This was a very trying week, principally because of all the nonsense that goes on in an organization that's "spirally" managed. That is, top-level decision-makers go 'round and 'round, moving as far away from making a (lasting, impactful, forward-moving) decision as possible.
A friend of mine insists she's becoming "dumber". I insist no, she's just becoming more discerning -- learning how to separate the wheat from the chaff, how to recognize and reject b.s. I wish I could say it's a product of age, but alas, it isn't. It's more a product of perspective.
For example, this week --
1) Home office in Bethesda, MD accidentally knocked down our website (that they manage) and lost all our data. Somebody has to pay for all the work that will go into reconstructing it, even though the projects will only last another year and a half. USAID maintains that even though it approved our project having its own logo, that's actually a no-no (as it was 3 years ago when I was in Rwanda, but go figure) so all our business cards and signage (in 3 countries) have to be re-done. That's a lot of staff time and financial resources on re-dos, and someone has to pay. That someone would be...well, you.
2) Our USAID contract refers to us as a "partner", though the common usage is that we're a "project". I was asked to issue a directive on what word we should use and when. I did. I was told, no, our chief USAID liaison told us something different. I changed the directive to what I was told he said. I was told I was wrong. Similar on the business cards -- and I won't even go into all the details of that two-month-long redo. No logo. Okay, I scrapped the artist's designs and worked on one just using typeface and colors. Chief USAID liaison (whose title is actually an acronym of something so silly it doesn't bear repeating here) said no colors, too much like a logo -- better stick with black and white. I re-did it. Was told it was "unappealing" and I should use colors. I forwarded the e-mail in which the USAID guy said "use black and white" and was told...no, in a separate conversation, to which I was not privy, he said colors were okay.
3) I write a lot of stories and edit my staff's stories. Then it goes to my boss who distributes it to two other members of senior management who return it to him who returns it to me. So obviously, when it comes back it's full of track changes and "comments" and barely resembles what we started with (and researched and wrote and had vetted by the "technical:" staff). Now, in a spiral management setting, "comments" are more opportunities to expound, than to correct or even clarify. They're things like "I wonder if we should say this..."; "Are we really doing this...?" and "What if someone thinks...." Sorry, I can't know how to answer those questions. Process aborted.
4) I need to know the exact dates, times and locations of two workshops being held in Kumasi, Ghana, the same week in January, as I plan to go there to provide communications staff support. I ask the technical staff members responsible for those activities for that information, and for the Scope of Work they've prepared that explains what they plan to do, and what they hope to accomplish by doing it. But instead of just TELLING me where/when their workshops are being held, and sending me the SOW, one ignores my two requests and the other tells me "Venancious knows". Venancious reports to me; he sits at a desk across from me. If he HAD the information he would have told me in the first place. Is this cultural? I ask him and our other staffer, Felix. No, they assure me, it's just ridiculous. We start to laugh, and then we roar, imagining me starting at the airport in Kumasi, going around town asking, "Do you know of a poultry workshop here?" Who IS that crazy white woman??
5) A round-and-around meeting on how to proceed on a particular communications proposal ended up exactly where I'd suggested it should go, but of course we had to go through:
- Give us your opinion.
- I just did.
- Wait, let me give you the background.
- Okay. (Background/history/rationale provided)
- What do you think?
- The same thing I said earlier.
- Well, what about doing it this way...?
- Why? What does that accomplish?
- Well, if you don't agree, just say so.
- I just did.
- So what do you think?
- I just told you.
And then there was:
- Do you have this information on your copy of the document?
- I don't know, let me see it and compare.
- (Third person) No, don't use that (pulls it aside). It's not the version we're going to use.
- How can I answer (2nd person's) question if I don't look at it?
- (Second person) I'm just asking if this item is on your version?
- I don't know. (Third person) told me not to look at it.
- (Second person) I just want to be sure they're the same...
- GIVE ME THAT PAPER!
And the clincher...
- This proposal is a strategy and the strategy is the deliverable. So you don't really have to worry about the implementation.
- Huh?
xooxox Love, Grammy
Friday, December 17, 2010
Sunday, December 5, 2010
A Ghanaian weekend
Weekends in Ghana are of course for family and visiting friends and shopping and church and going out. They're NOT typically for cleaning and laundry at my economic level because most have maids or houseboys who do that work during the week. I can afford it, but choose not to have help so on my weekends, I do some cleaning and laundry and grocery shopping. This weekend, though, I did two other popular actvities: get out of town to the coast and go to a funeral in "the village".
On Friday, the national Farmers Day holiday, I filled the car tank (close to $50), grabbed my trusty Bradt guide and headed west as far as the fishing town of Winneba, wanting to see some Bradt-recommended sights along the way. Theoretically you can go as far west along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, however given the time it takes to get out of traffic-ensnarled Accra (plus I keep getting lost), and then the hellish traffic going through towns enroute, it wasn't a particular pleasant experience. Every little town has vendors in the street -- all selling the same foodstuffs and junk. Hard to figure out what the point is, as no one can be earning very much money.
I couldn't find some of the sights listed in the guide, there were some unpaved roads that I was not going to try to navigate without a 4x4, and it takes quite a while to get from the main road south along the feeder roads to the beach. I also got lost coming back into town and kept telling myself, "This is an adventure, this is fun, this is new, this is -- well, actually, it was just slightly less annoying than working for sheep.
Yesterday, though, was pretty amazing, because weekends in Ghana are also for funerals. A whole lot of people come from villages in regions throughout country -- where the languages and customs are all different -- and they go home to their village when there's a family funeral. The funeral can can take four or five days with all the arrangements, religious and traditional ceremonies and family gatherings. My impressions and very superficial knowledge are that going home to your village is mostly about comfort. It's about speaking your traditional language, being with family, seeing childhood friends, participating in traditions. Life is simple, easy, slow, predictable and cherished. You are someone because you're from somewhere -- where you're known and accepted.
Funerals in Ghana are ritualized celebrations, and when they say "celebration of life", they're not just paying lip service tribute...they're really celebrating. Black and white are the traditional mourning colors (though red is also worn, though I'm not clear why). The older the person who died, the more white is prevalent, the sentiment being that a person over 70 is dying naturally and at an appropriate age and has lived a long time so his/her life should be celebrated. After the church service, a band leads the coffin and on-foot processional to the cemetery for burial, after which the "mourners" (or rather, celebrants) are invited to the home of the deceased's family for a joyous celebration.
Felix is one of the two Communications specialists I supervise. His mother died a couple of months ago, but her funeral wasn't until yesterday because it takes quite a while to save and gather the funds necessary for all the funereal actitivities. In fact, it's customary for friends and colleagues to help defray expenses with a monetary gift, which is what both Venancious (the other specialist) and I did, as well as the project office as a whole. Three colleagues and I, plus one of our drivers, traveled 4-1/2 hours each way to attend the funeral in theVolta region village of Kadjebi, just on the western side of the mountains that form Ghana's eastern border with Togo.
It's a four and a half hour trip, and was very interesting for the first three hours. Then it got long. But during the first part of the trip there was lively conversation -- mostly about the political situation in Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana's neighbor to the west, where a disputed presidential election is a precursor to anything from violence in the streets to all-out civil war, sure to send Ivoriens fleeing next door to Ghana. Second favorite topic is soccer, with the World Cup having just been awarded to Russia and Qatar in --what? 2018 and 2022?!
We stopped in a small village for what might be considered "brunch" at home, because no one had had breakfast, given that we'd left Accra so early. This stop was at a "chop bar" -- someone's very modest shack where "local food" is served. As far as I can figure out, Ghanaians typically eat three meals a day, all of which are basically the same: a starch (maize, cassava, yam or rice -- or combination) that they eat with their hands, scooping up the "sauce" that's poured on it. The sauces have meat, fish, chicken or vegetables and they're very spicy. There's also a "soup", but I can't tell the difference from it and a "sauce". Actually, there are other local dishes, such as delicious grilled fish and potatoes, and grilled or fried chicen with "jollo" (spicy) or fried rice.
I try to be a good sport about new foods, but I'll never be a special guest on those Food Channel TV shows where the host (e.g., Anthony Bourdain?) is eating something very weird. So, at this chop enroute to the funeral, I just couldn't do it. The lady grabbed the cassava (or yam?) ball, slapped it into a bowl, and poured over it a sauce that had parts of an animal I do not want to eat, and that literally turned my stomach. I made some excuse and rushed out onto the street where I bought some bananas and "chips" (fried bread and groundnuts --peanuts) and then came back to play with the woman's five, six? grandchildren, all of whom clearly thought I was the most exciting thing to hit their village.
Then there's the issue of the bathroom when you go out of the city. There's no way to get around the fact that this can be quite a challenge, especially for a woman. As fussy as I am about my food, I'm probably fussier about my toilet. I'd much rather go behind a bush or rock than in some of the places I've been, but it's best to wear a skirt to do that. I was wearing pants (white, with a black top) and en route had to pee. One of my colleagues had a family member who lived nearby, and offered their outdoor facility. I was looking for/dreading the hole in the ground (a cement-lined "latrine" is considered a more developed concept), but turns out they had a cement-floored shower/pee room. Ah, the things you learn as a traveler...
By the time we arrived in Kadjebi, about 11:30 a.m., the church service had ended, so I have no idea what happened -- and wouldn't have understood it, anyway. I was much more fascinated by the music and dancing at the reception in the courtyard of Felix's village home -- and the fashion show. Even though not everyone wore black/white/red, many did -- custom-made dresses and shirts exqisitely tailored and literally cut from the same black-and-white patterned cloth. Felix's family chose to have all family members wear the same cloth (the black diamond-pattern seen in the photos), but everyone had a different style -- even the men and children. And the music and traditional dancing! Wonderful! I did some dancing, much to the delight of the local women. I did not, however, eat much of the meal so kindly served to us as Felix's "special guests". Each family member has his/her own special guests who are served their meal inside, in one of the family houses, as opposed to the other invited guests, who eat boxed meals under the outdoor canopies.
As we were getting ready to leave, Felix thanked all of us for coming -- me in particular, saying it was such an honor to have his "white lady boss" there, and people had already mentioned it to him. Although this made me uncomfortable, fraught as it was with elitism, racism and the vestiges of colonialism, I accepted his thanks in the spirit they were given, and to alleviate my own tension, teased him in response, "Oh, good, I guess that means you're now the 'big man' in your village!" We all laughed, but I think we all know how deeply complex my being there was.
On Friday, the national Farmers Day holiday, I filled the car tank (close to $50), grabbed my trusty Bradt guide and headed west as far as the fishing town of Winneba, wanting to see some Bradt-recommended sights along the way. Theoretically you can go as far west along the coast to Cape Coast and Elmina, however given the time it takes to get out of traffic-ensnarled Accra (plus I keep getting lost), and then the hellish traffic going through towns enroute, it wasn't a particular pleasant experience. Every little town has vendors in the street -- all selling the same foodstuffs and junk. Hard to figure out what the point is, as no one can be earning very much money.
I couldn't find some of the sights listed in the guide, there were some unpaved roads that I was not going to try to navigate without a 4x4, and it takes quite a while to get from the main road south along the feeder roads to the beach. I also got lost coming back into town and kept telling myself, "This is an adventure, this is fun, this is new, this is -- well, actually, it was just slightly less annoying than working for sheep.
Yesterday, though, was pretty amazing, because weekends in Ghana are also for funerals. A whole lot of people come from villages in regions throughout country -- where the languages and customs are all different -- and they go home to their village when there's a family funeral. The funeral can can take four or five days with all the arrangements, religious and traditional ceremonies and family gatherings. My impressions and very superficial knowledge are that going home to your village is mostly about comfort. It's about speaking your traditional language, being with family, seeing childhood friends, participating in traditions. Life is simple, easy, slow, predictable and cherished. You are someone because you're from somewhere -- where you're known and accepted.
Funerals in Ghana are ritualized celebrations, and when they say "celebration of life", they're not just paying lip service tribute...they're really celebrating. Black and white are the traditional mourning colors (though red is also worn, though I'm not clear why). The older the person who died, the more white is prevalent, the sentiment being that a person over 70 is dying naturally and at an appropriate age and has lived a long time so his/her life should be celebrated. After the church service, a band leads the coffin and on-foot processional to the cemetery for burial, after which the "mourners" (or rather, celebrants) are invited to the home of the deceased's family for a joyous celebration.
Felix is one of the two Communications specialists I supervise. His mother died a couple of months ago, but her funeral wasn't until yesterday because it takes quite a while to save and gather the funds necessary for all the funereal actitivities. In fact, it's customary for friends and colleagues to help defray expenses with a monetary gift, which is what both Venancious (the other specialist) and I did, as well as the project office as a whole. Three colleagues and I, plus one of our drivers, traveled 4-1/2 hours each way to attend the funeral in theVolta region village of Kadjebi, just on the western side of the mountains that form Ghana's eastern border with Togo.
It's a four and a half hour trip, and was very interesting for the first three hours. Then it got long. But during the first part of the trip there was lively conversation -- mostly about the political situation in Cote d'Ivoire, Ghana's neighbor to the west, where a disputed presidential election is a precursor to anything from violence in the streets to all-out civil war, sure to send Ivoriens fleeing next door to Ghana. Second favorite topic is soccer, with the World Cup having just been awarded to Russia and Qatar in --what? 2018 and 2022?!
We stopped in a small village for what might be considered "brunch" at home, because no one had had breakfast, given that we'd left Accra so early. This stop was at a "chop bar" -- someone's very modest shack where "local food" is served. As far as I can figure out, Ghanaians typically eat three meals a day, all of which are basically the same: a starch (maize, cassava, yam or rice -- or combination) that they eat with their hands, scooping up the "sauce" that's poured on it. The sauces have meat, fish, chicken or vegetables and they're very spicy. There's also a "soup", but I can't tell the difference from it and a "sauce". Actually, there are other local dishes, such as delicious grilled fish and potatoes, and grilled or fried chicen with "jollo" (spicy) or fried rice.
I try to be a good sport about new foods, but I'll never be a special guest on those Food Channel TV shows where the host (e.g., Anthony Bourdain?) is eating something very weird. So, at this chop enroute to the funeral, I just couldn't do it. The lady grabbed the cassava (or yam?) ball, slapped it into a bowl, and poured over it a sauce that had parts of an animal I do not want to eat, and that literally turned my stomach. I made some excuse and rushed out onto the street where I bought some bananas and "chips" (fried bread and groundnuts --peanuts) and then came back to play with the woman's five, six? grandchildren, all of whom clearly thought I was the most exciting thing to hit their village.
Then there's the issue of the bathroom when you go out of the city. There's no way to get around the fact that this can be quite a challenge, especially for a woman. As fussy as I am about my food, I'm probably fussier about my toilet. I'd much rather go behind a bush or rock than in some of the places I've been, but it's best to wear a skirt to do that. I was wearing pants (white, with a black top) and en route had to pee. One of my colleagues had a family member who lived nearby, and offered their outdoor facility. I was looking for/dreading the hole in the ground (a cement-lined "latrine" is considered a more developed concept), but turns out they had a cement-floored shower/pee room. Ah, the things you learn as a traveler...
By the time we arrived in Kadjebi, about 11:30 a.m., the church service had ended, so I have no idea what happened -- and wouldn't have understood it, anyway. I was much more fascinated by the music and dancing at the reception in the courtyard of Felix's village home -- and the fashion show. Even though not everyone wore black/white/red, many did -- custom-made dresses and shirts exqisitely tailored and literally cut from the same black-and-white patterned cloth. Felix's family chose to have all family members wear the same cloth (the black diamond-pattern seen in the photos), but everyone had a different style -- even the men and children. And the music and traditional dancing! Wonderful! I did some dancing, much to the delight of the local women. I did not, however, eat much of the meal so kindly served to us as Felix's "special guests". Each family member has his/her own special guests who are served their meal inside, in one of the family houses, as opposed to the other invited guests, who eat boxed meals under the outdoor canopies.
As we were getting ready to leave, Felix thanked all of us for coming -- me in particular, saying it was such an honor to have his "white lady boss" there, and people had already mentioned it to him. Although this made me uncomfortable, fraught as it was with elitism, racism and the vestiges of colonialism, I accepted his thanks in the spirit they were given, and to alleviate my own tension, teased him in response, "Oh, good, I guess that means you're now the 'big man' in your village!" We all laughed, but I think we all know how deeply complex my being there was.
xxoxoxo Love, Grammy
Sunday, November 28, 2010
Car culture-shock
Driving in Accra is insane. Or, rather, the Ghanaian drivers are insane and we foreigners adapt, just as we do in everything else -- meaning we become crazy, too. This is the first time I've driven in Africa, and while I've seen nutso driving in Addis Ababa and Cairo, I've never done any of the driving myself -- I could just close my eyes and let the driver worry about it, while I sucked in my breath, gasped, and grabbed the "OMG" bar above the door.
Even though on paper Ghana traffic laws are pretty strict, and the insurance and safety requirements are pretty hefty (e.g., you have to carry a fire extinguisher and road hazard triangles), the Ghanaian drivers (at least here in Accra) have absolutely no respect for others' rights. They'll stay in lanes and obey traffic lights if it suits them. If not, they'll form a new lane which may or may not be going in the same direction as the rest of the traffic. If you want to cross an intersection, well, you just pull up and nudge forward until the oncoming car HAS to stop (or hit you). Since it's always the person behind you at fault (i.e., you should have been paying attention and applied your brakes), cars weave in and out with impunity. The "tro-tros" (public transport vans) are particularly guilty of this -- whoops! Here's a stop! Gotta move over. Okay, I'm done, gotta move back into traffic! Pass on the right? Of course!
The traffic in Accra is horrendous, especially during "rush hours". My office is 7 minutes from my apartmennt - - on Sunday mornings. Week mornings and evenings it's at least half an hour, if not 45 minutes. But if you don't like waiting in traffic -- no problem. Just cut ACROSS the street and go the OPPOSITE way until you can CROSS BACK and cut back into the line!
Are there traffic lights? Yes. Are they where they should be? Not necessarily. And when they're not working, which is often, yes, there are police. At least two, more often three at an intersection. They're either sitting down and just waving you through, or standing in the street, not paying attention to each other so nothing is coordinated. I can go, right? Well, that guy is waving...okay, me? My turn? Oh, no? Well, HE's going and...oh, the hell with it!
Speaking of people in the street, that's another big item here. All along the most frequently traveled city streets there are vendors, and they're IN the street. They're selling everything from mobile phone calling cards to toilet paper to water to plastic junk to food, all of which they carry on their heads! Actually, it's the women more than the men who do that. I pass each day a woman who carries a complete boutique on her head -- brushes, shoe polish, cosmetics, etc. They're usually between the lines of cars but they also duck in front of, behind, and around them...as do pedestrians who pay absolutely no attention to the "zebra crossings" (crosswalks). Well, to be fair, the drivers don't pay much attention to the pedestrians who do, so...
And the honking. It's not really rude, aggressive and constant as it is, say, in Cairo...but it is a "language" as one woman suggested to me, that says "I'm here, I'm first, I want it MY way, let me get in." Now, you grandkids know I love to honk, so actually I'm pretty comfortable with this part of the car culture...!! :)
Then there are the "officials" -- diplomats, ministers (heads of government departments), police, military, or official wannabes who decide they're too good for waiting in traffic, so they just put on their lights and create their own center lane, zooming ahead. I think I mentioned how we created that scenario once in a project car (a BIG no-no!!) in my "Minister of the Ridiculous" blog...
Speaking of the ridiculous: the parking lot attendants. These guys are hired to basically watch cars in small parking areas in front of businesses, and then they "help" you get back into traffic. But the culture of "helping" drivers here is a bit odd. The helper stands directly behind your car, or off to the side in your "blind spot", and expects you to be watching him instead of the traffic through your mirrors. Well, of course if you watch the guy, you're going to back up right into an oncoming car. And if you look at the traffic, you're going to run over the guy. I've just resorted to opening my window and calling out, "That's okay, sir, thank you. I can drive." (I was told at work that I was the object of some marvel among the drivers and guards who were amazed I could actually just zip in and out of my parking spot -- all by myself!)
Okay, about that bribe. First, dear grandbrood, one of the realities of many poor countries is that publicly paid employees get paid very little and augment their income by abusing their modest authority and collecting a bribe to do so. This is what happened to me my first night driving back from work to my apartment. There is an intersection that has two traffic lights, one for traffic going one way, a second for traffic going another. I got confused and ended up going through the red light first, in order to proceed through the second light, which was green. (Even at four years old, Kirra and Caden, you know the difference.)
A policeman saw me and told me to pull over. They don't carry guns and they're on foot, and frankly, if you just drive off they can't really do anything. But they do have quite a scam. He told me to pull over which I did, feeling very guilty. He knocked on my window and I opened it and he motioned me to let him sit in the car. Not knowing if this were proper or not, I did. Mistake. Then he asked for my driver's license, and wouldn't you know, I didn't have it ! I couldn't believe that I had actually left it in another wallet! Second mistake. So now he has the upper hand. He's young, and nice enough (and receives a phone call to "make sure" that he's going to arrest me), and says he can make things easier for me if I give him "something" for the "big man" (i.e., the boss). I clucked, "But this is illegal. You're asking me to do something illegal." He agreed (!), but said it was a lot less expensive than if I got arrested (true). So, gave him 20 cedis (about $14). Third mistake. He wanted more, but I said that was all I had. (I lied.) He let me go. I really got off pretty easily, though, because I didn't yet have any of the official papers or car insurance or anything I now have.
I told a couple of locals about this later and they laughed uproariously, enumerating my mistakes, telling me how to handle it next time, even if I'm again in the wrong. Of course, in this car culture, that doesn't make any difference. I've been driving now for a couple of weeks. Look out, honk! honk! Here I come!
xxoxox Love, Grammy
Even though on paper Ghana traffic laws are pretty strict, and the insurance and safety requirements are pretty hefty (e.g., you have to carry a fire extinguisher and road hazard triangles), the Ghanaian drivers (at least here in Accra) have absolutely no respect for others' rights. They'll stay in lanes and obey traffic lights if it suits them. If not, they'll form a new lane which may or may not be going in the same direction as the rest of the traffic. If you want to cross an intersection, well, you just pull up and nudge forward until the oncoming car HAS to stop (or hit you). Since it's always the person behind you at fault (i.e., you should have been paying attention and applied your brakes), cars weave in and out with impunity. The "tro-tros" (public transport vans) are particularly guilty of this -- whoops! Here's a stop! Gotta move over. Okay, I'm done, gotta move back into traffic! Pass on the right? Of course!
The traffic in Accra is horrendous, especially during "rush hours". My office is 7 minutes from my apartmennt - - on Sunday mornings. Week mornings and evenings it's at least half an hour, if not 45 minutes. But if you don't like waiting in traffic -- no problem. Just cut ACROSS the street and go the OPPOSITE way until you can CROSS BACK and cut back into the line!
Are there traffic lights? Yes. Are they where they should be? Not necessarily. And when they're not working, which is often, yes, there are police. At least two, more often three at an intersection. They're either sitting down and just waving you through, or standing in the street, not paying attention to each other so nothing is coordinated. I can go, right? Well, that guy is waving...okay, me? My turn? Oh, no? Well, HE's going and...oh, the hell with it!
Speaking of people in the street, that's another big item here. All along the most frequently traveled city streets there are vendors, and they're IN the street. They're selling everything from mobile phone calling cards to toilet paper to water to plastic junk to food, all of which they carry on their heads! Actually, it's the women more than the men who do that. I pass each day a woman who carries a complete boutique on her head -- brushes, shoe polish, cosmetics, etc. They're usually between the lines of cars but they also duck in front of, behind, and around them...as do pedestrians who pay absolutely no attention to the "zebra crossings" (crosswalks). Well, to be fair, the drivers don't pay much attention to the pedestrians who do, so...
And the honking. It's not really rude, aggressive and constant as it is, say, in Cairo...but it is a "language" as one woman suggested to me, that says "I'm here, I'm first, I want it MY way, let me get in." Now, you grandkids know I love to honk, so actually I'm pretty comfortable with this part of the car culture...!! :)
Then there are the "officials" -- diplomats, ministers (heads of government departments), police, military, or official wannabes who decide they're too good for waiting in traffic, so they just put on their lights and create their own center lane, zooming ahead. I think I mentioned how we created that scenario once in a project car (a BIG no-no!!) in my "Minister of the Ridiculous" blog...
Speaking of the ridiculous: the parking lot attendants. These guys are hired to basically watch cars in small parking areas in front of businesses, and then they "help" you get back into traffic. But the culture of "helping" drivers here is a bit odd. The helper stands directly behind your car, or off to the side in your "blind spot", and expects you to be watching him instead of the traffic through your mirrors. Well, of course if you watch the guy, you're going to back up right into an oncoming car. And if you look at the traffic, you're going to run over the guy. I've just resorted to opening my window and calling out, "That's okay, sir, thank you. I can drive." (I was told at work that I was the object of some marvel among the drivers and guards who were amazed I could actually just zip in and out of my parking spot -- all by myself!)
Okay, about that bribe. First, dear grandbrood, one of the realities of many poor countries is that publicly paid employees get paid very little and augment their income by abusing their modest authority and collecting a bribe to do so. This is what happened to me my first night driving back from work to my apartment. There is an intersection that has two traffic lights, one for traffic going one way, a second for traffic going another. I got confused and ended up going through the red light first, in order to proceed through the second light, which was green. (Even at four years old, Kirra and Caden, you know the difference.)
A policeman saw me and told me to pull over. They don't carry guns and they're on foot, and frankly, if you just drive off they can't really do anything. But they do have quite a scam. He told me to pull over which I did, feeling very guilty. He knocked on my window and I opened it and he motioned me to let him sit in the car. Not knowing if this were proper or not, I did. Mistake. Then he asked for my driver's license, and wouldn't you know, I didn't have it ! I couldn't believe that I had actually left it in another wallet! Second mistake. So now he has the upper hand. He's young, and nice enough (and receives a phone call to "make sure" that he's going to arrest me), and says he can make things easier for me if I give him "something" for the "big man" (i.e., the boss). I clucked, "But this is illegal. You're asking me to do something illegal." He agreed (!), but said it was a lot less expensive than if I got arrested (true). So, gave him 20 cedis (about $14). Third mistake. He wanted more, but I said that was all I had. (I lied.) He let me go. I really got off pretty easily, though, because I didn't yet have any of the official papers or car insurance or anything I now have.
I told a couple of locals about this later and they laughed uproariously, enumerating my mistakes, telling me how to handle it next time, even if I'm again in the wrong. Of course, in this car culture, that doesn't make any difference. I've been driving now for a couple of weeks. Look out, honk! honk! Here I come!
xxoxox Love, Grammy
Sunday, November 14, 2010
Minister of the Ridiculous
Note: The following is an e-mail I sent first, on Wednesday, November 10. What happened afterwards, is below. Scroll down to *** if you've already read this, to see next section:
Well, it has finally come to this: all my years in broadcasting, acting and
serving as a spokersperson for a myriad of organizations have served me well, as
I face my shining hour in the public spotlight this Friday, when I serve as the
M.C. for a....sheep sale! What does one wear for that...?
Today, five colleagues and I -- wedged into a small 4-wheel drive -- went out to
the farm where some 2,000 Sahelian sheep are being brought in from Burkina Faso
to be sold to Ghanaian livestock traders, who in turn hope to make a profit by
selling to Muslims for the Eid al-Adhar (Abrahamic "Festival of Sacrifice")
holiday next week. We had to check the site to make sure it was environmentally
friendly for the sheep; that is, they need shade, food and water so they're not
too stressed after their two-day (truck) trip from the north (the irony of their
pending sacrifice notwithstanding).
The farm isn't very far out of town; it's just outside Accra's port of Tema.
The access road to the farm is deeply rutted and perilous to cross, especially
with an overloaded car. I kept muttering in my best Meryl Streep imitation, "I
hahd a farm een Aah-freeka", and then we all laughed, noting how in these
romantic African movies (mostly set in Kenya), they never show you the road TO
the farm! (Actually, I've been to Isak Dinesen -- aka Karen Blixen --'s
property in the Nairobi suburb of Karen, and it's beautiful).
The town of Tema itself is absolutely teeming with people and extremely intense,
small-time, poverty-driven entrepreneurialism. It's overwhelming and
fascinating and polluted and rough, full of life and color and activity. It
also has, oddly, a great many stacks of car tires and stripped cars being
played/lived/slept/cooked in. This was more fully explained when I got back to
the office. There was an email from my shipping agent advising me that my
container, which is supposed to include my car, had arrived....in Tema.
Well, it has finally come to this: all my years in broadcasting, acting and
serving as a spokersperson for a myriad of organizations have served me well, as
I face my shining hour in the public spotlight this Friday, when I serve as the
M.C. for a....sheep sale! What does one wear for that...?
Today, five colleagues and I -- wedged into a small 4-wheel drive -- went out to
the farm where some 2,000 Sahelian sheep are being brought in from Burkina Faso
to be sold to Ghanaian livestock traders, who in turn hope to make a profit by
selling to Muslims for the Eid al-Adhar (Abrahamic "Festival of Sacrifice")
holiday next week. We had to check the site to make sure it was environmentally
friendly for the sheep; that is, they need shade, food and water so they're not
too stressed after their two-day (truck) trip from the north (the irony of their
pending sacrifice notwithstanding).
The farm isn't very far out of town; it's just outside Accra's port of Tema.
The access road to the farm is deeply rutted and perilous to cross, especially
with an overloaded car. I kept muttering in my best Meryl Streep imitation, "I
hahd a farm een Aah-freeka", and then we all laughed, noting how in these
romantic African movies (mostly set in Kenya), they never show you the road TO
the farm! (Actually, I've been to Isak Dinesen -- aka Karen Blixen --'s
property in the Nairobi suburb of Karen, and it's beautiful).
The town of Tema itself is absolutely teeming with people and extremely intense,
small-time, poverty-driven entrepreneurialism. It's overwhelming and
fascinating and polluted and rough, full of life and color and activity. It
also has, oddly, a great many stacks of car tires and stripped cars being
played/lived/slept/cooked in. This was more fully explained when I got back to
the office. There was an email from my shipping agent advising me that my
container, which is supposed to include my car, had arrived....in Tema.
***
The sheep for "Operation Tabaski Ghana", the sale of Burkina Faso sheep trucked down to Accra for sale for the Muslim festival (for sheep buyers to then sell to consumers), were supposed to start arriving the 10th. They didn't. They got a late start, and didn't get out of BF until Thursday, the 11th. But, we were assured, the drivers were going to go all night so they could arrive in time for the opening ceremony on the 12th. Of course, all our publicity said they were going to start arriving the 10th.
To return to Wednesday's "pre-event visit" for a moment...imagine five project people (plus some Ghanian Muslim sheep buyers, a municipal veterinary specialist, plus one or two sundry others) standing on an approximate 12'x12' cement covered platform with wooden poles at the front two corners, trying to decide how to best run the event. How do we greet people? How do we know who should sit up on the stage? How will I get names to acknowledge people's presence? What do we do when officials show up with their entourage? (They always do; African ministers -- i.e., heads of government departments -- have to be THE most self-important people on the planet!) Esther wants us to paint the cement back wall and footing. It doesn't look good. We all just look at her. Is she kidding? This is a farm. No, she's not kidding.
Suzanne doesn't want the "bigshots" (or "big men" or "big women") to sit in plastic armchairs. She wants "nice chairs". I have visions of these terribly over-sized, overstuffed "fauteuils" (French for "armchairs") that are an African favorite, but to me look as if they belong in a hotel lobby. No, I put my foot down (being nominally in charge), please, not that. They can't sit on plastic, Suzanne insists. And she's tough. Hysterically funny, but tough. Well, they have to have arms, I counter, because a plastic chair with arms is a heck of a lot more comfortable than a "nice" chair without them. And what about these wooden poles? Shouldn't they be decorated, as is customary, wrapped in colorful fabric? And what about the floor of the stage? Hold on, everyone, I stop them. We have a budget. We're on a farm, for heaven's sake! I appreciate your desire to be both culturally and protocol-appropriate. I want it to be nice, too, but I want it be natural. We're on a farm. I have an idea that, as it turns out, is truly inspired: What about straw mats? Everyone loves this, and Jeff says he knows exactly where to get them. (And he did, and they were perfect. Never mind about the chairs -- a mish-mash of large black swivel chairs, upright hotel dining room chairs, and plastic armchairs.)
Okay, now what about the "high table"? local bureaucrat Stevenson asks. A high table? What is that? The way everyone explains it, or at least how I'm understanding it, is that a "high table" is a table the "important people" can gather around and ....eat from? But no, I point out, we're going to have a refreshment table -- over there (pointing vaguely in the direction of another tree). Can't people just help themselves and then sit where they want? No, no, they insist, we need a high table. We go back and forth like this for a while, English...French...Twi... Hausa (the latter two I of course don't understand at all)..with the sheep buyers throwing in their two cents. Suzanne wants to call Raja, the farm owner who has arranged the set-up, to find out exactly what he has ordered.
Wait! You mean a HEAD table??? Yes, yes, the others nod happily. I can disposes of this one fairly quickly. No, I don't want a head table. I don't want it to look like a panel discussion. Oh, you're right, everyone agrees. That's for a presentation, or for a workshop in a hotel. And this is a farm. We want it natural. Yes, yes, I'm now nodding happily. At last we're all on the same page.
What about bathrooms? The farmworker, who is from Togo and speaks only French, assures us the bathrooms are fine. I'm not so sure. I don't care if they're latrines, but they absolutely MUST be clean! I tell them I used latrines in Nicaragua that were up in the hills somewhere and they were spotless. (What am I going on about -- Nicaragua? Why am I even mentioning that? Jeez, pretty soon I'll be talking about how my husband died and then they'll feel so sorry for me -- and all I want is a clean bathroom!) Turns out they were just regular western-style bathrooms but I packed toilet paper with our event "tool kit", just in case.
For the record, back at the office Suzanne (Cameroon descent, raised in Strasbourg, later years in London, somewhere else in between, I think), admitted she'd never heard of a "high table", either; that's why she suggested calling Raja -- to find out what it was! We both burst out laughing.
Day of the event: Ismael, the Chief of Party (the project boss) called to ask me what time were we leaving. I thought Esther had handled that, as she was in charge of the transportation, along with Jeff, one of the drivers. Ismael also wanted to know if Bernardin (who by default had become the lead person on this in Accra, because another colleague had to attend a family funeral) had called me. No....uh, oh, this was not going to be good. I'm right. Ismael informs me that the first 250 sheep are not going to arrive in time for the opening ceremony, because their truck driver did not, as it turned out, want to drive all night. Should we cancel the ceremony? No, I was firm about this. We go on, and just tell them the sheep are coming.
I'm pretty annoyed by the time I'm picked up at my apartment because it's 9:30 a.m., an hour later than we were supposed to leave, and the ceremony is supposed to be at 10. I figure there must be a pretty good reason why everyone's late, *I had already called twice), and it turned out that: Felix (one of my communications department staff ) had ordered a car for the media but the car didn't come so he went to find another car but hadn't told Jeff, who was already doing that. So Felix was po'd and so was Jeff. Meanwhile, Jeff, Esther and Daniel were waiting for Bernardin who was on the phone about the sheep not coming and he said he'd be right down but the others thought they had waited long enough and someone needed to be at the event (!), so they were po'd and left, and Bernardin was po'd and said he couldn't take a taxi but finally did and arrived AFTER the ceremony, which went fine except I couldn't pronounce anyone's name correctly and told the representative of the Chief Imam he didn't have to say anything if he didn't want and he said it was up to me (being nice), so I said okay you don't have to and. then thanked everyone for coming (for the umpteenth time) and invited them to have some refreshments The chief imam representative wanted to know why he was invited if he weren't going to speak...what about the closing prayer? (I'd forgotten all about prayers.) So I called everyone back, he gave a prayer, and was really a good sport about the whole thing. Wanted my phone number. No, not that way. In a friendly, business way...I think. Maybe he's going to issue a fatwah.
Finally, it was over. And we never saw any sheep. None of us could stay to find out if they really showed up or not (my container with all my furnishings plus car were arriving). Driving back to town, we were all hysterical. It had all been such a comedy of errors. Now there was horrendous traffic and we were backed up no matter what route we took. What about, Jeff suggested, if we pretend we have an important personage in the car and break all the traffic rules (not to mention USAID regulations) and put on the flashing lights and speed ahead? Sure, go for it! I was in front, I'm white and he's black, two blacks in the back who could be my "staff", so we agreed it was the perfect set-up. I put on my most severe "minister" look. What shall we tell the police if they stop us? Minister of...what? Minister of the Ridiculous, I decided. Jeff couldn't keep a straight face, marveling at how I could just slip right into the "minister" role. Hmph. I told him in no uncertain terms that he just doesn't have the right demeanor to be a minister's driver! :)
We finally made it back to town, all of us agreeing we could only laugh because so much of the past couple of weeks had been so annoying, including this whole ridiculous day. I suggested we have a de-briefing next week, to talk about what had happened, and how we could avoid it next time we did an event like this. Esther sighed, summing it up nicely: "Working for sheep is so annoying."
xxoxoox Love, Grammy
Sunday, November 7, 2010
Theater, Ghana style
There's a great deal of music and dance in Ghana (and oh, how fabulous West African music is!), but not so much live theater, so when I saw the flyers about a play called "Terms of Divorce" at the National Theater, I set out to attend the 4 p.m. performance today (Sunday). First, you ABSOLUTELY MUST look at this building: http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Theatre_(Accra) (and other sites, including architectural photos, if you google national theater accra). It's shaped like some kind of outer space boat and was built by a Chinese contractor.
The ticket selling and seating arrangements aren't as high-tech as the architecture, but the sponsorship marketing was rather clever.The show's sponsors were a radio station and a mobile phone company. Everyone who had a ticket was given an MTN (mobile phone company) phone card worth GHc5 (about $3.50, and I can talk to the US for an hour on that). There was American music blaring as you came in to find a seat, and two projectors were running title slides for the show, and then between acts, while the sets were being changed, MTN ran commercials!
At first I was somewhat annoyed (yeah, as if the only visibly non-Ghanian in the audience actually had a say) because people were bringing in their children (to a play about divorce?), talking on cell phones, reading texts, and talking, though in low voices. But after I asked the ladies in front of me to please not use their cell phones during the performance, and I got used to the crying babies -- figuring in order to go the theater families had to bring everyone -- it was quite an enjoyable show...part comedy, part romance, part religious message, part musical. (Ghanians are very religious Christians, and the music is so glorious it could make a believer out of the most ardent atheist!)
The audience was very involved -- laughing, exclaiming, reacting, singing along to Ghaian and American songs they knew (I ALWAYS want to do that in the theater at home!), and swaying with their hands in the air during the religious parts. I did everything except the hands and swaying bit, and I actually cried in a portion where although I couldn't understand the actress' accent, she obviously was in so much emotional pain.
When the performance ended (and the bows were nicely choreographed to dance music), the playright/director came on stage to do what we call in the U.S. "the curtain speech", though at home it's done at the beginning. Whatever it's called and wherever it is, it's begging for dollars and acknowledging supporters. But then another interesting marketing ploy -- 20 of the programs were autographed (I don't know by whom), and those people received gift bags from MTN, presented by uniformed employees. Audience members could also go into the lobby and have their picture taken, but I avoided that. And, still in the spirit of capitalism, when the hundreds of us emerged from the theater -- everyone dressed nicely, with women in both contemporary western and traditional African garb -- the taxi drivers were charging twice as much as the route usually costs!
Friday night I joined a colleague and his wife to hear some northern Ghanain music, which got a bit repetitious though, as usual, the African drums were wonderful; a couple of nights earlier I went to hear some "highife" -- the Ghanain big band music that was so popular internationally in the 50's and remains a staple of Ghana's musical diet.
I talked to you, Keaton (14 year-old grandson), and you, Kirra (4-year old girl twin granddaughter) on skype, and Makayla (almost 12-year old granddaughter) sent me several e-mails. I also went to the supermarket, mopped my floors, did laundry, went out to the pool, and worked on updating the projects' web page and learning how to operate my "kindle" electronic book. All in all, not a bad weekend.
xooxoo Love, Grammy
The ticket selling and seating arrangements aren't as high-tech as the architecture, but the sponsorship marketing was rather clever.The show's sponsors were a radio station and a mobile phone company. Everyone who had a ticket was given an MTN (mobile phone company) phone card worth GHc5 (about $3.50, and I can talk to the US for an hour on that). There was American music blaring as you came in to find a seat, and two projectors were running title slides for the show, and then between acts, while the sets were being changed, MTN ran commercials!
At first I was somewhat annoyed (yeah, as if the only visibly non-Ghanian in the audience actually had a say) because people were bringing in their children (to a play about divorce?), talking on cell phones, reading texts, and talking, though in low voices. But after I asked the ladies in front of me to please not use their cell phones during the performance, and I got used to the crying babies -- figuring in order to go the theater families had to bring everyone -- it was quite an enjoyable show...part comedy, part romance, part religious message, part musical. (Ghanians are very religious Christians, and the music is so glorious it could make a believer out of the most ardent atheist!)
The audience was very involved -- laughing, exclaiming, reacting, singing along to Ghaian and American songs they knew (I ALWAYS want to do that in the theater at home!), and swaying with their hands in the air during the religious parts. I did everything except the hands and swaying bit, and I actually cried in a portion where although I couldn't understand the actress' accent, she obviously was in so much emotional pain.
When the performance ended (and the bows were nicely choreographed to dance music), the playright/director came on stage to do what we call in the U.S. "the curtain speech", though at home it's done at the beginning. Whatever it's called and wherever it is, it's begging for dollars and acknowledging supporters. But then another interesting marketing ploy -- 20 of the programs were autographed (I don't know by whom), and those people received gift bags from MTN, presented by uniformed employees. Audience members could also go into the lobby and have their picture taken, but I avoided that. And, still in the spirit of capitalism, when the hundreds of us emerged from the theater -- everyone dressed nicely, with women in both contemporary western and traditional African garb -- the taxi drivers were charging twice as much as the route usually costs!
Friday night I joined a colleague and his wife to hear some northern Ghanain music, which got a bit repetitious though, as usual, the African drums were wonderful; a couple of nights earlier I went to hear some "highife" -- the Ghanain big band music that was so popular internationally in the 50's and remains a staple of Ghana's musical diet.
I talked to you, Keaton (14 year-old grandson), and you, Kirra (4-year old girl twin granddaughter) on skype, and Makayla (almost 12-year old granddaughter) sent me several e-mails. I also went to the supermarket, mopped my floors, did laundry, went out to the pool, and worked on updating the projects' web page and learning how to operate my "kindle" electronic book. All in all, not a bad weekend.
xooxoo Love, Grammy
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Instead of TV
I bought a fancy new, dual system, dual voltage, dual everything TV in the States because it's much less expensive than it is here -- but of course, it's with my sea shipment, which hasn't arrived yet. So, what to do, instead, for entertainment other than reading, talking on phone/skype with friends in US and e-mailing, now that I'm in my new, though not very furnished apartment? Pictures soon at www.flickr.com/photos/paulettelee
Well, first things first. Friday night I worked late at the office and went out to dinner with Raphael, the young head of the Ouaga office (and by now, you should know where Ouaga is!), who comes to Accra frequently. I guess he's really my only friend so far -- and we have a great time together. Lots of laughter. He's French but speaks and understands English fluently...except if it's spoken too fast or he's really tired. When that happens, I : a) slow down; b) speak French; c) speak English and he speaks French. It seems to work -- as it does with all the staff. Example of humorous moment: At the office, I asked Bernardin, a Rwandan who's also multi-linqual, to please speak in English because I couldn't understand the nuances of the issue in French. Immediately, Raphael asked Bernardin to please speak in French, because he didn't understand the nuances in English! I had a good laugh at my own arrogance.
Yesterday (Saturday) I went shopping for a bunch of stuff I needed; spent 250 cedis (multiply by 70% for US$) Then I unpacked my suitcases, but since I don't have my hangers or a dresser yet, and there are no shelves in the master bedroom, I had to use shelves in the guest room closet. Or is it the office? Hmmm...back and forth, back and forth. (No pictures of these two rooms; they're small and empty. Come visit and you'll see them re-done. Is it better to have the guest room across the hall from the 2nd bathroom, or next to it? This one the guest room? No, the door doesn't completely close. So, this one is the office. Which means the clothes have to be moved into the other room. (Don't laugh. I am quite well paid to figure these things out.)
Meanwhile, the tile floor is getting absolutely filthy and the girl who came to ask me for a job as a cleaning lady talked about a mop (we're talking the old-fashioned rag kind) and bucket. Yuk. Just swish around dirty water. I've packed a "Swiffer" but don't think there are replacements here... There is ALWAYS dirt...Anyway, I digress.
Okay, that was Saturday. (Hah! And you thought life in Africa was exciting and adventurous!) Now today, Sunday, was a bit of a puzzle. What to do, now that I've figured out which room the clothes go in and I don't have a mop? Oh, right! It's time to do the laundry. I have a small washer/dryer unit in my kitchen (see picture). With the help of Mohammed, the property maintenance man (whom I'm sure I'm driving crazy), I figured out the washer, but not the dryer part. No problem. There's a regular unit in a communal laundry room. Whew! Got that taken care of.
Now it's out to the pool -- where in the shade (see pix) it was surprisingly pleasant, given that it is always beastly hot and humid here. Sitting under the palm trees, I found watching and listening to lovely, multi-colored birds "cuh-cooo" to each other -- immensely more entertaining than some stupid Nigerian TV soap opera. And the foliage started taking on the forms of humanoids, nodding and communicating with each other in the breeze. It's also blissfully quiet here, something you don't find in more, shall we say, "local" environments.
I had heard about Ghanaian/African dancing and drumming classes at the University of Ghana/Legon campus, and read that it was Sundays, 2:30-4:30 p.m. (see photos, though hard to believe this is a university campus! ). I didn't know what to expect, so didn't dress for a dance class, but dance class it was (the drumming was the accompaniment) -- see photos -- and those of you who know my love of dance, know how happy I was in that environment. I have one false knee, one bum knee, 25 years and xx pounds more than when I last took a dance class and was inappropriately dressed and sweating up a storm -- but, MOVING, and feeling at home. I also learned a lot about the culture of dance here -- how African dance, for example, is always done with the body low and knees bent (oy, vey!), because it comes from a culture of fishing, hunting and farming. All the dances MEAN something, as do all the steps. Loved it!
However...came home to find out the problem I had with my key getting stuck in the front door had worsened, because when Mohammed tried, he broke the lock! So he had to call a locksmith (or carpenter, or maybe just a handyman. I don't ask.) who pried off the door jam in order to punch out the lock. We couldn't get in the back door because there was already a key in the inside lock. So here I am, hot, sweaty, dying for a drink of water and a shower (two different sources of water) and I'm locked out of house. And it's dusk, which means the mosquitoes are coming. Arrrgghgh! TIA!
Well, first things first. Friday night I worked late at the office and went out to dinner with Raphael, the young head of the Ouaga office (and by now, you should know where Ouaga is!), who comes to Accra frequently. I guess he's really my only friend so far -- and we have a great time together. Lots of laughter. He's French but speaks and understands English fluently...except if it's spoken too fast or he's really tired. When that happens, I : a) slow down; b) speak French; c) speak English and he speaks French. It seems to work -- as it does with all the staff. Example of humorous moment: At the office, I asked Bernardin, a Rwandan who's also multi-linqual, to please speak in English because I couldn't understand the nuances of the issue in French. Immediately, Raphael asked Bernardin to please speak in French, because he didn't understand the nuances in English! I had a good laugh at my own arrogance.
Yesterday (Saturday) I went shopping for a bunch of stuff I needed; spent 250 cedis (multiply by 70% for US$) Then I unpacked my suitcases, but since I don't have my hangers or a dresser yet, and there are no shelves in the master bedroom, I had to use shelves in the guest room closet. Or is it the office? Hmmm...back and forth, back and forth. (No pictures of these two rooms; they're small and empty. Come visit and you'll see them re-done. Is it better to have the guest room across the hall from the 2nd bathroom, or next to it? This one the guest room? No, the door doesn't completely close. So, this one is the office. Which means the clothes have to be moved into the other room. (Don't laugh. I am quite well paid to figure these things out.)
Meanwhile, the tile floor is getting absolutely filthy and the girl who came to ask me for a job as a cleaning lady talked about a mop (we're talking the old-fashioned rag kind) and bucket. Yuk. Just swish around dirty water. I've packed a "Swiffer" but don't think there are replacements here... There is ALWAYS dirt...Anyway, I digress.
Okay, that was Saturday. (Hah! And you thought life in Africa was exciting and adventurous!) Now today, Sunday, was a bit of a puzzle. What to do, now that I've figured out which room the clothes go in and I don't have a mop? Oh, right! It's time to do the laundry. I have a small washer/dryer unit in my kitchen (see picture). With the help of Mohammed, the property maintenance man (whom I'm sure I'm driving crazy), I figured out the washer, but not the dryer part. No problem. There's a regular unit in a communal laundry room. Whew! Got that taken care of.
Now it's out to the pool -- where in the shade (see pix) it was surprisingly pleasant, given that it is always beastly hot and humid here. Sitting under the palm trees, I found watching and listening to lovely, multi-colored birds "cuh-cooo" to each other -- immensely more entertaining than some stupid Nigerian TV soap opera. And the foliage started taking on the forms of humanoids, nodding and communicating with each other in the breeze. It's also blissfully quiet here, something you don't find in more, shall we say, "local" environments.
I had heard about Ghanaian/African dancing and drumming classes at the University of Ghana/Legon campus, and read that it was Sundays, 2:30-4:30 p.m. (see photos, though hard to believe this is a university campus! ). I didn't know what to expect, so didn't dress for a dance class, but dance class it was (the drumming was the accompaniment) -- see photos -- and those of you who know my love of dance, know how happy I was in that environment. I have one false knee, one bum knee, 25 years and xx pounds more than when I last took a dance class and was inappropriately dressed and sweating up a storm -- but, MOVING, and feeling at home. I also learned a lot about the culture of dance here -- how African dance, for example, is always done with the body low and knees bent (oy, vey!), because it comes from a culture of fishing, hunting and farming. All the dances MEAN something, as do all the steps. Loved it!
However...came home to find out the problem I had with my key getting stuck in the front door had worsened, because when Mohammed tried, he broke the lock! So he had to call a locksmith (or carpenter, or maybe just a handyman. I don't ask.) who pried off the door jam in order to punch out the lock. We couldn't get in the back door because there was already a key in the inside lock. So here I am, hot, sweaty, dying for a drink of water and a shower (two different sources of water) and I'm locked out of house. And it's dusk, which means the mosquitoes are coming. Arrrgghgh! TIA!
But TIA also means, we'll get it sorted out. We always do -- eventually.
xxoxox Love, Grammy
Thursday, October 28, 2010
Another transition
I spent my first night in my new"permanent"apartment here in Accra -- in a nice area called "Airport Residential." Although I'd been there several times with office drivers and my real estate agent, I went there by taxi on my own for the first time after work last night...and then to/from Alliance Francaise to see a modern dance performance...and then to work this morning. And I was/am where I was/am supposed to be! And that's quite an accomplishment because: a) I have no sense of direction (Grandpa always marveled that I found my way home from anywhere!); and b) neither do the taxi drivers here. It's incredible -- they don't know streets by names (only landmarks); they don't know a whole lot of landmarks; and they don't necessarily speak English. So there I was last night, in the dark, driving around in a rattletrap car with a total (male) stranger, getting lost on dimly lit side streets after holding my breath in horrendous traffic with blaring horns, belching fumes, and absolutely NO respect for lanes, much less how to change them, and all I could think, was -- what the hell am I doing???!!!
I don't have much stuff in apt. yet...just the few living basics I packed for my air freight box while I wait for my large sea shipment with furniture and car -- plus my three heavy suitcases of clothes that I'm already sick
of ("..of which I'm already sick"?) Also no TV yet. Landlady left a few basic furniture pieces, but substituted the bed I originally saw, with a twin. Of course I packed linens, but the sheets are too large, the bathroom mats have to be thrown out because they stink to high heaven from having been packed, and I forgot a pillow, so I had to sleep on my travel pillow. Guess I won't be able to wait until the sea shipment comes ...will have to go shopping this weekend. Actually,the apartment feels more like a hotel than a home...and I've been in more hotels over the past two months than I can count!
Work is busy,but a little weird. My colleagues are all terrific both here and in Ouaga -- very friendly and helpful. (Well, young Sammy the IT guy told me I look like a teenager "from far away". I told him "You look like an adult -- from far away." He cracked up.) Anyway, the weird part is the topics I'm
working with. Well, the "tropics", too, as it is ALWAYS hot! Anyway, been hard at work on a project to bring Burkina sheep down to Ghana next week for the "Tabaski" Muslim holiday (sheep to be sacrificed in memory of Biblical Abraham). But the financing didn't work out so it appears all is for naught. But I have to laugh -- I got dressed in my "grown-up clothes" today for a meeting at the USAID office at the US Embassy -- to talk about sheep and chickens and rice and maize,and...!!!
I am feeling pretty lonely when I'm not at work. Haven't actually HUNG OUTwith the sheep and chickens ...and I do miss Grandpa terribly.
I don't have much stuff in apt. yet...just the few living basics I packed for my air freight box while I wait for my large sea shipment with furniture and car -- plus my three heavy suitcases of clothes that I'm already sick
of ("..of which I'm already sick"?) Also no TV yet. Landlady left a few basic furniture pieces, but substituted the bed I originally saw, with a twin. Of course I packed linens, but the sheets are too large, the bathroom mats have to be thrown out because they stink to high heaven from having been packed, and I forgot a pillow, so I had to sleep on my travel pillow. Guess I won't be able to wait until the sea shipment comes ...will have to go shopping this weekend. Actually,the apartment feels more like a hotel than a home...and I've been in more hotels over the past two months than I can count!
Work is busy,but a little weird. My colleagues are all terrific both here and in Ouaga -- very friendly and helpful. (Well, young Sammy the IT guy told me I look like a teenager "from far away". I told him "You look like an adult -- from far away." He cracked up.) Anyway, the weird part is the topics I'm
working with. Well, the "tropics", too, as it is ALWAYS hot! Anyway, been hard at work on a project to bring Burkina sheep down to Ghana next week for the "Tabaski" Muslim holiday (sheep to be sacrificed in memory of Biblical Abraham). But the financing didn't work out so it appears all is for naught. But I have to laugh -- I got dressed in my "grown-up clothes" today for a meeting at the USAID office at the US Embassy -- to talk about sheep and chickens and rice and maize,and...!!!
I am feeling pretty lonely when I'm not at work. Haven't actually HUNG OUTwith the sheep and chickens ...and I do miss Grandpa terribly.
xoxoooox Love, Grammy
Thursday, October 21, 2010
Life in the Slow Lane
Very busy at work. Today, for example, I had to deal with a newsletter that's running really late, a French translation that's running late, a staff member's personal problem, photography for a product catalogue (we're talking cattle and corn here, not Victoria's Secret), writing a fact sheet on our projects, regional maps of our trade corridors, updating the website, budgets for various projects, mailing (e-mail) lists.
Some things just didn't make sense -- like why we have a mailing list of organizational "partners" but never send anything to them by e-mail...or why we have to order 1,000 hard copies of a newsletter when there are stacks of previous ones just sitting in cupboards...or, why we have to have "Date" and "Venue" on a poster, not just the date and the venue. Don't people know when they read a date they're reading...a date? Frankly, I'm never too sure whether I'm dealing with cultural differences or just the "we've always done it this way" mindset that knows no borders. It can also get pretty funny working in different languages. You keep changing from one to the other, keep misunderstanding each other and finally -- mutual comprehension. And then you forget in which language you arrived there!
In addition to the above today, also did a move-in inspection of my prospective apartment with the real estate agent.
I thought I was going to move tomorrow -- Friday -- just a few days shy of having been here one month (since September 26). But life in the slow lane is v..e..r..y..s...l...o...w. Contractual negotiations went back and forth with the owner of the apartment (who's leasing it to me for a year with a 6-month or 1 year renewal). Here in Ghana you have to pay the full lease UP FRONT -- that means some $35,000 in advance! True also, I'm told, in Nigeria. No monthly rentals for the ex-patriates (i.e., foreigners, or "ex-pats"). So, basically we're talking rich westerners or their companies that can fork it all over. However, while my lease is written in terms of US dollars, the USAID policy is to pay only in local currency, so the landlord is annoyed, because she wanted those very desirable dollars. Back and forth between my real estate agent, the apt. owner and the finance people at work...I didn't even get into it until today.
What I'm most concerned about are the screens (or "mosquito nets" as they call them here, even if they're on the windows, not over the beds).
"Look," the building maintenance man pointed out to me. "The screens pull all the way down."
"Look," I responded, showing him the hole in the screen and the space between the window sill and the screen. "If you were a mosquito, couldn't you fit through there?"
I'd asked for the screens to be fixed or replaced several weeks ago; it's part of the negotiated terms of the lease. But -- and here's the catch -- if I move in, it's assumed that everything is okay. However, there is a way around that, of course. There always is.
"Gabby," I said to my agent on the phone, "I can't stress enough how much I need those screens to be fixed. Since the screens were negotiated while you were representing me, and it's in the contract, please get them taken care of. I know you want to get paid (hah, hah, ha = fake laugh)."
God only knows what else won't have been done when I finally do move in...or if I'll even have the home basics I packed in my small (250 lb.) Air Freight box that's been sitting in some office here in town for more than a week, because someone didn't have the right paper, or was on vacation and couldn't sign it, or the stamp pad ran out of ink, or god knows what. It's supposed to be delivered to the apartment tomorrow (Friday), but now I don't know if the owner will let us in because I don't yet have the key because the cedis (local currency) to dollar addendum hasn't been signed because Barclay's Bank didn't have the right paper to give to the agent so he couldn't deliver it today to have it signed so the owner could sign so I could get my keys....
Fortunately, I seem to have a reserve of patience and humor that I never have in the U.S. And, the up side is that I live in a hotel apartment right now where all I had to do was ask the cook downstairs this evening if he could fix me my chicken breast and some vegetables, and he said, "no problem". We'll see...
Some things just didn't make sense -- like why we have a mailing list of organizational "partners" but never send anything to them by e-mail...or why we have to order 1,000 hard copies of a newsletter when there are stacks of previous ones just sitting in cupboards...or, why we have to have "Date" and "Venue" on a poster, not just the date and the venue. Don't people know when they read a date they're reading...a date? Frankly, I'm never too sure whether I'm dealing with cultural differences or just the "we've always done it this way" mindset that knows no borders. It can also get pretty funny working in different languages. You keep changing from one to the other, keep misunderstanding each other and finally -- mutual comprehension. And then you forget in which language you arrived there!
In addition to the above today, also did a move-in inspection of my prospective apartment with the real estate agent.
I thought I was going to move tomorrow -- Friday -- just a few days shy of having been here one month (since September 26). But life in the slow lane is v..e..r..y..s...l...o...w. Contractual negotiations went back and forth with the owner of the apartment (who's leasing it to me for a year with a 6-month or 1 year renewal). Here in Ghana you have to pay the full lease UP FRONT -- that means some $35,000 in advance! True also, I'm told, in Nigeria. No monthly rentals for the ex-patriates (i.e., foreigners, or "ex-pats"). So, basically we're talking rich westerners or their companies that can fork it all over. However, while my lease is written in terms of US dollars, the USAID policy is to pay only in local currency, so the landlord is annoyed, because she wanted those very desirable dollars. Back and forth between my real estate agent, the apt. owner and the finance people at work...I didn't even get into it until today.
What I'm most concerned about are the screens (or "mosquito nets" as they call them here, even if they're on the windows, not over the beds).
"Look," the building maintenance man pointed out to me. "The screens pull all the way down."
"Look," I responded, showing him the hole in the screen and the space between the window sill and the screen. "If you were a mosquito, couldn't you fit through there?"
I'd asked for the screens to be fixed or replaced several weeks ago; it's part of the negotiated terms of the lease. But -- and here's the catch -- if I move in, it's assumed that everything is okay. However, there is a way around that, of course. There always is.
"Gabby," I said to my agent on the phone, "I can't stress enough how much I need those screens to be fixed. Since the screens were negotiated while you were representing me, and it's in the contract, please get them taken care of. I know you want to get paid (hah, hah, ha = fake laugh)."
God only knows what else won't have been done when I finally do move in...or if I'll even have the home basics I packed in my small (250 lb.) Air Freight box that's been sitting in some office here in town for more than a week, because someone didn't have the right paper, or was on vacation and couldn't sign it, or the stamp pad ran out of ink, or god knows what. It's supposed to be delivered to the apartment tomorrow (Friday), but now I don't know if the owner will let us in because I don't yet have the key because the cedis (local currency) to dollar addendum hasn't been signed because Barclay's Bank didn't have the right paper to give to the agent so he couldn't deliver it today to have it signed so the owner could sign so I could get my keys....
Fortunately, I seem to have a reserve of patience and humor that I never have in the U.S. And, the up side is that I live in a hotel apartment right now where all I had to do was ask the cook downstairs this evening if he could fix me my chicken breast and some vegetables, and he said, "no problem". We'll see...
oxoxoxx Love, Grammy
Friday, October 8, 2010
Burkina Birthday
It's shortly after 12:30 p.m. and the majority of men in the project's Ouagadougou office are responding to the muezzin, the Muslim call to prayer, which apparently they only observe on Fridays. "Wait for us to return before you eat!" they insist, referring to the "African food" (locally prepared) that's brought in to our project's satellite office in the capital of Burkina Faso. I'm here for 9 days, but how I got here and how yesterday I spent a most memorable 64th birthday (yikes! Can I really be that old?!), is quite a story... In fact, it is a PERFECT example of what we ex-pats call "AWA" -- or, Africa Wins Again!
Wednesday was a pretty normal day. Staff meeting in Accra, then my Communications team and I worked on cleaning up our office so that we could organize publications. I was headed off that evening for what should have been a 3-hour trip north to Ouaga, which was to include a brief stop in Abidjan in Cote d'Ivoire. We were flying Air Burkina -- not exactly one of the top 10 world airlines -- which wanted us to check in by 3:30 p.m. for a 5:50 p.m. flight. Go figure. I had two suitcases, one with my stuff, one loaded with brochures in French. The plane was late arriving at the Accra airport, wouldn't be there until 6:30 p.m. 6:30 p.m. came and went. It finally arrived after 8 p.m. No problems getting to CdI or to Burkina Faso, and the food was actually pretty good, but once we arrived in BF, it was raining, so we had to circle a bit. We finally landed somewhere after midnight -- the flight was supposed to land at 9 p.m.
It was raining. We're in the Sahel, which is that portion across Africa, just south of North Africa, that's desert. So there's lots and lots of red dirt, dust and sand. And when it rains, there's lots and lots of red ...mud. So picture this, I'm climbing down the stairs from the plane (don't even THINK jetway), carrying my heavy computer case, wearing high-heeled sandals, trying to negotiate my false knee, in the rain. I'm sure I shall have an auspicious arrival in Ouaga....in an ambulance (if there is one). Make it safely into the "terminal" -- which looks like a building where demolition has already begun -- and of course the hotel shuttle is no longer there. Have to take a taxi to the hotel where I have reservations -- except no one entered in their computer that I was coming that day, a day earlier (which, though, had been confirmed). So I had to be taken to another hotel, where I didn't have enough local currency (the "CFA") to pay for the room, as they didn't take dollars or my Visa (which doesn't have the right stamp on it, or something).
I fell asleep, finally, somewhere around 2-2:30 a.m. and was supposed to be picked up by an office driver at 8 a.m I slept through the alarm, and had the desk tell the driver I was running late. This ALL, mind you, is in French! I was supposed to meet the driver from the first hotel to be taken there, but we missed each other, so I took a taxi. But, the taxi broke down a couple of blocks from the hotel, so we walked -- pulling my luggage. And of course, I'm wearing the same damn (sorry grandkids!) high-heeled sandals. By this time, I've paid out so many CFAs in tips that I have absolutely no local currency left. We get to the (first) hotel and -- guess what?: The room isn't ready for me. So I have a cup of coffee in the bar, exchange some brief remarks with some guy who's drinking a beer or two (yep, it's 8:15 a.m!), and FINALLy, the room is ready, my office driver is there, and whew! The nightmare is over and I'm okay.
Well, not exactly. I get to the office, meet everyone again (I'd met them all when I was in Ghana before actually moving there), and everyone is so nice and fun and welcoming....AND, Raphael, the office director, presented me with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers for my birthday. But then...my laptop, brought from the office in Accra, isn't working. Turns out it's the keyboard ("clavier" in French). Then the internet connection isn't working -- it's the plug in the wall in the office I've been assigned. I get a new keyboard. It's a French keyboard ("AZERT" instead of QZERT, and they actually speak those acronyms and I have no idea what they're saying! Is this French...or?? Anyway, it's one thing to have to deal with the confusion of a different keyboard...but then -- internally, it's been converted! So, when I LOOK at it, everything comes out wrong. Well, no problem, I don't have to look.
Okay, the day moves on fairly well, and one of the drivers takes me back to the hotel. En route, he's saying (in French -- but I simply can NOT understand the West African accent, at least not yet) something about inviting me for a "chicken bicycle" ("poulet bicyclette"), and his elaborate explanation was something about housemaids riding on bicycles to get chickens, or something like that. Well, most of the "Ouaganais" ride bicyles, or "motos" and they don't even need a license to do so. So I politely declined, saying it was far too dangerous for me to take a ride on one of those. He laughed heartily -- no, "Poulet Bicyclette" is the local way of preparing grilled chicken!
Back at the hotel, I took a shower, put on make-up, nice clothes, then sprayed myself with an alluring dose of DEET (insect repellent) and went down to have a glass of wine before meeting Raphael for dinner. I wondered...hmmmm...it's been a long time, but I think I still look pretty good. Could I still be picked up? Sure enough, early a.m. beer man comes by, we strike up a conversation and he tries to make a date -- which I avoid (though he was interesting to talk to). When Raphael picks me up, I'm feeling pretty hot and told him about this -- and he made "moue", a face reflecting his distaste. He asked me if the man were African (Raphael is French, but everyone around us is African -- meaning black. What kind of question was that?). Hmph!, he sniffed. He probably was looking for your money. Sigh. AWA.
Raphael took me to a fabulous African restaurant, "Espace Gondwana" http://www.africartisanat.com/ with incredible artwork, gorgeous decor (we ate off unused funeral beds) and wonderful food. Had plenty of laughs and will have plenty of memories of my birthday in Burkina.
Wednesday was a pretty normal day. Staff meeting in Accra, then my Communications team and I worked on cleaning up our office so that we could organize publications. I was headed off that evening for what should have been a 3-hour trip north to Ouaga, which was to include a brief stop in Abidjan in Cote d'Ivoire. We were flying Air Burkina -- not exactly one of the top 10 world airlines -- which wanted us to check in by 3:30 p.m. for a 5:50 p.m. flight. Go figure. I had two suitcases, one with my stuff, one loaded with brochures in French. The plane was late arriving at the Accra airport, wouldn't be there until 6:30 p.m. 6:30 p.m. came and went. It finally arrived after 8 p.m. No problems getting to CdI or to Burkina Faso, and the food was actually pretty good, but once we arrived in BF, it was raining, so we had to circle a bit. We finally landed somewhere after midnight -- the flight was supposed to land at 9 p.m.
It was raining. We're in the Sahel, which is that portion across Africa, just south of North Africa, that's desert. So there's lots and lots of red dirt, dust and sand. And when it rains, there's lots and lots of red ...mud. So picture this, I'm climbing down the stairs from the plane (don't even THINK jetway), carrying my heavy computer case, wearing high-heeled sandals, trying to negotiate my false knee, in the rain. I'm sure I shall have an auspicious arrival in Ouaga....in an ambulance (if there is one). Make it safely into the "terminal" -- which looks like a building where demolition has already begun -- and of course the hotel shuttle is no longer there. Have to take a taxi to the hotel where I have reservations -- except no one entered in their computer that I was coming that day, a day earlier (which, though, had been confirmed). So I had to be taken to another hotel, where I didn't have enough local currency (the "CFA") to pay for the room, as they didn't take dollars or my Visa (which doesn't have the right stamp on it, or something).
I fell asleep, finally, somewhere around 2-2:30 a.m. and was supposed to be picked up by an office driver at 8 a.m I slept through the alarm, and had the desk tell the driver I was running late. This ALL, mind you, is in French! I was supposed to meet the driver from the first hotel to be taken there, but we missed each other, so I took a taxi. But, the taxi broke down a couple of blocks from the hotel, so we walked -- pulling my luggage. And of course, I'm wearing the same damn (sorry grandkids!) high-heeled sandals. By this time, I've paid out so many CFAs in tips that I have absolutely no local currency left. We get to the (first) hotel and -- guess what?: The room isn't ready for me. So I have a cup of coffee in the bar, exchange some brief remarks with some guy who's drinking a beer or two (yep, it's 8:15 a.m!), and FINALLy, the room is ready, my office driver is there, and whew! The nightmare is over and I'm okay.
Well, not exactly. I get to the office, meet everyone again (I'd met them all when I was in Ghana before actually moving there), and everyone is so nice and fun and welcoming....AND, Raphael, the office director, presented me with a gorgeous bouquet of flowers for my birthday. But then...my laptop, brought from the office in Accra, isn't working. Turns out it's the keyboard ("clavier" in French). Then the internet connection isn't working -- it's the plug in the wall in the office I've been assigned. I get a new keyboard. It's a French keyboard ("AZERT" instead of QZERT, and they actually speak those acronyms and I have no idea what they're saying! Is this French...or?? Anyway, it's one thing to have to deal with the confusion of a different keyboard...but then -- internally, it's been converted! So, when I LOOK at it, everything comes out wrong. Well, no problem, I don't have to look.
Okay, the day moves on fairly well, and one of the drivers takes me back to the hotel. En route, he's saying (in French -- but I simply can NOT understand the West African accent, at least not yet) something about inviting me for a "chicken bicycle" ("poulet bicyclette"), and his elaborate explanation was something about housemaids riding on bicycles to get chickens, or something like that. Well, most of the "Ouaganais" ride bicyles, or "motos" and they don't even need a license to do so. So I politely declined, saying it was far too dangerous for me to take a ride on one of those. He laughed heartily -- no, "Poulet Bicyclette" is the local way of preparing grilled chicken!
Back at the hotel, I took a shower, put on make-up, nice clothes, then sprayed myself with an alluring dose of DEET (insect repellent) and went down to have a glass of wine before meeting Raphael for dinner. I wondered...hmmmm...it's been a long time, but I think I still look pretty good. Could I still be picked up? Sure enough, early a.m. beer man comes by, we strike up a conversation and he tries to make a date -- which I avoid (though he was interesting to talk to). When Raphael picks me up, I'm feeling pretty hot and told him about this -- and he made "moue", a face reflecting his distaste. He asked me if the man were African (Raphael is French, but everyone around us is African -- meaning black. What kind of question was that?). Hmph!, he sniffed. He probably was looking for your money. Sigh. AWA.
Raphael took me to a fabulous African restaurant, "Espace Gondwana" http://www.africartisanat.com/ with incredible artwork, gorgeous decor (we ate off unused funeral beds) and wonderful food. Had plenty of laughs and will have plenty of memories of my birthday in Burkina.
xoooxxooo Love, Grammy
Sunday, October 3, 2010
Introducing Africa
Right now my grandchildren -- all five Froseths ("Fro 1, 2, 3, 4 and 5") are a combination of proud and puzzled as to why "Grammy" keeps going back to Africa. Kirra and Caden, the 4-year old twins, probably don't even know I'm gone, but Summer, who is 7, is bragging to her friends about my travels; 11-year old Makayla's best friend said to her, "I know your grandma goes to Africa a lot, can she bring me back some sand?"; and 13 (almost 14) year-old Keaton misses me and says he can't wait to come visit Ghana, which I hope he and Makayla will do next summer, with their dad, Jeremy.
So why do I keep going -- and especially, why now, just 9 months after Gary's death? Even that phrase can reduce me to tears, though I've pretty much stopped crying and just hold dear the 36 years we had together. I go because I'm healing, because this was part of my life before Gary died, and because, well, because "it's" there. Because I can do my communications work in an environment that brings the rest of the world closer to me, and helps me feel part of this very large and complicated globe on which we live. For me, life has never been about complacency -- it's about learning and doing and seeing and experiencing. Africa draws me because of its spirit and its mystique (as does the Middle East, where I thought I was headed!). It both attracts and infuriates me.
Having been to Africa many times, and facing the prospect of introducing it to family, I am looking at it, though, through the eye of newcomers. What would their reactions be to the strange mix in African capitals of beautiful modern buildings with fascinating architecture juxtaposed by colonial or clap-trap construction...modern cars alongside rattle-trap taxis in totally insane traffic along roads that are bordered by open drainage systems instead of sidewalks...professionals dressed in modern (or often traditional) garb, talking on their cell phones as they pick their way along the dusty, rock-strewn streets also populated by goats and chickens... modern supermarkets with horribly expensive imported items (e.g., canned and packaged goods) and produce (here Accra), except those from France (!)...plenty of "continental" and foreign restaurants and "international standard hotels" alongside traditional "local food" chop shops and lodging accommodations that might not have working ("western") toilets. Numerous languages all being spoken simultaneously...living among people of color, who all seem to be able to tell from which country or region the other is. And the people -- their charm, humor, friendliness, and the way they solve problems -- both lackadaisically (drives me nuts!) and creatively (I call it "Africa magic").
It's hard to read international publications about Africa, because they dwell so much on corrupt politics and violent conflicts...but of course, the Africa I see is only middle class, and poverty. I don't typically see the very wealthy, nor those who commit atrocities.
Typically, my life is pretty much the same here as it is anywhere when one works full-time. I spend a lot of time in front of a computer -- answering e-mails, solving problems, writing -- as well as meeting with staff. My first week has been both interesting -- learning about the barriers to international trade in six product areas, and exploring Accra -- and boring, as I've yet to get involved in anything.
So why do I keep going -- and especially, why now, just 9 months after Gary's death? Even that phrase can reduce me to tears, though I've pretty much stopped crying and just hold dear the 36 years we had together. I go because I'm healing, because this was part of my life before Gary died, and because, well, because "it's" there. Because I can do my communications work in an environment that brings the rest of the world closer to me, and helps me feel part of this very large and complicated globe on which we live. For me, life has never been about complacency -- it's about learning and doing and seeing and experiencing. Africa draws me because of its spirit and its mystique (as does the Middle East, where I thought I was headed!). It both attracts and infuriates me.
Having been to Africa many times, and facing the prospect of introducing it to family, I am looking at it, though, through the eye of newcomers. What would their reactions be to the strange mix in African capitals of beautiful modern buildings with fascinating architecture juxtaposed by colonial or clap-trap construction...modern cars alongside rattle-trap taxis in totally insane traffic along roads that are bordered by open drainage systems instead of sidewalks...professionals dressed in modern (or often traditional) garb, talking on their cell phones as they pick their way along the dusty, rock-strewn streets also populated by goats and chickens... modern supermarkets with horribly expensive imported items (e.g., canned and packaged goods) and produce (here Accra), except those from France (!)...plenty of "continental" and foreign restaurants and "international standard hotels" alongside traditional "local food" chop shops and lodging accommodations that might not have working ("western") toilets. Numerous languages all being spoken simultaneously...living among people of color, who all seem to be able to tell from which country or region the other is. And the people -- their charm, humor, friendliness, and the way they solve problems -- both lackadaisically (drives me nuts!) and creatively (I call it "Africa magic").
It's hard to read international publications about Africa, because they dwell so much on corrupt politics and violent conflicts...but of course, the Africa I see is only middle class, and poverty. I don't typically see the very wealthy, nor those who commit atrocities.
Typically, my life is pretty much the same here as it is anywhere when one works full-time. I spend a lot of time in front of a computer -- answering e-mails, solving problems, writing -- as well as meeting with staff. My first week has been both interesting -- learning about the barriers to international trade in six product areas, and exploring Accra -- and boring, as I've yet to get involved in anything.
xooox Love, Grammy
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