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

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.

***

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

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