I decided to really get away -- as far away as possible -- for this first Christmas/New Year holiday without Grandpa. Furthermore, the two oldest of you grandkids were going with your mother and stepdad to his father's place in Michigan, and you younger ones were going to be with your other grandparents. I didn't want anything that smacked of tradition or the past; it would just be too painful. So I decided to go to the most interesting, exotic place I could think of -- the Sultanate of Oman on the Arabian Peninsula.
(When I told my friend Terry of my plans, in her typical effort to be supportive, she sweetly commented,"Well, that sounds Christmasy". Cracked me up.)
Oman is a beautiful country with one coastline on the Oman Sea (across from Iran), and the other on the Arabian Sea. It has magnificent, bare, jagged rock mountains that rim the seacoasts, spectacular snorkeling (so I'm told), exquisite deserts and wonderful wadis (riverbeds -- some times dry, sometimes heavenly pools of water). Its history is ancient and its traditions embedded.
Oman is a country of the senses -- frankencense (everyone uses incense in the home), perfumes (the very expensive fragrance "Amouage" comes from Oman), date palms, textiles from all over the Orient, gold and silver jewelry, cities with stunning white architecture and lush parks, golden deserts, ancient forts, green phosphorescent surf (plankton), Bedouins ( who live in houses, not tents), camels and and an amazing irrigation system known as "falajas" -- winding, cement or stone-lined channels that use gravity to bring the water down from the mountain springs. It's also challenging for the tourist because everything closes between the 12:15 p.m. prayer time and about 4:30 p.m. and then re-opens until 7 or 8 p.m. This makes sense during the very hot seasons, but in "winter" it's a beautiful 72 degrees and a big chunk of the day is lost.
Oman is a Muslim country with mosques in every neighborhood and the five times daily "muezzin", or call to prayer adding to the sensory experience. Even one of my taxi drivers stopped at a very basic mosque enroute for a "prayer break" while taking me from one town to another. Enriched by natural gas and minerals (not so much oil), the country has been ruled for 40 years by the same Sultan who lives in an extraordinaryturquoise and gold seaside palace (as well as other homes and the world's second or third largest yacht -- one of several), and seems to be as well respected internationally as he is loved at home. Perhaps his most salient accomplishment is overseeing the modernization of a formerly "backward" country while retaining its cultural traditions.
Muscat, the capital city, (on the Oman Sea) and is extremely modern, clean, and quiet, and a ride along the Corniche (seaside road) east to the old town is another sensual delight. The Omanis dress traditionally: the men in white dish-dashes (long "dresses" that are incredibly ALWAYS clean and well-pressed) and embroidered skull caps or intricately woven head scarfs. All the women are completely covered, usually in black, in abbeyas (long cloak-type coats) and head-scarves, with only their faces, hands and feet showing. Some (but not many) cover their faces, too. (THIS is a whole other -- complicated -- topic.) Women and men do mix -- unlike in the more conservative Muslim countries -- but only up to a point. Women do go to school and work, and even hold government positions, but beneath the surface of modernity and relative liberalness, there is a thick cultural layer that to me, is unknowable, unfathomable, and unpenetrable.
The people are extraordinarily friendly -- when they take time for you in between incessant cell phone calls and texting, which frighteningly are conducted while driving, sometimes on more than one phone!. Definitely a "car culture", Oman is is replete with late-model (typically white) cars, and driving behavior that all too often results in head-on collisions. It has a public transport system that I couldn't figure out, so spent much too much money on taxes -- as much as $62 one day! (My hotel was too far from the center of the city.).
Surprisingly, the second largest population after Arabs is Indian (initially from the construction era), but they're so prevalent in commerce -- restaurants and shops, in particular -- that they actually seem to comprise the majority of the population. Even the "Omani cuisine" is actually Indian -- like chicken biryani and masala! Wonderful, fresh fruit juices. Hard to get a decent cup of coffee. Chai (tea) is served with cream and sugar, unless you specify otherwise. No one smokes. Everyone asks, "Where are you from?" "How long are you staying?" "How did you find Oman?" (i.e.,"How do you like Oman?") You must answer you love it. Omanis are hospitable if nothing else -- to the point of stress-inducing excessiveness. You MUST be happy. If you're not, they consider themselves failures as hosts, which reflects not only on themselves, but on their friends, and families, and the whole country, and... Truly, it got to be too much.
At least it did with Juma.
Juma is a 28 year-old young man whom I met at the Grand Mosque in Muscat, which he was visiting with his younger (male) Omani friend Salah, and his 29-year old (female) friend, Nadia, from Cape Town, South Africa. (The Grand Mosque is magnificent, with public admission allowed for a few hours each morning. There is a strict dress code for women. I had to go back a second time because I wasn't dressed correctly the first time, and in fact even the second time had to buy an inexpensive abbeya and scarf to cover up some body parts somebody found offensive.)
Juma was so friendly, so welcoming, so big-hearted, and so generous -- or so it seemed -- that, to make a long story short, I accepted his invitation to not only go touring around Muscat with them that day, but also to stay at his home, where Nadia had been staying, in the small town (large village) of Tiwi, between Muscat and the seaside resort town of Sur, where I had planned to spend New Year's Eve.
Juma offered an amazing experience. Because of him, I got to experience a bit of village life, went to the desert (Wahiba Sands), two or three wadis (which is the "hang-out" for local folks, as well as camper-tourists), saw the dhow-making yard (the exquisite, traditional boats), ate local foods and joined him, Nadia and his many (male) friends at very modest local "coffee shop" (seldom coffee -- just food, snacks, soft drinks and juices) where the evening's entertainment was always a raucous and wild game of ....Uno. Well, boys will be boys.
It turns out I had also inadvertently walked into a relationship drama between Juma and Nadia, fueled to no little extent by Juma's by then inexplicable invitation to me, and his almost obsessive-compulsive need to be a "good host". It turns out THAT was was driving Juma -- not hospitality, but self-image. The upside was that Nadia and I became good friends, and she even came to stay with me for a couple of days in Muscat, where we had some long coversations and great laughs.
The dynamic between the sexes is very complex and pretty much no-win for a foreign woman who may enjoy the company of an Omani man for a while, but probably will not achieve a long-term relationship. Men bond with men. They adore their children, and I saw many of them in the park with their wives. But it's pretty clear that men have the power and women are not to be seen much, nor heard.
The pressure to conform in such a society is subtle, but obvious. When children pointed at me and laughed, I thought that if I were to live in such a society, I, too, would wear a head scarf. On the other hand, when one in a group of 20-30-something young men called out a vile comment to Nadia, I marched back and took on the whole table with my indignation ("What would your mothers think? I expect you to act like good Muslim men! What kind of adults are you going to become?!"). En masse, they pulled out their cell phones and busily texted or pretended to -- probably more of out of embarassment than anything else, and it is considered rude (defiant) in Muslim culture to look someone older/of higher poisition than you, i the eye. Even though they all snickered when I marched away, Nadia in tow, the theatre was pretty good.
Nadia and I got the last laugh, though. Sitting in a small public square in the Mutrah section of Muscat, waiting for the souk (market) to re-open, we found ourselves the only women (never mind non-Arab and not covered). "Well, will you look at that," I marveled. "Here we are, two women, no head cover, bare skin exposed, and not a single man is unable to control himself." We started to laugh...and then we got hysterical. We couldn't stop. All this ...STUFF...about men and woman just seemed so ridiculous. "Are you happy?" we asked each other. "Do you like Oman?" And we were off again, in paroxysms of laughter. And you know, the men didn't seem to mind at all.
xoxoxoo Love, Grammy
Sunday, January 9, 2011
Friday, December 17, 2010
It ain't cultural, it's institutional!
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
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
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
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