In my house growing up my mother often made cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning, always with orange frosting. Growing up these were the kind that came out of a tube, because they were easy to make in the midst of all the hubub. Of course, in Ghana, there are no ready-made tubes of cinnamon roll dough just waiting to be baked. I did research on the web. When I usually approach a new recipe, I like to look around and get a sense of the variety so I can better identify the proportions and items that most of the good looking recipes have in common. Thanks to my love of Alton Brown and some experimentation with yeast breads in the past, I was also equipped with a descent sense of what the different elements were doing for the final product. I had finally put together a recipe that I thought would be quite good.
Just one problem: we were going to have to "bake" them in a rice cooker.
We don't have an oven here. In desperation, I have discovered that you can bake banana bread in a rice cooker. It takes a little adaptation, but it can be done. I even made two different kinds. With no alternative in sight, it was looking like rice-cooker cinnamon rolls. They might be goopey or gooey or, at worst, pasty and inedible. But at leasst they would be good for a story and a laugh. We would remember "that Christmas in Ghana" when we baked in a rice cooker.
Instead, the generosity of near strangers made the season memorable for a completely different reason. Through another friend, we recently met a new group of folks who are North Americans (a few British) who are here for several years. They were warm and welcoming, and before the end of the night, they had invited us along to a Christmas Eve dinner and holiday service.
Dinner was a gathering of foreigners who were staying in Accra for the holidays. Our gracious hosts served amazing lasagna, garlic bread, and salad. For dessert it was warm apple pie, chocolate dipped peanut butter balls, and oatmeal cookies. Sitting in a room filled with the voices and sounds of thirty people, eating only by the light cast from the Christmas tree, it suddenly seemed like Christmas.
Afterwards we went to a Christmas eve service. We heard the traditional Christmas passages read. We sang traditional Christmas songs. Actually, the songs were all the British version, and who knew the Brits had totally different words. The experience was very much like being in a hiccup in the Matrix, where things are mostly right, but something is a little off. At the very end of the service we did a traditional candlelight ending. Candlelight while singing Silent Night is a wonderful way to close out an Eve service. But I will say it works considerably better when you don't have to turn the fans off and suffer 90 degree heat just so you can keep the candles lit.
After the service Terry and I were joking about our impending experiment with "rice cooker cinnamon rolls." The other expats invited us to join them at their home for a Christmas brunch. We brought along our cinnamon rolls, cooked them in the oven, and they turned out divine! After brunch, we all returned to the living room, where we basked in tree-light and exchanged gifts in a somewhat abusive system where each person has the opportunity to "steal" a previously opened gift.
After brunch, we returned home, and decided to head out to the Internet Cafe to try to contact friends and family back home via Skype. We went to our favorite hang-out, Frankies.
Frankies was full of dapper looking Ghanaians celebrating Christmas with a special meal out for the family. Near us sat four women, all dressed in their "sunday best" and nine children, almost all under the age of eight. Although it is at a restaurant, a long table lined with hopeful little faces has the inescapable impression of holiday and family. The smallest boy sits just near me. I can see his tiny black patent leather shoes glint as he kicks his feet back and forth. He has a navy colored satin vest on over a light blue button shirt. The button shirt collar is popped as though he is some college hipster, but he doesn't seem to notice or mind. He sits across from an absolutely beautiful seven year old girl, her hair carefully in plaits and then tied up in pig tails with ribbons. The girl occasionally looks over at me, both charming and shy, interested in me, the foreigner. Finally their food comes out. They are all enjoying Chicken and Fried Rice, which has become something of a Ghanaian national favorite in the last four or five years. The mothers aren't eating, just sipping soda and laying back, watching contentedly as the children dig in to this special Christmas treat.
We had decided that Christmas morning we would try to make cinnamon rolls. In my house growing up my mother often made cinnamon rolls for Christmas morning, always with orange frosting. Growing up these were the kind that came out of a tube, because they were easy to make in the midst of all the hubub. Of course, in Ghana, there are no ready-made tubes of cinnamon roll dough just waiting to be baked. I did research on the web. When I usually approach a new recipe, I like to look around and get a sense of the variety so I can better identify the proportions and items that most of the good looking recipes have in common. Thanks to my love of Alton Brown and some experimentation with yeast breads in the past, I was also equipped with a descent sense of what the different elements were doing for the final product. I had finally put together a recipe that I thought would be quite good.
Just one problem: we were going to have to "bake" them in a rice cooker.
We don't have an oven here. In desperation, I have discovered that you can bake banana bread in a rice cooker. It takes a little adaptation, but it can be done. I even made two different kinds. With no alternative in sight, it was looking like rice-cooker cinnamon rolls. They might be goopey or gooey or, at worst, pasty and inedible. But at leasst they would be good for a story and a laugh. We would remember "that Christmas in Ghana" when we baked in a rice cooker.
Instead, the generosity of near strangers made the season memorable for a completely different reason. Through another friend, we recently met a new group of folks who are North Americans (a few British) who are here for several years. They were warm and welcoming, and before the end of the night, they had invited us along to a Christmas Eve dinner and holiday service.
Dinner was a gathering of foreigners who were staying in Accra for the holidays. Our gracious hosts served amazing lasagna, garlic bread, and salad. For dessert it was warm apple pie, chocolate dipped peanut butter balls, and oatmeal cookies. Sitting in a room filled with the voices and sounds of thirty people, eating only by the light cast from the Christmas tree, it suddenly seemed like Christmas.
Afterwards we went to a Christmas eve service. We heard the traditional Christmas passages read. We sang traditional Christmas songs. Actually, the songs were all the British version, and who knew the Brits had totally different words. The experience was very much like being in a hiccup in the Matrix, where things are mostly right, but something is a little off. At the very end of the service we did a traditional candlelight ending. Candlelight while singing Silent Night is a wonderful way to close out an Eve service. But I will say it works considerably better when you don't have to turn the fans off and suffer 90 degree heat just so you can keep the candles lit.
After the service Terry and I were joking about our impending experiment with "rice cooker cinnamon rolls." The other expats invited us to join them at their home for a Christmas brunch. We brought along our cinnamon rolls, cooked them in the oven, and they turned out divine! After brunch, we all returned to the living room, where we basked in tree-light and exchanged gifts in a somewhat abusive system where each person has the opportunity to "steal" a previously opened gift.
After brunch, we returned home, and decided to head out to the Internet Cafe to try to contact friends and family back home via Skype. We went to our favorite hang-out, Frankies.
Frankies was full of dapper looking Ghanaians celebrating Christmas with a special meal out for the family. Near us sat four women, all dressed in their "sunday best" and nine children, almost all under the age of eight. Although it is at a restaurant, a long table lined with hopeful little faces has the inescapable impression of holiday and family. The smallest boy sits just near me. I can see his tiny black patent leather shoes glint as he kicks his feet back and forth. He has a navy colored satin vest on over a light blue button shirt. The button shirt collar is popped as though he is some college hipster, but he doesn't seem to notice or mind. He sits across from an absolutely beautiful seven year old girl, her hair carefully in plaits and then tied up in pig tails with ribbons. The girl occasionally looks over at me, both charming and shy, interested in me, the foreigner. Finally their food comes out. They are all enjoying Chicken and Fried Rice, which has become something of a Ghanaian national favorite in the last four or five years. The mothers aren't eating, just sipping soda and laying back, watching contentedly as the children dig in to this special Christmas treat.
Thursday, December 20, 2007
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!
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!
Monday, November 26, 2007
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
Nip/Tuck Season 2
Nip/Tuck Season 3
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.
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