Car accident in Accra

Tuesday, I was coming out of a parking lot into oncoming traffic -- always a challenge here, as some of you know, because the drivers are crazy...never letting you in, pushing forward, making 2, 3 and 4 lanes out of 1 (sometimes going in the wrong direction).  I pulled into the far right lane, intending to turn right at the corner, and the car coming behind and next to me just rammed into me, causing me to lose control and careen into two other cars before it finally dawned on me to apply the BRAKE.  (After almost 50 years of driving, I now truly realize what "lose control of the car" actually means.)

Fortunately, no one was hurt, but the system is nuts (something I unfortunately pointed out to a police officer, which earned me a screaming tirade and admonition, "You're a woman!  Be quiet!"). I had to go to the police station, then back to the scene with another officer (who took measurements in the road), then back to the police station to write a statement. I was yelled at (a typical Ghanaian form of social intercourse), intimidated, threatened with court action (which would have jeopardized my return home in two weeks), possible arrest if I tried to leave the country, and had my (U.S.) driver's license taken away.  The locals just work these things out among themselves, rather than deal with the police, but I was damned if I was going to pay someone to have her car fixed, when I had insurance.  Also, I needed a police report to get my car -- which was a mess -- repaired.  And  always, in this system, there is the very good possibility that the only way out is to know someone higher up than the person you're dealing with, and/orpay a bribe -- something I loathe, to my very core.

I felt very alone, vulnerable, and indeed, afraid.

However, I called my office, and a friend who DOES have friends "in high places", and the troops rallied. Felix, one of "my guys" (my staff) came to be with me...and told me in French to be quiet and let him manage things.  I spent yesterday, a work holiday, pulling myself together emotionally -- vowing NEVER to come back here if I should ever get out!  All staff were very concerned when I arrived at work this morning (by taxi), and during "the Other Business" segment of a staff meeting, I suggested a visitation schedule should I go to jail. (That produced a big laugh.)  My "other guy", Venancious, spent the morning hob-nobbing with police higher-ups he knows, then took me back to the police station, where we met my insurance agent (who only showed up, I'm convinced, because my friend called his boss).  Venancious also told me to be quiet.  I obeyed.

I was sweet, demure, apologetic, admitted my guilt, and let the men talk.  I got back my driver's license, paid only about $42 (60 Gh cedis) for an inspection of the car (probably 80% of that was a bribe), and later was able to drive away my poor, crippled, dear, dear 2001 Honda Accord that I was going to sell here...but now probably will give away.

As for coming back, the project wants me to continue as a consultant with 3 trips back over the next year.  Yesterday I received an e-mail from the Chief of Party wanting to meet with me about that arrangement.  It turns out Christel, a friend at work, TOLD the COP to write that note, knowing that they might well never get me back here.  "We weren't going to let you go," Christel later told me, "even if it meant we had to put you in jail!"

xxoxo Love, Grammy

Fitting the profile

While the American media and American Jewish point of view -- that Israel's security is threatened by Arabs -- is well known, the purpose of my July 2011 two-week trip to Israel/Palestine with Interfaith Peacebuilders was to learn first-hand about the effects of the 64-year old geo-political conflict on the Palestinians/Arabs, as well as to meet Arabs and Jews alike working to find peaceful solutions. 

What I saw/heard/learned was very disturbing and difficult -- particularly in terms of how I feel about what minimal Jewish identity I have (both my birth and adoptive fathers were Jewish), and how I would discuss with Jewish friends and family.  I also felt too confined on a tour, and 20-somethings who made up the majority of participants were getting on my nerves.  I left the tour 3 days before its completion, and the country a day later. 

This blog entry is part of my need to decompress and process.

A very brief and simplistic historical context, particularly for my grandbrood:  Judaism is several thousand years old. For some reason unknown to me, Jews have suffered from irrational hatred and persescution -- known as "anti-semitism"-- throughout their history.  The Old Testament of the Bible is to a great extent the story of the Jews who were the first religious group to believe in a single god. Jesus was a Jew. Numerous  scholars, writers, artists, scientists and statesmen have been Jewish.  Jews come from all over the world and identify themselves according to both their geographical origin [e.g., Ashkenazi, Safardic, Mizrahi, Ethiopian, etc.] and degree of observance of Jewish laws and customs (e.g., Hassidic, Orthodox, Conservative, Reformed).  The apex of anti-semitism was when Jews were forced to live separately -- in "ghettos" -- and were discriminated against and persecuted in every walk of life. The insane culmination of this racism was genocide -- the abhorrent "final solution" designed and executed by Hitler that incarcerated millions in German concentration camps and sent 6 million Jews and another 6 million [homosexuals, gypsies, etc.] to be burned alive in ovens.  This is known as the "Holocaust".

At the end of World War II, when Hitler and the Nazis were overcome and the concentration survivors were freed,  Jewish nationalism -- the creation of a state where Jews could enjoy freedom and citizenship without fear of persecution -- became an urgent international priority.  The land identified for this state was in the Middle East, in an area to which the Jews had a strong Biblical connection. The United Nations designated a portion of this land to create the Jewish state of Israel.  However, Arabs claim they've occupied that land for hundreds of years and they resented being forced out and having their land and homes overtaken, especially since they hadn't had anything to do with the Holocaust.

Additionally, there was the issue of Jerusalem, a holy city for Jews, Arabs and Christians that had been fought over for centuries. The original U.N. plan was for Jerusalem to be an international city.

From 1947 to 1949 there was a war between Jews and Arabs over this land.  The Jews won the war and created the state of Israel. For them, this was independence.  For the 700-to-900,000 Arabs, known as "Palestinians", who were expelled, forced out, or fled to refugee camps in neighboring Arab countries, and whose more than 400 villages were destroyed, this was their "Nekbah", their "catastrophe."  While for some, Israel's "right to exist" is a major issue (denying it, asserting it, questioning its form, etc.), for others, the Palestinians' "right to return", is (where would they go, how would they be assimilated, whose property is whose, etc.).

Many wars and failed peace talks later (amid the controversy of a "one state" or "two states" solution), with significant US military aid and diplomatic support, Israel has expanded its borders and exercises both military and civil control (to greater and lesser degrees) over Arab Muslims in the "West Bank" (formerly the part of Jordan west of the Jordan River), as well as in other contested areas.  There are also Israeli Arabs who remained after the 1948 war and understand both prevailing cultures, as well as Arab Christians who are caught in the middle.  Jerusalem was divided into Jewish "West Jerusalem" and Arab "East Jerusalem."  Israeli Jews, however, continue to create settlements both in the West Bank and East Jerusalem that both frighten and anger Arabs, and appear to be making a move on Bedouins in the Negev Desert.

Although it's painting with a broad brush, for the sake of simplicity when I refer to "Israelis", it's predominantly Jews.  When I refer to "Arabs", it's predominantly Muslim Palestinians.  But the conflict is not about religion.  There have been periods in history when Jews, Arabs and Christians co-existed peacefully, and probably could again.  This conflict, though, is about land and demographics: which ethnic group -- or tribe -- or profile -- has the "right to....".

The geography and politics of this situation are too complex to go into detail here, but Arab resentment over the takeover of "their" land and suppression of their rights has produced extremists who for many years terrorized Jews (as well as Israeli Arab Muslims and Christians) with suicide bombings.  In response, Israel has created an extensive and complex system of checkpoints and military controls, and built a barrier wall that cuts off Arabs from each other and from health care and jobs, which futher angers the Arabs.  Each side's fear of the other creates a very unstable situation, though Israel has the money, power and weapons.  It remains unclear, however, whether the restrictions Israel has imposed truly represent "security measures", or is an effort to take over more land and, as some believe, "ethnic cleanse" the land of all Arabs and non-Jews.

Israel is about "affiliation" and I don't have one.  I don't belong to any "tribe", and while that absence often leaves me at loose ends and feeling alienated, it has also served me well in a broad acceptance of all people, and a need to connect to, learn from, and embrace all, rather than to generalize about or demonize the other.   I believe that there are many sides to any conflict:  those directly involved, those peripherally involved ("stakeholders"), those who can have an influence in resolving the conflict, and observers.  (However, when I mentioned this to an Orthodox Jewish college friend in Jerusalem, she claimed my thoughts were "poison" and demanded I apologize for questioning Israel's right to exist!??!)

Note to grandbrood:  Grandpa was an exceptional person in this regard.  He always wanted to hear someone's "side of the story."  He accepted or judged people as individuals.  I always said that he had the purest soul of anyone I ever knew.

Israel is for Jews, religious pilgrims and archaeology enthusiasts. I don't fit any of those profiles, except for a superficial interest in and desire for limited exposure to all those areas.  Upon arrival, I was pre-occupied with my lack of definitive associative identity.  Then, I began to feel that  Israel is about "othering" and exceptionalism: no other life is as important as a Jew's,  no one deserves land except the Jews, no one's quality of life matters except the Jews', and no one's human rights matter except a Jew's.  This is reflected in public policy and enforced by a pervasive militarism that is executed by 20-somethings you don't want to upset because they have authority, emotional immaturity, and carry machine guns.  (I saw this first-hand at one Israeli/West Bank border crossing.  One or more of our tour members stupidly took pictures and pissed off a young Israeli soldier.  He sent a team of three -- one wearing a bullet-proof vest, one carrying a very big gun --on to our bus.  They confiscated the passports of 20 of our 24-member group and ordered them off the bus to go through more rigorous questioning.  I was one of the 4 left on the bus; I didn't fit the profile -- whatever it was.  Fortunately, our group didn't have to wait in a long line the way the Arabs have to.)

From the Israeli perspective, if an Arab resists or attacks, it's "terrorism"; if an Israeli (Jewish) invades an Arab village or demolishes a home or injures nonviolent protestors (e.g., against the barrier wall) with huge hard-rubber bullets (and sometimes live ammunition) or a fiery brand of tear gas, that's "defense".  "Defense" and "security" trump all -- which is apparently why Israel  feels it can ignore all the United Nations resolutions and international laws that condemn and prohibit its actions.

It is impossible for me to see Israel as a "democratic state", as it is constantly referred to in the media, or to find credible Jewish support of victims of genocide (e.g., Darfur), when I see it treating its own residents and neighbors so heinously. Rather, I see Israel an apartheid state, in which there are different laws for different people, and it breaks my heart. 

Israel has built a barrier wall around the (Arab/Palestinian) West Bank which rather than following the internationally accepted "green line" border, encroaches on Arab lands to divide them, take in Jewish illegal settlements, and "own" the water.  The settlements have been ruled illegal by a variety of international bodies and laws, but still they exist and flourish, all with government assistance, including military security.  There are even roads only Jews can use!   Meanwhile, the Palestinian villages are divided by land grabs, homes are demolished (over and over again), settlers harass the Arabs.  When Arabs protest the wall nonviolently, they are met by soldiers who have an "emergency military order" and respond with tear gas and rubber bullets -- both of which have caused fatal injuries. Palestinian youths are discouraged from throwing rocks at the bulldozers by their elders, who know it will only prompt harsher retaliation.

For me, the bottom line was the despair I felt at seeing Israeli public policy turn Jews -- whom I had considered my entire life as victims of persecution --  from being the oppressed, into the oppressors, using 1930's German tactics to "de-Arabize" and "Judaicize" (a word used in Israeli public policy) this "holy" land.  I do not see Israel as responding to a threat, but rather causing the threat, and thus creating insecurity.  According to the right-wing majority,  every Arab is a "terrorist", or potential terrorist, which apparently justifies the following:

Barrier walls and fences; innumerable checkpoints where Palestinians are delayed and harassed; identification numbers based on ethnicity; invasion of villages; curfews; "administrative detentions", which allow Israeli soldiers to stop/pull out of their homes/arrest/jail people for months and sometimes years, without formal charges or trial; restrictions on movement (and thus access to friends and family, jobs and health care); disproportionate allocation of municipal funding and services; illegal occupation of land; destruction of property; segregation in land rights, housing, zoning, land purchase and occupancy; restricted transportation (e.g., trains run past Arab villages but don't stop there);  unequal education (in terms of funding, building and maintenance, scholastic materials, and cultural content), resulting in high dropout rates, unemployment and crime;  closures of schools/ universities and arrests of professors and administrators; a conflict between the judicial system and legal systems that results in lack of implementation of Israeli court rulings; and always, always, the threatening, stress-producing military presence. 

Despite all the above, I found the Arabs I met to be stoic and peace-loving despite their hardships, warm, kind, family and community-oriented, and very welcoming.  I felt safer with them.

Israel is not a country I want to support.  I don't fit its profile.

Framing the picture

I bought a painting.  There is some wonderful art in Ghana and over the past 9 months I've eyed a lot of works, but none captured me quite as much as this painting (I hope I'm able to attach photo), "Strength of a Woman."  While the subject matter is commonplace in West Africa -- a woman selling produce (either roadside or at a market), I love this piece's vibrancy, color, and technique.  Only problem is, it's 2'x3' and it was going to cost me a fortune to have it framed in the U.S.  A friend suggested I have it framed here -- duh -- so I went to my handy-dandy ex-pat resource book for Accra, and sure enough, found a framer who apparently was located close to my office. So here's how business is done in Africa....

Two phone numbers were listed for "Galleria Art".  As often happens, one number didn't work.  The other was a cell phone answered by a man whom I could neither hear because of all the screaming children in the background, nor  understand because West African accents are totally incomprensible to me on the phone.  In French or English.  After a few back and forth calls, we were able to connect and I asked where his shop was located, so I could go there during my lunch break. Since there are no addresses here, and streets all curve into each other, directions are always given in terms of, "Do you know where___is?"  Unfortunately, he kept mentioning places I'd never been to (or if I had, I would never have found them again, anyway)....until he got to "Chicken Licken'".  Aha!  I KNEW I'd seen that sign.  No problem I told him, I know where that is.  Fine, he said.  Be there at 1:30 p.m. and call me, I'm near there.  (It is typical for locals to meet you somewhere and then you follow/take them to your mutual destination.)

Only problem was, when I arrived, I found myself at "Southern Chicken", not "Chicken Licken'".  A couple more phone calls and we agreed on another place to meet in 45 minutes.  When I arrived at that destination, I again called him, and explained I was "the white woman (as if he couldn't tell on the phone) wearing a light colored skirt (actually cream) and purple top (well, actually, it's deep raspberry, but would he understand that?), and I'd be waiting outside my silver Honda (of which there are only slightly fewer than hundreds of silver Toyotas).  It occurred to me that while raspberries and cream sound inviting, maybe cream and raspberry wasn't such a great color choice that morning....

I stepped out of my car in the designated parking lot, and saw a man looking around everywhere but at me, so I waved.  Gideon (as that is his name) approached me, said he had get his daughter (about 4 years old, waiting in the taxi), and I could follow him in another taxi, which I did.  We went back to a lovely residential area to a large house behind the gated wall (as they all are), which I never could have found on my own, no matter how good his directions had been. 

I'm used to framing shops that are immaculate -- where the sample mouldings are geometrically displayed on walls behind pristine service counters holding carefully arranged stacks of mattes, and the surrounding area is a gallery resplendent with samples of the shop's best and creative work.  Gideon's shop is a garage stuffed with seemingly randomly stacked mouldings on teetering shelving units, rickety old tables overflowing with what looked more debris than anything else, and old frames and glass stacked every which way on the floor and leaning up against walls.  He suggested I sit on an old plastic chair under the tree, which I declined, and then he poured a collection of broken moulding samples from a torn paper bag onto one of the tables in the garage, and suggested I choose from those.  (I wasn't going to use a matte, or glass, so those weren't issues.)  I held them up against the canvas, which was sitting (much to my concern) on the ground, propped up against a wall.  Nothing was quite right.  Too "western", I told him..too "fancy"..."not right".  I want it to look African...rough (a word that here is understood as "natural", not modern, or in the case of roads, not paved).

Gideon's assistant pulled out  piece of moulding that was a "rough" bamboo-like texture with a little bit of the painting's orange and gray tones.  Perfect.  Gideon then worked up a price, using a pen on a torn piece of paper; 70 cedis ($49).  That worked.  I offered him 35 as a deposit and said I would give him the other 35 when the picture was ready -- which would be...when?  That afternoon, he told me, after he took his daughter (somewhere).  I must have looked skeptical, as he added, "Don't worry.  It will be fine."  He also assured me that when he delivered the painting, and I gave him 40 GHc, he would have the 5c change (because frequently in this cash-based society, no one has any change).  He scribbled a map on a small piece of cardboard to help me find my way out of that residential maze, and I returned to the office.

Two hours later I received a phone call:  they were ready to deliver my painting, but they couldn't find my office.  They were at a nearby restaurant, which I knew, and which is in fact just one street behind my office.  I'll  meet you there, I said.  I drove around the corner and arrived at the restaurant just as the two men were lifting the framed painting out of their taxi.  It was perfect.  I paid 40 GHc and received 5c in change.

"Where is your office?" Gideon asked, persisting for exact information.  "Next time you want something framed, just call me and I'll bring the samples to you."

Service -- African style.

Love,
Grammy

Now it's time to go...

I've tried, I really have...but living here alone has been just too difficult, combined with the difficulties faced on the job.  I describe project management as "paper airplane management", meaning everything goes 'round and 'round and finally makes a soft, indeterminate landing with little impact or effect.  This is not the kind of work I want to do, nor in an environment I want to do it.  Really?  Agricultural trade?  Onion, poultry, livestock and cereals?! 

It will cost me quite a lot of money to send myself home -- wherever "home" is going to be -- but it's worth it to me.  I've always felt that mental health relies upon making big decisions when your gut tells you you're right, and then the means for making those decisions will come.  And they always do.

Keaton, I loved having you here with your dad for a week in June.  I know there were some difficult times, but that's really because both your dad and I got stuck in an unfamiliar place, without Grandpa, and you got caught in the middle of all those emotions and dynamics.  However, you did GREAT, as I told you -- wow!  Your first trip abroad at 14, and to Africa of all places!  I hope you learned and experienced and that your memories will last for a long time.  I loved that when someone asked you, "Is this your first trip to Africa," you responsed, "Yes, but she's been preparing me all my life."  And I loved receiving this e-mail from you:

 

hello grammy! I am emailing you about the greatest trip a 14 year old kid or for that matter ANYONE! it was the greatest thing in the entire world. the was a week i will never forget. it was sooo amazing. meeting all the people that i did (sam,phillip,all your work friends, mica, loe, the owners of Ko-Sa beach resort, the women that worked in Colors of Africa, and the random teenagers at elmina and cape coast castles) it was an expirence that when i look back on it i miss it ALL. the heat here feels just like africa and i miss africa sooooooooooo mucchhh i wanna hug ghana and its people they are just so nice. as i am trying to write this email my mind is just blowing with all these different ways to make this email and say how much i love africa.

 

i cant thank you enough for this trip fighting aside. the trip was the best best best i miss everyday of it

thank you sooooooooo much grammy

 

                                                                                                          love keaton

 

 

P.s the picutres will be emailed soon

Love, Grammy

Making Friends

It's been quite a while since I've blogged...a combination of work and personal issues that have left me without much desire to "share", much less to be amusing.  I am reminded now, though, of how a few weeks after I arrived, Makayla, you asked me if I had made any friends yet.  While it was a sharp reminder of how alone I was, it was also a lovely concept -- that my 12-year old granddaughter wanted to be sure I had friends.

Well, I'm six months into the 18 months here, and finally, I can say that I have, indeed, started to make friends -- or at least, to have a social life.  (No, no men or dates.)

My first "Hmmm...this woman might become a friend" experience was with Eunice, a tall, high-fashion, high-energy, married  businesswoman with two young children who produces a TV show on business affairs.  We'd met a few times concerning her show, and her interest in my "Creatrics" trainings.  Last Friday night we had a "girls' night out", going for food, drink, "girltalk", and live music (great band/singers playing Ghanaian "high life" !).  I reverted to my true self -- the first one on the dance floor, pulling others up -- and for the first time in 15 months, didn't feel like a tired, used-up, old widow.

I've also started going to activities held by "NAWA" (North American Women's Association). At one such event (a fashion show of really outrageous but fun African clothing by a Swedish designer) I met Ansantewaa -- a Ghanaian woman married to a white American (we can say "black" and "white" here without feeling we're committing some kind of terrible social faux pas), with three children, a recently published cookbook on Ghanaian food, and a wicked sense of irony and outrage. She's known by most people (including her husband of 25 years) as "Sarah", but has taken back her African name and so is introducing herself that way.  I've now been to her house for dinner twice, we've gone walking, and I'm picking her up to go to a NAWA meeting tomorrow night, to hear a woman lawyer speak on women's rights in Ghana.

I met Paula, a Portuguese ex-pat here in Accra who's selling real estate, at "Cuppa Cappuccino", a cute little cafe where I sometimes I go for excellent food and coffee and really bad service.  In fact, bad service is so much the norm at restaurants in Accra that when I had a friendly, attentive and competent server at one restaurant recently, I gave GHc 10 (10 cedis = $7) to the manager to buy the server some sushi, which he said he liked but couldn't afford.

The next time I went to "Cuppa", I struck up a conversation with Judith, a Ghanaian-American lawyer/financial advisor with a very strong New York accent, and her friend Ama, a Ghanaian IT specialist and university instructor who recently adopted a young daughter.  Paula happened by, and we talked about music -- Judith is a major ethnic music fan -- and agreed it would be fun to get together for wine and cheese and share our favorite music.  So, I went ahead and arranged that gathering for the next Saturday at my apartment.  I also invited Ansantewaa and Eunice (latter couldn't make it), and Paula brought her Portuguese friend, Vanda. It was four hours of music and lively conversation -- about careers, life in Ghana, how Africans are portrayed internationally (we both laughed at and rued the predominant images of destitution, disease and backwardness) and, mostly, about "relationships".  Although my guests were all in their mid-to-late 40's and either long-married (Asantewaa) with children still at home, divorcing (Vanda), or single/never married (the others), and I'm in my 60's long married/widow, it was a conversation to which I could certainly relate, having had it numerous times in numerous countries over the years.  Interesting how that never changes...

I met Jannie at Asantewaa's house.  About my age, she and her husband are fairly recent Peace Corps alumni who are still living the experience while he's here on a teaching Fulbright.  Jewish from the north mid-Atlantic (can't remember where), Jannie is a vegetarian, into walking everywhere (oy, in this heat and humidity!), and exploring via hiking, back-packing and camping.  I thought we'd have nothing in common, but she called and suggested lunch, which turned out to be fun -- as well as an introduction to the "Chabada" (?) orthodox Jewish Passover seder I'll be attending Monday night.

So, even though every day I still awaken startled and depressed because I'm no longer a wife, and no longer have "my" life and my love...and even though I still cry at least once every day...now those periods of sadness are interrupted with phone calls and e-mails:  "Hey, want to get together?"

xooxooxox Love, Grammy 

Mingling with Mali's livestock players

Since I'm in charge of assigning who among the three of us on the Communications team goes where (within the eight-country West African region in which we work) -- to cover activities that we can better publicize -- I was looking forward to a Mali event so I could see my good friend, Tommy, from USAID/Rwanda days. 

The opportunity came up February 17-18 in the form of a two-day "preparatory" conference in the capital city of Bamako for Malian animal breeders to develop an advocacy statement to be delivered to the President of Mali.  ("Breeders" isn't really the correct translation of the French word, "l'elevage", which means more "animal husbandry" in American English, but we don't us "animal husbands", do we?) They have a  number of concerns about constraints they face in the areas of production, processing (which in the livestock sector means "meat" instead of selling live animals) and trade, the area in which my project works.  Although this was a Malian event, "trade" means to other countries, and that's where our technical and financial support came into play, as ours is a regional agricultural trade promotion project.

There were only two minor problems with my decision:  1)  I'd been warned Malians speak a West African-accented French that's difficult for other West Africans to understand, plus they'd probably more often be speaking Bamara, one of Mali's 13 official languages, thus, I might not understand anything going on; and  2) I know practically nothing about raising/selling/buying/butchering livestock. 

Unlike the sheep sale that was my first event, how to dress wasn't a problem.  A conference center is a conference center anywhere in the world, and everyone just wears regular business clothes.  Right?

Well, it depends on what you mean by "regular".  A few of the more than 300 Malian livestock "players" (mostly men, as the few women present were government or organization bureaucrats) -- representing all aspects of the livestock trade from hoof to table -- were wearing variations of a European or African urban two-piece suit.  However, since they came from throughout this very large and varied country, where cattle breeding is big business and some are tycoons and some are herders, their fashions were as eclectic as their ethnicities and socio-economic levels.  Typically in West Africa, it's the women's fashions that catch  my eye, but in this conference center, the menswear was exquisite, particularly the voluminous, colorful robes made out of a material that looks and feels like part cotton, part paper.  (See photos at <www.flickr.com/photos/paulettelee>) 

At one point, I was smothered in this material as I got caught on the steps in the mad dash to the coffee break and I just had to laugh to myself, thinking of friends and family:  Gee, look where I am at this moment!  However,  I was also being overtaken by body odor. 

This is as probably as good a time as any to at least touch on some of the personal behavior issues I come across.  A whole lot of people in the "third world" don't bathe a lot, much less use deodorant.  (Actually, that seems to be true in France, as well, come to think of it...)  We Americans are VERY clean.  I can't say these men smelled of cows, but many of them them were quite...well, ripe. 

And then there's the pecularity of the right hand.  In Muslim societies (and many African non-Muslim, as well), it is frowned upon to extend your left hand to anyone for any reason, because that is the hand that (theoretically) is used for ...well, personal hygiene.  Never  mind which hand you or I use.  The point is, despite this prohibition, these men think nothing of picking their noses (in public) or taking off their sandals and rubbing their bare feet (in public) with...that's right, the right hand.  The one they use to shake with.  Which is why I always carry hand sanitizer.

In the "trade" work group sessions I attended, there was lively debate about the problems traders faced --primarily access to credit, being harrassed and hit up for bribes on the trade corridors, and not being competitive enough in the regional markets.  One of the participants kept glancing at me with a smile (see fellow in green in trade group photo).  I'd glance at him, smile, drop my eyes -- and then it occurred to me:  I'm flirting with a guy wearing a long rag wrapped around his head!!  (Nothing came of it -- we didn't even speak; I'm not running off with a cow herder from Mali.)

The work group was marked by the same dynamics I see wherever people are engaged in lively and occasionally contentious debate on topics about which they care passionately.  There were those who argued with reason, and those with emotion; there were the firebrands, the cooler heads, the comics, the "politicians" and the "nut jobs" -- and the woman leader who managed them all brilliantly. 

Even though there was agreement to speak in French, the sessions on the first day quickly lapsed into Bamara-only, which was even a problem for some from regions where Bamara is not spoken.  I guess they were as lost as I was.   It's particularly disconcerting when people speak in two different languages simultaneously, because you think you're understanding, and then suddenly, you're not.  This happens everywhere.  It can be a combination of French and English ("franglais"), or Chinese and Hindi ("Chindhi") or whatever -- when people who are bi- or multilingual just naturally fall into using combinations of languages on the basis of the vocabulary that first comes to mind.  I have to shake my head in dismay at how many Americans insist everyone who's an American should speak English -- when so many other countries in the world easily accommodate more than one language all the time, both officially and informally.

At the end of the two days, with help from colleagues whose French I did understand, I found out I really did understand the issues (after all, I've been working on them for a few months now), and it was clear what the conference's process and end results were.  I even did some interviews in French, but to make things easier, I've ordered a digital tape recorder to use for future interviews.

And I did get together with Tommy, who is so good for my ex-patriate personna as he helped convince me that rather than throw in the towel and quit my often unrewarding job, as I'd been inclined to do earlier in the week, I should hang in and relish the experience.  Heat, humidity, bugs, dirt, loud voices and music, inefficiency, horrible traffic, body odors and all.

xoxxoo  Love, Grammy 

A bad Africa day...

I am really turned off to Africa in general and Ghana specifically, after a particularly ill-fated work event in Kumasi, mis-managed by a staff person to the extent that everyone was adversely affected and the whole project looked bad.  These were the doings of just one person, of course, but the overall level of ineptitude and "stupidity" (admittedly a cultural perspective), plus really foreign attitudes and practices, has just sent me over the edge.  I feel like some old, complaining, demanding harpie and haven't been able to let go of it.This is exacerbated by having received a copy of a beautiful article that appeared in the Gettysburg Times last week, written by Greg Bowles in Leon, Nicaragua, in memory of Gary's death.  So I'm pretty weepy right now.

I am also right now so sick of the traffic, and hawkers in the street, and motorcycles that don't pay attention to traffic laws and police who don't stop them, and garbage (especially plastic bags) all over the place, and open sewers, and public urination and nose-picking, and villages that have no indigenous pride so allow their buildings to be completely painted (and indeed taken over, it seems) by cell phone companies with their ubiquitous logos and strewn with garbage, and men who keep stroking their pants-covered genitals, and the yelling and loud music and omnipresent cell phones with their really irritating loud "rings", and "international standard" hotels where the lightbulbs don't work and there are housekeeping oversights, and everyone moves SO SLOWLY, especially when they're crossing the street in the  middle of traffic, and the price-gouging (especially if you're white)...

And then enroute back from Kumasi to Accra, we stopped at a roadside stop -- great idea, except even though you pay to go to the toilet, the stall doors don't close or lock (or there may not even be a door), the toilets don't flush and the water doesn't run.  And of course, there's no way to dry your hands. The young people who are selling food are doing so inbetween bites of the food they're eating, with their hands. By the time I got back to the bus, I was so pissed off that I made a remark about Africa being amazing because the toilet facilities don't work but everyone has a cell phone.  That did not go over well; not a good choice (and of course I felt badly as soon as I said it).  Even though Africans themselves will criticize, and even though we can have a shared laugh about these things on occasion, and even though there are rantings on the radio from Africans about these situations (as there was, in fact, just after I made my remark), you have to know when it's okay to say, and when not.  This was a not.  But they got back at me.  Everyone ignored me for the rest of the trip and our staff admin assistant decided to tell me I should just get a taxi from the drop-off point in Accra, rather than be taken back to the office.  I questioned that, and the plans were changed, but not without a lot of attitude from her -- and me, too, I must admit.

It's time  for me to change my attitude.  I'm not going to change Ghana/Africa,so I simply can't let it stress me out.  I'm not here forever, just for the experience (and the money and health coverage, to be truthful).  And I have family coming who are going to expect a pleasant visit and new adventure, not an "old" complaining lady having a bad Africa day!

xxooox Grammy