Home stretch

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!

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!

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.

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.

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.

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.