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.