The Snow Covered Flag of Ghana

I bet you never thought that you'd see the day that the Ghana flag would have snow on it (or more precisely, be made of snow); I know I certainly never did. But here it is, compliments of Diane and Rae from Boston, Mass. The East Coast of the U.S. is getting the white Christmas I've been dreaming of, and Diane thought she'd share a bit of it with me.

And in this particular case, you can eat the yellow snow, or the red or the green for that matter. Diane used up her entire stash of food coloring to create this short-lived masterpiece. Sadly, it's now disappeared under another foot of the white stuff, but it can live on here in perpetuity.

Thanks Rae and Diane! Happy shoveling!

I’M DREAMING OF A WHITE CHRISTMAS

It's only 12 shopping days till Christmas, and try as I might, I just cannot get into the Christmas spirit. I've done everything I possibly could... burned all of my favorite Christmas songs onto CDs, dug out all of our Christmas decorations, printed coloring pages for Alexandra to turn black and white images into pretty Christmas-y red and green door decorations, lit a couple of bayberry candles, shook up the snow globe, taped my Grinch ornament to the computer, got all my Christmas movies dusted off. But still, nothing.

At this moment, here in Tema, it is 90 degrees outside (and really, only slightly less inside, since we try not to use the A/C during the day), sunny, humid, not a breeze to be felt. I am from New Jersey, my body is attuned to New Jersey temperatures and weather. It is 37 degrees right now. My heart tells me I should be cold, but my body tells me sweat!!

Native Ghanaians who have not been fortunate(?) enough to leave Ghana, have absolutely no concept of a weather that can get so cold that a liquid can change to a solid. When I'm in a show-off-y mood, and usually right after we have learned from CNN that a blizzard dropped a couple of feet of snow on the entire East Coast, I love to tell the story of the time that I, Sly and the kids went to visit my Ghanaian niece and her husband in Ottawa, Canada.

Almost at the exact moment that we were driving through Watertown, NY, the DJ on the radio announced that the coldest recorded temperature of that day in the entire U.S. was occurring in Watertown, NY!!! Yikes!! We were right there, in the thick of deep freeze! We reached Ottawa about 90 minutes later, and as I walked the few feet from the car to the front door, I stumbled and splashed my cup of Diet Coke (ain't I a die-hard?) onto my woolen mitten. It immediately froze into ice crystals. Even as I type this, I am recalling that moment in awe. Harriet and Augie in Ottowa, if you're reading this, I'm sending you some Ghana vibes!

The Ghanaians to whom I regale this story, usually look at me as though I told them that my father had 3 testicles. They touch their thumb to their chin, look at Sly for affirmation, and say, "Cho!" which I think is the Twi word for, "you must be shittin' me!"

So, While I'm typing, I'm drinking a cold Star beer, wearing a tank top, shorts and flip flops, enjoying whatever cool breeze can be forced from the ceiling fan. The closest I am going to get to ice and cold is when I open up the freezer door to get another cold drink. I'm thinking about putting burgers on the grill for dinner... it's too hot to cook in the kitchen. And we're making our plans to go away over the Christmas holidays and maybe do a day cruise on the Volta, catch a few fish (kids) and a few rays (me), swim in the pool, eat good food, drink more beer (and soda) and just relax.

Life in the tropics takes some adjustment when you're a seasonal kind of girl, as I am. Except during November and December, I can handle any weather that God sees fit to provide us with, so to speak. But hey, I would almost sell my soul just for a simple 10 minutes flurrying of flakes. Not for me, but for the kids. But since that ain't gonna happen, I'm changing the wallpaper on our computer. Dateline: Belford, NJ, January 2007... 2" of snow and my kids made the most of it. Thank God for digital cameras!!

MERRY CHRISTMAS!!

From Ghana with Love - Cyber Dating Scams

Be forewarned, I'm not going to be my normal sarcastic cynical smart ass self here. This issue is very serious, and probably doesn't directly affect any of my friends or family, but I'm hoping someone may google "Ghana + love + dating" and find me. Maybe it will help, I don't know.

I also want to say, right up front, that the Ghanaian men and women I'm writing about are entirely in the minority. Most of the young men and women I have had the pleasure to meet and know are honest, hard-working, God-fearing people with integrity enough not to engage in such dubious activities.

On the other hand, while I absolutely cannot condone their actions and mis-deeds, I can say that given the state of the Ghanaian economy, and the desperation that exists for young men and women just out of high school or college, with no good and viable prospects for profitable "legal" employment, the quick buck that can be turned here is much too enticing. I also think that because their crime is "faceless" it makes it that much easier for them to commit. My other thought is that the average young Ghanaian believes that all Americans and all Europeans are rich, consequently they can afford to part with some of their fortune.


I love the internet. It allows me to keep in touch with my loved ones back in the US, follow events happening all over the world, meet new friends, and even order new eyeglasses and car parts. But over the past few months, I have become increasingly aware of a much seamier side to the internet. Internet dating is not a new phenomenon in the US, but the way it is being used to hurt and scam innocent and unsuspecting men and women has gotten so out of hand, that it has been thrust into my domain, so to speak.


Some of you may be aware that I'm the "local expert" for the Accra, Ghana forums on www.tripadvisor.com, a US-based website that helps people plan their trips, and local experts are those who can offer some insight and advice on a particular destination. Well, about a year or so ago, I started seeing a great deal of questions involving issues of an "internet boy or girlfriend" in Ghana who they met on a dating website. When tripadvisor introduced the means to email its members through their server, I was being asked, almost on a daily basis, for help. To this very day, I get them on a regular basis... even one this morning.

Many questions and issues have to do with the sincerity or veracity of the “friend” from Ghana, who urgently needs either money or the shipment of goods to him or her here in Ghana. In the vast majority of cases, all of these poor innocents were being scammed or conned by the Ghanaian friend, whether male or female, it didn't matter.

Stories, and that is really all they are, that have been posted tell of a Ghanaian who needed $400 for a new cell phone which was stolen, though you can buy a new activated cell phone here for as little as $35. Someone else needed work boots and other items sent to him, shipment of which would cost $400 from the States (truly very very expensive to ship to Ghana), yet all those items are easily obtained here in Ghana. Someone else needed $300 because her father was having eye surgery; the cost of a normal doctor visit is less than $5, surgery may run about $100-$140, if that. Someone else needed $3,500 for their mother’s funeral… funerals in Ghana are not like funerals in the USA, and are long drawn out elaborate affairs; “donations” by mourners at the end of the funeral period usually more than cover the cost of the funeral outlay.

The pattern is plain: Gimme, gimme, gimme.

Here are some common sense bits of advice that I've proposed to those people who email me:

Google your "friend's" name and see if you get any hits. Sometimes, the scammers actually do use their real name. One guy from California told me the name of his supposed beautiful (I saw the picture!) Australian born princess, stuck in Accra without money. When I googled her name, it came up with a link to a very attractive black Ghanaian woman on another dating website. Same vital statistics, too.

If the scammer is saying that they are white, and are claiming that they are American or British citizens or Europeans who somehow got “stranded” in Ghana, don’t believe it. Their Embassy would help them in some way, shape or form.

Even if they send you a picture, it may be one that they downloaded from the internet. The beautiful Australian girl's pictures looked (to me) like professional before and after shots from a magazine. If you want to know what they really look like, insist that they go to an internet café that has web cam and your friend should IM you at the same time; all the big internet cafes here in Accra have it, BusyInternet, SmartNet, etc. It's not expensive to do that, maybe like $2.

If the issue is an unpaid doctor or hospital bill, tell them you will send money only to the hospital. Go to Ghanaweb.com and check the directory/phone book for a listing, don’t believe what they tell you. You may even have a "doctor" or "hospital administrator" who will call you and tell you that money is urgently needed. Don't believe it, even here in Ghana, doctor's don't have time for that. Tell them you absolutely won’t send them any money, see how fast they drop you.

Another red flag should be poor English skills; most of these scammers only got as far as junior high school, if that. Yes, I know that computer-speak is different, but you should still be able to tell the difference.

Fake names is another thing the scammer might try. Someone who normally goes through life as Kwame is suddenly Sean Michaels (or as he might spell it, Shorn Michaels since he wouldn't know the proper spelling). You've no doubt heard of Sean Michael, the WWF wrestler? Very popular TV show here in Ghana. Scammers are very unoriginal when it comes to creating a new name.

If someone claims they're from Arizona, you can verify that. Here's a link to a good website that can provide this service. Just have their IP address, which you can find on an email using full headers, and copy and paste it to the IP Locator.

You may have a legitimate person on the other end. It does happen, though very very rarely. And they may really want to be your friend, but the first time they ask you for something, no matter how small, just say NO. It won't take long before the person's true colors show, because they don't have time to dance with someone who doesn't want to pay. There are too many other gullible, anxious, trusting, innocent people in the world.

The bottom line is, don’t lose your heart and your head over an internet romance. Keep your credit cards in your wallet, don't send any money through Western Union, where the recipient only needs the code word to retrieve it, and an ID card. Don't mail anything to them through the post office. Don't offer to cash their "pay checks" or "postal money orders" and send the money to them via Western Union; all are bogus, and you will be liable for the entire amount at your bank, once they realize the money is no good! Once the scammers have got the money or the goods from you, you're out of luck. Always trust your gut instincts.

The owner of an internet cafe in an Accra, Ghana suburb had posted her comments on one of the Accra Ghana forum topics, she said:

"...almost every night (I) witness lots of young men sitting here and can see how they try to get a lady from the United States or Europe. The even ask (me) straight out for the name of a friend over there, so that they could make a contact to find someone to help them to get out of Ghana. Very often they are chatting with more then two ladies at the same time and they can write in such a sweet way and tell fairy tales that it sickens her when she's caught a glimpse of what they've been typing on the PC."

Below are some very helpful links and you can get an idea exactly how pervasive this issue is just based on this partial listing:

Yahoo webgroup: Romance Scams

Overseas Security Advisory Council

Blog: Studies in Romance Scamming

Delphifaq: Dating Scammer in Accra

MSNBC: Seduced into Scams

U.S. Embassy in Accra

Nigeriaworld: The new faces of internet dating

Ghanaweb: Internet Fraud II

Dr. Phil Message Boards

Mate1 Internet Dating Fraud Warning

Lookstogoodtobetrue fraud website

Internet Crime Complaint Center

Now, I don't want to entirely disillusion you, true love can happen with a Ghanaian. It did for me, and I think that is probably why so many people email me, asking about the culture and the way of life. But of all the cyber relationships I've been made aware of, it was only one that was for real, and I'm happy to say that Shelly and her Ghanaian husband are now happily married. But he didn't lie to her, he didn't ask for anything, he didn't expect anything. Love just happened.


And you shouldn't assume that the people who have asked for my help are in any way shape or form ignorant, naive or stupid. Far from it. Most of them were well educated, middle-aged folks restarting their social lives after divorce, looking for love and friendship, who were just too generous and too trusting.


So, my friends, if you are a cyber-dater, or you know of or have a friend who is cyber-dating, please link them to this blog. It may save them from some pain.

Addendum to this blog, added on Saturday, December 8, 2007:

On the tripadvisor website, someone posted about his recent experience of coming to Ghana and discovering he was a victim of a cyber dating scam. He was very very lucky, it could have been much worse for him. Take a read.

http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowTopic-g293796-i9182-k1596718-Dating_scams-Ghana.html

R.I.P. and/or P-A-R-T-Y!!

Last week, my husband received a phone call from his brother in the UK. There has been a death in the family. Now, in case you’re not aware, Ghanaians have an exceptionally strong sense of family, and it extends well beyond what Americans might consider “immediate family.” Great aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed, great grandmother’s half-sister… it can get quite complicated. How it relates to us, is that it is Sly’s brother’s ex-wife’s father who has passed away. Still with me?

Local custom demands that the family elders be personally advised of a death of an age-mate. A visit to my elderly mother-in-law, who is the ex-in-law to the deceased, was planned for mid-week, and because "J," my brother-in-law, lives outside of Ghana, it fell to Sly to “represent” him at the announcement. In keeping with the custom, the family of the deceased brought with them a gift of gin or schnapps.

Reciprocating, Sly and his sisters must now go visit the family of the deceased and personally offer their sympathies to the children or widow. They will go bearing gifts of "better" gin or schnapps, and a token cash offering. The funeral details are confirmed.

In this particular case, it is December 15^th. “Whoa,” I'm sure you're saying to yourself, “that’s more than three weeks away!” Yes, it is. And you know what, by Ghanaian standards, that funeral is really all too soon. One of the logical and rational reasons that funerals are held weeks or even months after the death is because so many Ghanaian families are scattered far and wide across the globe, and even those who live a continent or two away will try their best to return home for the funeral. Another "reason" for the delay has to do with misplaced perception: The longer the body is in the morgue, the more money it will cost, the more cash spent on the funeral, the higher the reputation of the deceased and the family.

Now, I have been very fortunate in that, in my whole lifetime, I’ve only been to a handful of funerals. Funerals are not fun. They are often quiet, somber, retrospective affairs held in a funeral home, with (what we deem) appropriate dress, music, flowers, propriety. Usually within a week’s time, the dead is buried or cremated, and those left behind try to get on with their lives. Funerals in Ghana are nothing at all like anything else I’ve ever experienced, and I was not remotely prepared for the Ghanaian funeral experience.

While the body is held in a local mortuary, the family of the deceased feverishly attempts to make all the arrangements. The family takes care of almost everything. With a single exception (that I am aware of), there are no American or European-styled “funeral parlors” in Ghana. While the body is embalmed at the mortuary, the final washing and dressing of the deceased is done by the family. The coffin is purchased by the family. The cemetery plot is bought by the family. Flowers or wreathes are purchased by the family. Newspaper obituaries are written, ordered, printed and placed in the local newspapers by the family. Obituary posters are tacked up along the funeral route. Arrangements for all of the various church services are arranged by the family. The renting of a hearse (really, a modified ambulance, complete with sirens) to ferry the dead among venues is done by the family. The renting of a hall or club and requisite tents, chairs and tables for the before, during and after-funeral gatherings are arranged by the family. The DJ with his musical accoutrements is arranged by the family. The food, beer and sodas are made or bought by the family. The purchase of the funeral “souvenir” gift is arranged by the family. And the list of things that the bereaved family must do goes on and on.

Last year, Sylvester and I were invited to a funeral by his boss, whose father had passed away. Now, “Ferd” is a big shot in the community; he is a Ghanaian “mover and shaker” with few equals. We traveled for about two hours to get to the village, and followed the crowd to a hotel at the base of the Kwahu mountain range. When we got there, we found a huge open lot had been cleared, with dozens of canopies set up to shield the people from the blazing sun, under the canopies several hundred plastic chairs were set up in a U-shape. There was even (shock of shocks!) about a dozen port-o-potties scattered about the grounds. Hired help passed out bottled water, soft drinks, beer and hot food.

When we arrived, we saw that nearly every seat was taken, though oddly, the front row of chairs in each section was entirely empty. We assumed it was intended for the family. As we approached, other guests gestured to us that it was alright for us to sit in the front row seats, so we did. Big mistake.

It is customary in Ghana, upon entering a room (or in this case, an empty field), that each newcomer greets the persons already there with a handshake and a hello. This is done from left to right. And Sly and I were seated in the first row of chairs on the left. No wonder they were all empty! We must have shaken three or four hundred hands altogether. Bus loads of men and women came (seriously... bus loads), all of them wearing red and black kaba and slit outfits (women) or draped cloth (men), and they approached us in what was a modified conga line, waving little white handkerchiefs and moving to the beat of the blaring highlife music. After the first hundred or so "greeted" us, we realized that our helpful "friends" behind us were kind of chortling to themselves (at our expense, naturally), but we were too embarrassed to just get up and look for other seats. Darn it, we needed someone to save us! "Ring, ring, ring,"chimes Sly's phone. It's "Ferd," and he's spotted us from across the field (I do kind of stand out, even in this huge crowd), and wonders basically what the heck we are doing waaaay over there, in the cheap seats. Duh. We're building up our biceps, what does he think?

Our hero, I mean, Ferd, invited us up to his family house, where there is an “exclusive” gathering. What that means is, we get to sit in an air conditioned living room, have someone bring us drinks in glasses, eat hot food served in ceramic bowls. We were hobnobbing with the rich and famous in Ghanaian political society, Ministers, advisors, you name him or her, they were there. Funerals are the place to go if you want to see and be seen. And if you're a Ghanaian, you can't not go to a funeral. Short of your own death, there is really no good excuse for missing one.

One of the elite who undoubtedly witnessed (not without some bemusement, I should think) our discomfort caught my attention, and asked me, pointblank, "How's your arm?" I laughed and responded that it ached a bit, and she chuckled and told me, "that that (nodding towards my sore arm) was the reason why the entire front row was always vacant." "Ghanaians know better," she said. I think, in retrospect, that there should be a warning sign, maybe something like this:

Front Row Seating

There are certain responsibilities attached to sitting in the front row of a Ghanaian funeral celebration. In the event of a funeral, you are responsible for greeting and shaking the hand of each and every newcomer and sympathizer. Ensure that you listen carefully to the greeter, they may say more than just hello; respond in the appropriate language. Grasp the greeter's hand gently and pump up and down only once, release. Move on to the next person. Tips: You may keep your hand outstretched between fast moving mourners. Keep a handkerchief handy to wipe off sweat. This is an important job. If you don't think you can do it, move.

Earlier this year, an elderly neighbor passed away. As I recall, immediately after the man’s death, his widow arranged for her house to be repainted, and the pavement between our properties to be paved. Naturally, my husband (SUCKER!) “contributed” to the paving... which is a nice way of saying he pretty much paid for the whole thing.


The day of the funeral, a canopy was set up right outside our wall, and fifty plastic chairs were brought in. The DJ had his stereo speakers anchored to each post of the canopy, and the highlife music started playing at around 6:00 am. There was cold beer, food and music… very, very loud music. This went on for 4 endless days: Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday. We had very little respite from the activity, noise and party atmosphere, except for the incidents of “lights off” which, for a change, was a blessing.

Now, attendees to a Ghanaian funeral are customarily expected to “donate” a little something to the family. In most instances, the contribution doesn’t come close to covering the cost of the beers and chicken that they consumed while offering their condolences. At the conclusion of the funeral, the family sits together and tallies up their earnings, I mean, the “contributions.” Sly overheard the family meeting after the neighbor's funeral, and told me that the voices were raised in anger and anguish, because they didn't "make" as much money as they had hoped, and not enough to pay for all of the costs.

The truth is, most Ghanaian families will go into debt to finance the funeral. I’ve read several newspaper articles and columns in the local Ghanaian papers decrying this sad phenomenon. Even the exceptionally staid UK-based Economist reported on this alarming trend:

http://www.economist.com/world/africa/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9234475

It was even addressed on the floor of Parliament, by the NDC Minority Leader, Alban Bagbin was reported to have said, "we are investing in the dead rather than the living through expensive funerals and that is bad." To read the full article, follow this link:

http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/features/artikel.php?ID=117472

I am trying to think of a way to say this delicately, but I can’t, so I’ll just come out and say it: Funerals are more than a fact of life; they are a form of entertainment. You get to dress up in your funereal best, greet friends and family (some of whom you may not have seen in ages), network with potential business associates and politicians, hear the “Good Word” preached, listen to great music, drink a cold beer, eat some chicken and fried rice, and maybe even get a parting gift, like a coffee mug or handkerchief with an effigy of the deceased on it. Not bad for a small donation.

A Day in the Life at 5.6° N 0.0° E

A very brief Social Studies lesson: Tema, Ghana is the nearest city to the geographical position of 0 degrees latitude and 0 degrees longitude. While not exactly at the crossroads of the Earth, as proclaimed on some billboards (it is actually 5.6° N 0.0° E ) it is, nonetheless, a bustling and vibrant place. Tema began as a small fishing village, and grew expotentially largely thanks to the vision of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, who foresaw a great port and industrial town, and arranged for the city to be designed in such a way that the workers would have their own homes and communities and shops within which to live, work, play and worship. Most homes are bungalow styled, with alley ways separating the smaller streets. Currently, there are 25 Communities in Tema; we live in Community 8 and are building our new home adjacent to Community 25.

But I don't want to talk about leaving my house today to explore Tema. I want to tell you what it's like right from our little bungalow, here in Community 8. Right along side our home is a smallish alley way, not intended for vehicular traffic but rather for pedestrians. Now, most homes, even if they have a yard, are surrounded by high walls. There are very few homes that have picket fences. If your hearing is poor, you will have missed out on a lot.

Our day starts very early, usually by 5:00 a.m. By 5:30, we hear the call to prayer from a local mosque, situated in a house about a block away, the prayers and songs continue until about 6:00. Shortly after this, the parade begins. The first calls of "tea bread" are heard, and there are several ladies who pass within feet of our window, offering bread and butter for sale, carried in a large flat box which is covered by cloth to keep away the flies. This, like most things, is carried on the head. The trays are usually so unwieldy, that the seller needs help to remove it, and to put it back up. Tea bread is a very soft doughy bread, slightly sweet, that the kids like to dip. At about 60 cents for a large baguette shaped loaf, it is quite a bargain.

A little while later, you will hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the shoe shine boys, who carry their wooden boxes over their shoulders, and alert you to their presence with a rhythmic drumming, which they do in time with their footsteps. They are loud enough and pass by frequently enough, that even if you miss one, another is sure to be on his way past with very little wait. They can glue a loose sole, sell you new laces, restitch a purse, even fix a pair of flip flops. Prices are negotiable, but very very reasonable.

Later in the morning, the vegetable ladies will pass. They sell tomatoes, onions, garlic, okra (okro), carrots, spinach (kontomire), yams, plantains, mangoes, papaya (pawpaw) and some other things I don't even recognize. There have been many lunch hours when I thought how nice a red onion and sliced tomato would be with my tuna sandwich, and before long, I hear the longed-for words, "tomatoes... onions." Of course, in the local language, which is (phonetically) amoaah and gyeene.

"Oh darn, I can't believe I ripped the hem on this dress. I did so want to wear it today." Has that ever happened to you? Not to worry. Just listen for the clink of the shears that the traveling tailor carries, as well as the old fashioned black Singer pedal sewing machine. Yes. Carried on his head.

Imagine, it is late afternoon. It's hot, you're sweaty from hanging out your clothes on the line. What could be better than a nice cold ice cream. Wait! What's that you hear. An old fashioned bulb type bicycle horn? It's the Fan Ice guy with his portable icee chest atached to a bike! Yep! Ice Cream and frozen yogurt, and sometimes little cakes or spring rolls. Yummy! I always get the Fan Choco, which tastes like chocolate ice milk; the kids opt for Fan Yogo, which is strawberry flavored. I try to steer the kids away from Fan Ice which is supposed to be vanilla ice cream, but I have some major reservation about what the HELL could be in anything that won't freeze! Hmmmm?

Hungry for a nice piece of juicy sweet pineapple. "Es pine-up!!" is what you've got to listen for. These young men sell their fruit from a wheelbarrow, and for about 60 cents each, he will cut it and slice it for you, and put it into a little baggie. Delicious!

Maybe you've got too many glass jars in the house, because the mustard, mayo and ketchup all finished at the same time. Ghana does not have official "recycling" so I'm loathe to just toss them into the trash. Again, all you have to do is listen. You all know the sound of glass when it's struck by something, it makes you wince, doesn't it? Well, there are some very industrious young men who walk through the neighborhood, who gently clink their glass jars together to alert you to their presence. They will actually buy the empty glass bottles and jars from you (though I just give them freely, and ignore the strange look they give me for doing so), and then resell them in a secondary market.

Growing up, one of our favorite "crude" songs that we kids liked to sing went like this, "Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl. What do you do if you're stranded, and you have to go? Just to prove you're a man you must wipe it with your hand. Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl." I know you know it. Well, that doesn't have to happen here. "T-Roll" is the cry, and the rolls are sold, either individually or by the 10-roll bag. Of course, I'd like to think that one wouldn't really wait til the last minute for this particular item, but if you know you're running low, it's nice to know it will make it's way around to you.

The tinkle of a small hand held bell heralds the arrival of the ladies who sell used clothing. Most of the clothes is carried in a bowl on her head, but she typically carries a few of her "better quality" clothes from a hanger. These women never took Marketing 101, but they're savvy enough to know you've got to put your best stuff in the window. And some of the ladies specialize! It's not unusual to see a woman who appears to be wearing several bras like a veil, since they are draped over the bowl and the cups cover her face as she walks.

The shear variety of items sold by street sellers in my neighborhood is simply amazing. While not all make pronouncements as to what they are selling, if you could sit and watch the parade pass you by, no doubt, you will have enjoyed the show. Among the things you can buy, right outside your own gate, are watch batteries and costume jewelry, shower sponges, wooden matches, coconuts, musical instruments, sandals, light bulbs, baskets, dish soap, wax print material, packaged cookies, wooden student desks, chickens (live ones), boxes of tissues, clothes lines and curtain rods, sanitary pads and diapers, CDs and DVDs (pirated, of course), bibles, school notebooks, socks, crates of fresh eggs, bed spreads... you get the picture. And you can buy a picture, today, just as soon as Alex and I walked out of the gate to go to the store (for her penny candy, no less, one of the few things NOT sold by local hawkers) a seller passed by carrying weeping Jesus framed prints.

Not everything passes by on a given day, some days it's relatively quiet and you'll only get the Fan Ice guy. But one thing is certain about living in Tema, good things come to those who wait.

Taxi Driver and Providence

On Tuesday, we went to SOS to pick up the boys from school. Our van is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a newer model. It's a 1994 (older than Sean, even!) Nissan Quest. And we're desperately awaiting for some parts to keep it running. So, no big surprise, after the kids were all packed up into the car, it wouldn't start. Sly kept turning the key, and it would grind, but not catch. After about 15 minutes of that, Sly (finally!) suggested that maybe the rest of us should get in a taxi and go home. I fully seconded the motion, since I was, by this point, starving to death. I have this terrible habit of skipping meals, especially when I know that there's something especially good waiting for me. It makes the eating and savoring that much more enjoyable. In this case, it was the anticipation of the home-made spinach and ricotta cheese calzone that I planned to make.

Normally, getting a taxi is not a problem, there's usually dozens of taxis plying this stretch of road in Tema, as there are schools all along it and teachers and catering people needing taxis to take them home. But for whatever reason, every taxi that we saw was full. It was so sad.

Finally, on the horizon, Sly spots an empty taxi and signals him to come and pick us up. With surprisingly very little negotiation, the driver agrees to take us home for 12,000 cedis (or about $1.30). I'm thinking, wow! That's pretty cheap, and he didn't even include the obroni tax that I usually have to pay. In fact, we pay our own taxi driver 20,000 cedis each way to take the boys to school.

Sean gets into the front passenger seat, and Mike, Alex and I climb into the back. Sly is walking back to our stranded van to await the mechanic (who makes car calls, by the way). And I'm wondering, as I'm getting my first good glance of the interior, if maybe this is the last time we'll see him alive. We are in a rolling death trap. Now I know why the price is so low. The driver is embarrassed to ask for more! The front dashboard is a tangle of wires, the back door handle is broken and I (strongly!) encourage Mike to squish towards the middle of the seat, so that he doesn't accidentally bump open the door. And there are holes in the floorboard in front of me so that I can see the pavement beneath us. And where the hell are the seat belts? There are none I can see here in the back, and Sean is desperately, and futilely as it turns out, trying to latch his.

Okay, I think, it's only a 7 minute drive, what could possibly happen in 7 minutes? I'm not Catholic, but I know that St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, and I figure a little prayer couldn't hurt right about now.

Our driver asks Sean, in what is known locally as pidgin-English, if he knows where we are going. Apparently, he does not, and Sean points out the way. Fortunately, unlike many other taxi drivers, this driver is not speeding, though I realize the reason for this only in hindsight. We reach a traffic light, and the driver turns off the engine to conserve gas. Light turns green, driver cranks the key. Nothing. And again, nothing. Oops! We're out of gas.

"Madam, is okay," he tells me, "you wait small." He rushes around to the back of the taxi and fitfaddles with the gas cap. Then he opens the boot and pulls out a gallon plastic Frytol Oil bottle. It's his reserve gas tank! Oh, Jeez.

All of a sudden, I hear a familiar honking. It's our Nissan Quest, right behind us! I yell to Sean to get out of the car carefully, and for the other two to come out my side and go straight to the van. Meanwhile, there is traffic trying desperately to get through the green (and yellow and some of the red) light and swerving around us, and there's more traffic coming towards us from the opposite direction. And apparently the majority of the drivers are getting whiplash straining to watch the panicked obroni herd her kids to safety. No doubt they are all wondering what's the big deal, since this is a fairly typical occurrence here in Ghana.

Safely belted into the Nissan Quest, we give a couple of Hip-Hip-Hoorays to our hero, Daddy, who tells us that, strangely, the car started right up! And I offer up to St. Christopher, my silent prayer of thanks. It worked.

Wofrε Me Obroni - A simple(?) Ghanaian language lesson

Wofrε Me Obroni - Translation: I am called Obroni

Now that our kids (well, at least the boys) are going to a new school, they are learning a new language. And it's not French, though that is also on the curriculum. Sean and Michael are learning Twi, pronounced chwee, and Momma is going to learn it too, one way or another... whether it kills her or not.

In America, we've got accents to deal with... my Jersey accent is evident almost as soon as I open my mouth. And most people can tell an Okie from a Bostonian from a Minnesotan from a Texan. While it sounds different emanating from the voice box, it's still English.

The problem (for me, anyway) with Ghana's "mother tongue" is that there is no single indigenous language, there are dozens. And not just different languages, there are also dialects within languages. The Twi that the boys have to learn is Asante Twi, which I've discovered is different from Akuapem and Fante Twi. Who knew.

In any typical Ghanaian household which has school age children, you will hear spoken English and some other local language. My husband, for instance, was raised to speak Ewe, since his family is from the Ewe tribe, but because they lived in Osu, they quickly learned Ga. Then when my husband went to Anum Boys Boarding school, he needed to learn Twi. Fortunately (for me and the kids) English is the official language used in school so almost every kid in the country has a smattering of English. My niece can speak English, Twi, Ga and Ewe, and French fluently, and she's the only girl in Wesley Girls who can speak 5 languages. Jeez, I struggle with one.

But in this household, it's unfortunate, it's currently only Sly who can speak the local languages. Now, I've been listening to him when he's on the phone, and occasionally I can pick out a word or two or three and get the general gist of what he's talking about, but ask me which language he was conversing in, and I'm totally lost. No clue. When I ask him, what did something mean, cause I've heard him say it so many times, I'll try (and typically mangle) to repeat what I think I heard. I am sure to him, it's all gobbledegook but he humors me. Most of the time.

As I said, Sean and Mike have no choice but to learn Twi, as it is a required course in the Ghanaian curriculum, and they must pass it. In the old school, the teaching of Twi was lackadaisical and haphazard, and because the old school was Cambridge oriented, it wasn't absolutely necessary to pass it. At some point last year, they even stopped teaching it, because the teacher quit. The boys weren't exactly depressed about this, as you can imagine.

Praying that my boys (and me, hopefully through osmosis) will learn Twi, we went on a book hunt for a Twi dictionary or at least a primer of some sort. It took several hours, but we finally managed to find one at Ghana Language's Bureau. But the book that really floats my boat is called, "Basic Twi for Learners (Asante)" and it is written by J. Yeboa-Dankwa. I love this book!

It starts by explaining that there are twenty-two letters in the Twi alphabet; seven vowels and fifteen consonants. There are no letters C, J, Q, V, X or Z. But there are two new letters, ε and ɔ, for me to trip my tongue over. The boys and Alex can easily recite the alphabet, complete with rolling "R" sound which I absolutely cannot do. My tongue just does not work that way.

Anyway, the book has simple words, expressions, phrases and conversations to help a foreigner converse with a Twi speaking local. I will (eventually) learn how to greet someone, how to buy bananas or oranges or cloth, take a taxi to Osu RE, or tell you where I am from. There are whole dialogues written out, for all different kinds of scenarios, but the one I really like is this one, which was translated into English. I'm going to paraphrase it here, so I don't get into trouble with the publisher.

Here's the setting: a passenger waits for a trotro (bus) going to (Kwame Nkrumah) Circle. The driver asks the waiting passenger if he plans on getting in, which he does. The passenger asks the drivers mate what the fare is, and the mate responds that it 200 cedis (which is about 2 cents... this is a 9 year old book, by the way, so given inflation, it's likely worth about 20 cents now). The already seated passengers want to know why the fare is so much money for this particular newcomer (obviously they've got an obroni aboard). The mate responds to them that because the price of gas went up, they are charging more. The passengers ask when did this happen. The mate replies, that it was in the newspaper. (This is actually very interesting, because when this book was written 9 years ago, gas prices were subsidized and kept nice and low... perhaps the author had some special insight into the petroleum industry of Ghana.) So, anyway, hearing this, all of the passengers hoot at the mate and begin calling him a liar, a thief and a cheat. The driver insists that the mate charge the passenger the existing approved fare. The other passengers suggest that perhaps the mate is ashamed, but he claims that he is not. The newcomer gives the mate 200 cedis, and now the mate pretends to forget to give him his 50 cedis change. The rest of the passengers start shouting at the mate, and make deragatory comments about his behavior. At this point, the driver tells the passengers to stop talking. They respond that he should mind his own business and just drive the bus. At that, the driver threatens to pull over and stop driving. The passengers say, "Is that so? We shall see!" And they all enjoy a good laugh at the expense of the trotro driver and the mate. Finally, they arrive at their destination.

And lest you think this little story is atypical, you should know (and those of you who are friendly with a Ghanaian know whereof I speak), Ghanaians love to argue and fuss and harangue anyone and everyone... especially when it comes to money. I am so wishy-washy, whatever the price I'm quoted, if it seems reasonable, I accept. If I don't think it's reasonable, I make a single counter-offer. It's either accepted, or I walk away. I do not dicker, bargain or cajole.

But back to Twi. I can tell you my name, "Me din de Barbara," where I come from, "Mefiri New Jersey," and that I like Ghana very much (Mepε Ghana papaapa). What I can't tell you (yet) is how happy I will be when I am able to understand even a tiny portion of this language. Then, maybe, I won't feel so "obroni-ish." Next up, Ewe!

Shopping Ghana

The other day, Sly had to go to his office on High Street for a meeting. He suggested that we (meaning me and Alex) go along with him since he thought the meeting would only run for about an hour or so. Now I should know better, but I acquiesced. Stupid me.

His office is in the Old Parliament House, and only a few blocks from Accra Central, which is the major shopping district in Accra. It is very much like a huge flea market, with hawkers setting up their wares on the sidewalk so that pedestrians are forced to walk in the street. If you can imagine the worst vehicular traffic you've ever encountered, made up almost entirely of taxis and trotros, subtract street lights at any intersection, throw in the occasional loose goat or sheep, add a stampede of women carrying huge baskets and bowls on their head from which they sell most everything you could possibly think of, add in open gutters that you have to jump over and broken sidewalks that force you to watch your step lest you suffer a broken ankle, and then add in a rainy season heavy rain storm, well, then you've got Accra Central on a weekday. Fun, huh?

So, Alex in her rain poncho and me with my giant umbrella set off from Old Parliament House and headed over to Accra's "largest" department store - "Melcom, where shopping is so nice." They said it, I didn't.

Melcom is Ghana's (currently) oldest department store, and they have 16 branches throughout the country. They carry a lot of junk mostly, but it's cheap junk for the most part. And they've got a little bit of everything... clothes, linens, shoes, appliances, toys, toiletries, glassware, plastics, furniture, cookware, etc. I wouldn't say it's Ghana's equivalent of Walmart, it's more like a Dollar Store or a discount store in a strip mall somewhere in the American midwest. I have no idea who supplies them with some of the things they sell, it's mostly knock offs or discards, I'm assuming from some U.S. store that went into Chapter 11, but some of the things are so not appropriate for Ghana. I mean does anyone here really need a kerosene heater or snow shoes? Okay, I'm joking about those things, but not about the infant's snow suits that I saw, or the girl's winter boots.

And other things that they get in for sale, well it seems no one here knows what they really are (and that could just possibly be testament to the excesses of the American consumer), so they just call it whatever they want. I've seen toaster covers labeled a "chef's hat" and a cheese spreader with a porcelain handle shaped like an ear of corn that was labeled, "small maize knife." I don't think they are big sellers, since I see them there all the time. An Honors brand maternity romper was labeled merely as "woman's dress." And I'd like to take a moment here to digress. Who the hell thought this up? A one piece outfit that more than likely buttons up (hopefully from the front!), and from which you have to almost completely disrobe to take a pee? This for a woman with a bladder the size of a walnut that is being compressed by a baby practicing acrobatics and flips to the point that the bladder can only hold a thimble full of urine at a time. The designer of the maternity romper must have been a man. A sadistic, miserable, evil man. Mind you, I owned one, once, so I know whereof I speak.

Anyway, let me tell you about the shopping experience at Melcom. First, you select the items you want to buy, then a girl takes the item away from you in exchange for a small piece of paper on which she has written down an item number for each item. Then you go to the next aisle, which is usually another department, and if you want something, you repeat the item/paper exchange process with another clerk. And so on and so forth. Then you bring all of the little pieces of paper to the register and they ring it up, you pay your money and you are given a single receipt. DON'T LOSE IT. Then, you bring back the receipt to the girl, again in each and every department that you bought something from, and after they carefully check and mark off the items on the receipt, they return to you the items that they are holding. Then you bring your items to another counter where they check to make SURE you have ONLY what you paid for. Then you take your items and your (by then) dog-eared receipt, to the bagger, who checks your receipt and then gives you the absolutely smallest plastic bag available that will hold all of your items. Trust me, Melcom gives nothing away, not even air. And no, you're still not done. Then you bring your bag and your receipt to the security guard who examines and stamps your receipt and then you can go (finally!) merrily on your way.

The only thing Melcom has got going for it is low prices, but in that respect, you mostly get what you pay for. Almost everything I have ever bought there has broken down within days of my purchase. Now, I try only to buy snacks, cheap boxed wine or cheap sweatshop made tank tops... certainly nothing electronic and nothing needing batteries. I did buy Alex a cotton hoodie for $1.20 and bought myself two tank tops for $2.20 each. Still, I have to always ask myself, is it worth the hassle. Not really. And, in case you're wondering, "NO EXCHANGES, NO RETURNS."

From there, Alex and I wandered around Accra Central a bit, stopped to dry off a bit at a local restaurant, had a beer (me, not her) and a sausage kebab (her, not me), and made our way back to the car. And we only had to wait for 15 minutes before Sly came out of his meeting. It was rainy, and a bit chill, but Alex enjoyed the chance to play hookey with her teacher. So, all in all, though we hardly bought anything, it wasn't too terrible a day.

Today, Sean had a birthday party to attend, and Sly went off to a retreat, so, with a little extra time on my hands and not too much money, I drove over with Mike and Alex to Ghana's newest department store, Game. Just to window shop really, and check things out, I told the kids. Game is a store that originates in South Africa, and there are dozens of Game stores all over Africa. Everyone had high hopes that this would be Ghana's answer to Walmart. Well, I was never a big Walmart fan, I so much prefer Tar-JAY, but sadly, this place is not Walmart, either.

At first glance, it's promising. Big bright opening, wonderfully big shopping plastic carts to hold your purchases and your kids, a customer service counter when you enter, a dozen check out counters. The whole kit and kaboodle as my Nana (German nana, not Ghanaian nana) would say. But still not Walmart. Really, not even K-Mart.

Game has two whole aisles devoted to toys -- count 'em two. I could find more toys in a 7-11. They have half of an aisle devoted to pet supplies. Half an aisle of toiletries. Half an aisle of food items. Half an aisle of school supplies. You get the picture. Again, like Melcom, a little bit of everything. Unlike Melcom, at rich obroni prices not fixed income obroni prices.

Now, as I said, I had a little bit of time on my hands, and not too much money. Only about $10. Truthfully, there is hardly anything that can be bought at Game for less than $10. Remember Legos and their offshoot Bionicles? My kids love them. But not for $30. Or a box of 24 crayons (not even Crayola) for $4.50. A small bag of balloons for about $3.60. How about a Barbie? You all must know about Barbie. Would you spend $74 for Barbie? And I'm not talking "Limited Edition Barbie on African Safari" Barbie. I'm talking just plain ol' Barbie. $74. Reduced. I'd like to know from what.

So, with two miserable whining kids in tow, one of whom was audibly sucking up the snot dribbling from her nose after I told her "NO" for the 75th time that she could NOT have said Barbie, we checked out of the store with a single item. I know you want to know. Well, it was a nail brush that cost $1.40. Okay, okay, and two little bags of candy for .80 each.

Big Spender, I am not. Sucker, I am.

School Daze

Well, the inevitable has happened -- I am officially home schooling Alexandra. I didn't see it coming.

About 9 months ago, my husband and I decided to move our kids out of the school they had been attending. Several contributing factors hastened the decision, not the least of which was the cost for the three of them to attend the school.

The school was and is a good school, but when the new tuition schedule came out right before Christmas break (as in, Merry Christmas, F*&% You!), we found that our per term cost for tuition alone had doubled from $350 per kid to $700 per kid. Here's the simple math: 3 kids at $700 is $2,100 per term; 3 terms in a year is $6,300; taxi or cost of driving per month on average is $240 for 9 months is $2,160. A Grand Total of $8,460. And that doesn't include lunch.

So, as soon as we made this decision, we began our search for a replacement school. One that had the high standards we expected, closer to our house, and with a reasonable tuition. We looked high and low, searched the neighborhoods, checked online, asked for referrals and recommendations. And, then believe it or not, we found it! Right in our neighborhood.

SOS School is less than 3 miles from where we are now, and will still be only about a 20 minute drive when the house in Dawhenya is finished.

Sly and I drove to the school to check it out. It took 7 minutes to get there. Oh, my! The campus is big! There's a football pitch (soccer field to you Americans), a track field and a basketball court, a good sized library and a computer lab with computers for every student, and there's even a canteen... the kids won't have to buy their lunch out of the back of an Opel Astra station wagon any more. Oh, glory.

We quickly bought the application forms from the school and completed them right then and there, then listened politely and quietly to the nice lady at the administration office who gave us the tuition costs (Eeeeekkk! It's only 1/3 of what we're spending!) . She warned us, though, that there was a waiting list. Oh. How bad could it be, we naively thought, as we drove home. But it worried Sly way more than me, so off we went back to the school to talk to someone. We saw the nice administration lady, Gifty, who told us we should speak to the Headmaster

We added our name to the list to see the Headmaster, and a tall Ghanaian man came out of the office, looked at the list, and spoke aloud to my husband. "Zigah," he said, "do you know me?" Well, Sly wasn't 100 percent sure, but said the only thing he could say, "You do look familiar." And well he should, because apparently they were school mates in Tema Secondary School. "Bingo. We're in," I thought. Uh huh.

Then in late July we got a phone call from the school, telling us to bring the three kids in for exams the next week. Told ya, we're in! Sly still looks dubious. I convince him (and myself) that the test is merely to determine which class the kids were going into, A (the smart kids class) or B (the not-as-smart kids class). The kids go in, pens at the ready, pencils sharpened, erasers unused, minds alert, what could go wrong?

Most schools in Ghana start on September 11th. By September 7th we hadn't heard anything. Worried. Okay, maybe a little bit. Sly calls up his friend. The headmaster tells him that the exam rankings are posted on the bulletin board outside the school. Sly rushes out to check. Sean ranked 4th among the kids he took the exam with; Mike ranked 7th, and Alex ranked 6th.

I was so totally wrong. That waiting list was the reason for the test. They were taking the top contenders ONLY -- 4th, 7th and 6th place just ain't gonna cut it. The headmaster tells Sly that parents have until September 21st to decide if they will take an open spot, so there's still a chance for the kids to get in. So, we wait and wait and wait. September 11th comes and goes, and to take our minds off it, we go fishing (yes, again... it's habit forming!).

On September 14th, we get a late afternoon call: Mike's invitation letter is ready. YIPPEE!!!! Monday morning, we get our money order in place, find passport pictures, buy exercise and notebooks, and two uniforms. Mike's now in the school data base, and will be good to go for the next day. Tuesday morning, off he goes to school. One down.

On the morning of September 19th, we get another phone call: Sean's invitation letter is ready. Double YIPPEE!!!!! We're off to the bank within minutes for the money order. Same procedures repeated... money order, passport pix, books, uniforms. Thursday morning, Sean is off to school. Two down.

Here it is, September 26th. There is still no invitation letter for Alexandra. The headmaster has "hinted" to Sly several times that Class 2 has no openings. We thought he was kidding. Not. Alexandra is home with me, and we've decided to keep her home until she eventually joins her brothers at SOS. We'd thought about putting her in another school, but hate to have her go through an upheaval like that, only for us to pull her out again (hopefully) soon.

So, in the meantime, we've pulled out all of Mike's old books from Class 2 last year. We've bought half a dozen new school books and workbooks from EPP, the local bookstore to keep her current. We're quizzing her on multiplication tables and plurals of irregular nouns, we're going to teach her French and science, and about the environment, and even RMA (Religious and Moral Education) which will probably lean less towards religion (since we're both homilophobic) and more toward morality. And then we're going to pray very hard that that invitation letter comes soon.

Gone Fishing - Parts I and II

Part I

When I was a little girl, growing up in the urban populace of Union City, NJ, our summer weekends, when not spent down the shore in Seaside, was still a watery fun filled destination: we went to the lake. In those days, a popular weekend recreational spot was Cook's Pond in Denville, NJ. So early on Saturday morning, with my poor dad running on only about 2 hours worth of sleep (he worked the lobster shift at Typographical Union #6 in Manhattan so he only got home at about 6:00 am), we packed up our monster Ford station wagon with our Coleman ice chest, bags full of groceries, Koolaid, a case of Schaefer beer in cans, sand chairs, portable radio, towels, sunscreen, bathing suits and last, but not least, a half dozen or so assorted length fishing poles and tackle boxes. Yep, we were going fishing. The lake was chock-a-block full of sunnies and we were gonna get 'em... all of 'em. the five of us kids were ready -- we even woke up early to make a whole loaf of Wonder Bread worth of bread balls for our hooks.

My Dad, at least when it came to fishing, had the patience of a saint... most of the time. Or at least for the first 3 hours or any combination of two dozen instances of tangled lines, lost bait or the removal of the dreaded sunnie (or even worse, the errant lake eel EEWWW!!!!) from the hook, whichever came first. After that, we were on our own.

I'd like to think that besides my height, the bump on my nose, my great love of books, and weirdly shaped toes, that Dad passed on something else. Maybe fishing is in my blood. So, given that legacy, on Sunday, off we went to Aylos Bay. As you may recall from previous blogs of mine, Aylos Bay is right along the Volta River, and because we planned on spending the night we had a little cabin attached to a floating barge in the river. Primo fishing, we figured.

The river was choppy and dark, but we could spot little fish swimming in the shallows along the shoreline, not many but enough to whet our appetite. Good ol' mom (me, of course), set up the hooks and lines, bobbers for some, sinkers for others, and the worms of course. Now, my kids are not all that squeamish, but they don't really like squeezing the worm into halves or quarter pieces and then see both pieces wriggling. But, alas, our worm supply was limited so there is little choice for them.

Bingo! Within minutes, Mike has snagged the first fish.



A cute little tilapia only about 2 inches long, but still a keeper... no catch and release for us, no sir, there's a frying pan with cooking oil awaiting us and this little dude has got his name on the list. Sly does his part of the job in the fishing gig, he takes the fish off the hook. Mike's re-baited, and away he goes. Bingo! Mike gets fish #2, only minutes later. Process repeated. Many, many, many times with a little variation to break up the monotony: "Mommy, can you give me a bobber? Mommy, can you take my bobber off? Mommy, I want more [less] weight on this. Mommy, my hook is snagged. Mommy the line is all tangled. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy...." By the end of the day, I had a new appreciation for my Dad.

Even a heavy rain storm didn't stop the fishing. I mean the fish are already wet, so what do they care about a little rain. But by the time darkness fell, Mike had caught 5 fish, Sean caught 2 and Sly caught 1. Apparently, the fish could smell the testosterone and completely ignored Alex and me. We'd been keeping them alive in a bucket, but now they were destined for the fridge.


Our cabin had electricity, fortunately, and (cold) running water, a fridge and floor fan, but no television. Knowing Ghana as I do, I quickly brought out the emergency board game and a deck of cards, so the kids were good for a few hours before exhaustion caught up with them.

By 5:30 am, we were "up an' at-em." Within minutes (again), Mike caught another fish. And then another. By the time we were ready to leave at 11:30 to head home, Mike had caught another 4, Sean another 1, and I finally caught one. All told, we had 16 nice little fish to take home and eat, and eat them we did.

End of Part I.

Part II

A mere two days later, we were off again to Aylos, this time with a friend from NYC and his 13 year old son. Kofi had his own gear, which he told me proudly cost him $50 from a yard sale in White Plains. Hmmm. "So, Kofi, I didn't know you liked fishing," says me. "Oh, this is my first time!," he responds. Okay, now I know what the deal is: I've got 2 more rods and reels and lines and hooks to take care of.

We're lucky enough to snag 2 cabins side-by-side, so we claim the fishing dock.


Try as I might, I cannot convince Sean or Evan that they should use drop lines. No, for them, it's got to be the spinning reels. My work is cut out for me. Alex and Mike want the simple drop lines, so I tie some line to the last eye on a little pole, bait their hooks and off they go. Mike drops the line and a fish jumps on. No kidding. I hadn't even started on the other poles, and there's a fish for the frying pan. It went like that both days. Mike dropped his line in the water and a fish came out. Almost always.


After I explained the basic concept of casting to Evan a couple of times, he promptly went and tangled his line. He never could get the hang of tightening and loosening the drag to release the line. But to give him his due, Evan did eventually catch a good sized fish, and the smile he broadcast, braces and all, was well worth my trouble.

Poor Sean. The fish avoided him like the plague. They weren't even going after his worms, but if Mike stuck his line in the water right next to him... BINGO. And wherever Mike had been when he caught a fish, whether it was this part of the pier or that part of the dock, Sean claim jumped the spot. but it didn't matter. Then, finally, after about 3 hours, Sean snagged his first fish of the day. And Sly promptly fumbled it and dropped him back into the water. If it weren't for bad luck, Sean had wouldn't have had any that day or the next.

And Kofi, well, he was absolutely certain that there was a H-U-G-E fish out there, with his name on it, right in the middle of the river. So, despite my subtle warning ("Kofi, you are never going to catch a fish with that plastic worm," he insisted on using the 6" purple glittery plastic worm ("but it looks real!"). I can sense you are rolling your eyes at this point. I did, too.

As for me, I took a couple of yards of line and attached a little hook to it and threaded on my worm. Then I hung them from the nails jutting out of the planks of the dock. Who knows. Night falls, we pack up and head up to the cabins for the dinner and bed.

When we awoke at 5:30, we found Kofi quietly waiting on the dock for us. Apparently, we had his cigarettes. The poor guy was having a nicotine craving to beat the band, and he'd been up for a full hour before we even opened our eyes. However, the fishing lines were dropped into the water almost before Kofi could take his first drag.

The day started much like it ended yesterday, with Mike catching one fish after another. By the time we were ready to leave, Mike's tally was at 7. And Mommy, well, Mommy did good. Remember the drop lines I left, well one of them had a whopper on it! I pulled that baby up nice and slow, so he wouldn't be the one to get away.



Maybe it was all just luck, but I'd like to think it was my guardian angel. Thanks Dad.

Ghana - Can You Hear Me Now?

The other day I had an epiphany, and it didn't even hurt ;-) Simultaneously, my husband was talking on his cell, the kids were watching one of those sickeningly sweet (i.e., nauseating) The Land Before Time movie sequels (I think it was Land Before Time XXVIII or XXIX, they're all the same to me) on a local TV station, and I was sitting at the computer, surfing the internet. Now, you may be thinking, "Big deal. So what. Happens all the time. " Yes, everywhere else, but not here. Lest you've forgotten, this is Ghana. In fact, a lot of what we take for granted here -- the phones, internet, TV -- is a really really big deal.

My first visit to Ghana was in late August of 1990, and I was to meet, for the first time ever, my mother-in-law and various other in-laws and relatives. I was more than 5,000 miles from NJ, but it could have been another planet, as far as I was concerned. Naturally, my parents were worried. Jeez, they worried when I got on the Path train to go to work in the big, bad "City." Meanwhile, they were born in Manhattan, for goodness sake.

Anyway, it's 1990 and here I am in Ghana, safe and sound. Now, I'm supposed to let my parents back in NJ know that we arrived safely, but herein is the catch. This is Ghana. There is no phone in my mother-in-law's house. In fact, there is nary a phone in any house in Ghana. If you wanted to make a phone call to America, or anywhere else for that matter, you had to go on an adventure: you went to the Ghana Postal & Telecommunications office. Overseas calls had to be "booked" through an operator, but first you had to schedule your phone call. So you went to the P&T office, told them you wanted to call America, and they gave you a time to come back, hopefully in the same day and usually several hours hence, but that was if you were lucky. You see, there were a limited number of available overseas phone lines, and if you weren't quick (or lucky), you were shut out and you'd have to try again the next day.

If you were one of the lucky few, you'd get to the P&T office at the scheduled time (and this is one of the few times when a Ghanaian would make an effort to be on time, cause in this case, you snooze you lose), tell the clerk the overseas phone number you want to call, she places the call for you and then directs you to one of about six booths. Within moments, through much hissing and crackling and an exceptionally disconcerting echo on the line so that you hear yourself first and then only fragments of what is being said on the other end of the line, you are finally connected to your party.

Here's how my first conversation home sounded:

Hi, Dad (Dad). (...honey) What? (ut?) We got in okay (kay). What? It was fine (fine). Where's Mom? (...om) I said, "where's Mom? (Mom?) (...ping.) What? Oh, shopping. What? Oh, she's nice. What? She doesn't speak much English (ish). What? Okay (kay). I'll tell him (him). Love you, too (oooo). Okay, bye (bye). {Sniffle}

And it wasn't that much easier in America to call Ghana. Even though there were very few land line phones available, we were fortunate that our family had one of the first. And luck really had nothing to do with it in this case. Our luck was borne of the fact that three of my sisters-in-law all worked in the P&T office, so then (as now), it's a matter of who you know.

So, say Sly wants to call his Mom. What he does is dial the overseas operator at a precise time, and say that he wants to book a call to Ghana. The call is typically arranged for a slot 6 hours later, so if you dial the operator at 10:00 pm, you get a 4:00 am wakeup call; if you dial at 11:00 pm, you get a 5:00 am call, and so on. Given the time difference, you've got to plan it just so that it's early enough in Ghana that your intended party might still be home. Of course, certain slots get filled really fast, and if you miss the good ones, you're screwed. So, every hour, on the hour, you get another chance to win. If you "lose," then the operator (and back then, it's a real person, not just a recording!) advises you that the calling slot has closed, and suggests you try again later. And God forfend your clock is slow.

Less than two decades later, we find that everyone, from the kenkey seller on the corner, to the Ghanaian version of "masters of the Universe" have a personal cell phone (or two or three). And if you don't have a cell, you only have to walk a few feet to find a phone vendor (usually established at a small wooden desk with a huge beach umbrella over their head) who'd be happy to place your local call for a mere 20 pesawas. Want a house phone? You only have to fill out a form at the phone company office, pay a small fee, and within a few days, you've got a brand new phone installed. And, if you, want for an additional 60 Ghana Cedis, you can even have broadband. Wow!

"And, what about TV?," you ask. Well, back in 1990, Ghana had only one television station: GTV, the Station of the Nation. It operated only about 3 hours a day, from 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm, and showed local news, sometimes a second (or more commonly even, a third) rate American sitcom, once in a great while an American movie of the week (which always seemed to star Susan Saint James, for some obscure reason). And if God was with you, there'd be a televised football match. And truthfully, you loved/hated it when it was a movie or a special or better/worse still, a game, because regardless of the time it started, at 9:00 pm SHARP, it was over. Not, "to be continued," not, "same bat time, same bat channel," not, "stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow on this station." It was just, over. You'd find yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, your eyes would pendulum between the TV screen and the clock, your pulse would quicken as the program was drawing to a conclusion. Would there be enough time? Would we find out what happened to the baby elephant? Would we discover who was the murderer? Would we find out who won?!!! Maybe.

In August 2007, we've got round-the-clock viewing, and Ghana's free TV stations now number a record breaking FOUR: GTV, TV3, MetroTV and a brand new station, Net2 (which may or may not be breaking some serious international copyright laws and treaties, but, hey, that's their problem, not mine).

Ghana may still be officially classified as a "Lesser Developed Country," but it has, undeniably, come a long long way.

Road Trip - Destination: Atimpoku

Saturday was a scheduled "lights off" and as is our wont, when confronted with a hazy hot day stuck in our little house doing nothing but sweating, we decided to take a road trip. One of our favorite destinations is Atimpoku, about an hour's drive from our house in Tema. In a fit of tag team insanity (Sly suggesting, me agreeing), we invited an additional two kids to accompany us - Mike's buddy Mawuli and his brother Selasi. Four boys, one girl, one husband and me, thank God for my MP3 player.

Atimpoku is a small village which lies along the Volta River, just upstream (or downstream? I don't know, I always did poorly on the river questions on exams... guess I should have paid better attention in geography class) from the Adomi Bridge, which was built in 1954 and still as beautiful now as it was then. If you're interested, it costs 8 cents for our van to travel over it, free if you're walking.


We went to a riverfront resort called Akosombo Continental Hotel, and it's a nice place just to hang for the day. It's got a beautiful pool, friendly staff, all kinds of boats for hire, and a mini zoo with assorted wildlife: a couple of crocodiles, a dozen monkeys, lots of Grey parrots and other indigenous birds, some (wild?) turkeys, two cute little deer-like animals, and (major shocker!) two fairly large snakes, which is quite unusual here in the ophidiophobia capital of the world. The vast majority of Ghanaians apparently have a morbid fear of all snakes, big or small, venomous or not, dead or alive. Don't believe me? Ask one.



And the view from the riverside path doesn't put a strain on the eyes either.



The kids enjoyed the pool, even though the weather wasn't really cooperative with more clouds than sun. Nothing stops a kid, not clouds or rain or adults yelling (dozens of times, it seems) "Stop Running!" So, for the first two hours, all went well. Then, the hunger pangs began. Now, I like this place, but the fact is their food is mediocre at best, and for the dubious honor of eating it, you get to pay obroni prices. This would wind up being an expensive lunch, that no one would eat. But, within sight is our salvation. It's only a trudge up one hill and down another and we're there.

Aylos Bay is a smallish place, that builds itself up pretty big as offering lodging, food and drink, campgrounds, canoing and river swimming (our kids are desperate to swing the rope out over the river). We did stay there once, when we found ourselves shut out of all the "good" hotels. But for $25 a night, we got a single room, no A/C but at least a working ceiling fan. The shower area of the bathroom had no raised lip to separate the shower from the toilet, so when you showered, the water that didn't run down the drain, ran out the bathroom door and into the bedroom. Talk about soggy. We had to ask for extra towels to create a threshold, and while it didn't work perfectly, it kept the wading pool to the immediate area in front of the toilet bowl, so not terribly terrible.

The grounds at Aylos are lovely and wild; verdant would be the word that most aptly describes. And of course, my own little flower cannot help but to improve the scenery.





They've got some traditional masks and musical instruments hanging, and some of the most interesting wall carvings and statues that you'll see in Ghana. This is one of them.


Credit for the picture has to go to my friend Leann and it was "borrowed" from her blog (see the link for the Best Blog in Ghana to the right) .

But, as usual, I digress. The food and beer at Aylos Bay is pretty decent and cheap, so that is where we headed for lunch. The fare is the standard "continental" style food, meaning chicken and chips or rice, but since that's what the kids wanted (and isn't that what they ALWAYS want), that's what they got. I have become addicted to their battered shrimps, which are plucked fresh from the river (more on this later), and served with a spicy sauce. I keep suggesting they try adding beer to their batter. Jeez, I'd even sacrifice some of my own, but what do I know. So what that beer battered shrimp on the menu in an American restaurant would cost about $8 for a lousy half dozen or so shrimp. But, as I said, what do I know?

One of my pet peeves, and I find this in almost all the restaurants in Ghana, is that they bring out each entree as it is done, rather than all at once. Local foods like light soup and fufu come out fast, and any food that has chips with it comes out last. What that means is that Sly always eats first, kids always eat last. And these particular kids are hungry ("Mom, I'm Staaarrrving!"). Now I've been known to have the occasional mean streak, and I don't usually tend to feel guilty about a lot of things, but I really really feel bad when my food comes first and there are starving children in Africa. ;-) This particular day, it was worse than usual, poor Selasi didn't get his food until the rest of us were nearly finished with our meals. He kept appealing to the waitress with big brown sorrowful eyes, but no dice. Apparently, the cook had to go kill a chicken (sarcasm notwithstanding, this is more probable here in Ghana than elsewhere in the world). Whatever. It finally was served to the poor kid, hot and juicy, and Selasi ate every last morsel.

On our trudge back to the swimming pool next door (and you don't know how tempted I am to jump over the wall separating these two places), we stop and plucked a couple of berries from a shrub. I have no idea what you call it, so don't ask. But no, they're not poison.


Louisa, the owner of Aylos Bay introduced us to it about a year ago, giving each of us a single berry, just to taste, as we were leaving. It tasted alright, kinda sweet, only a tiny bit of meat to it with a pit in the center, but otherwise nothing special (or so we thought). The day was still early (remember, this is a while back), so we decided to go to another local restaurant, which we see all the time from the road (or from the river when we're on the boat) and which has intrigued me to no end. It just looks very "neat."

Abadi Idyll turns out to be a small, cute, well maintained lodge owned by a German man and his Ghanaian wife. We decide to sit at a table on a dock near the water's edge. As usual, we ordered a Star Beer. It was bubbly and cold, but, as we both agreed, it tasted really weird, too sweet, maybe it spoiled. I don't know. So we called the waitress over to bring another Star. Again. Yucch! It was like some evil Snapple worker sabotaging the Anheuser-Busch plant. "Yoo-hoo, Miss? Can you bring a different beer, a Guilder perhaps? Both of these Stars taste strange." Of course she could, but we could see the panic in her eyes (as in, are we gonna pay for these?). Not to worry, we assured her, we'd pay for all of them. So she carries our Guilder to us. For crying out loud. It's a conspiracy! Light bulb goes off. Duh. It must be those weird berries we ate. Sure enough, they did something weird to our taste buds. Everything we ate or drank for the next hour was soooo "different." The kids thought it was great, of course. Plain old sachet water tasted like the nectar of the gods! Kids.

Okay, back to the now. After lunch at Aylos, we went back to the hotel and spent another hour or so. While the kids played and splashed, Sly arranged with Kwame, the pool boy, to retrieve our shrimps. All 5-1/2 kilos of them, that's about 11 lbs worth. The last time we were at the hotel, during another day time lights off, we learned that some of the workers arrange for fresh shrimps for their customers. "How much," you wonder? How's about $2.50 a pound. Take a look at this big boy. Nice, huh?



With the car packed up, kids, wet swimsuits, goggles, towels, toys and shrimp, we head on out. One of the "things we do" when we leave this area, is stop in the village proper and get takeout (or take away, as they say here) for dinner, always assuming we'll (meaning, I'll) be too tired to even think about cooking, much less washing dishes.

The way you buy your take away is this: pull your car over on the side of the road, and wait. Within nano-seconds, a few dozen young girls "come a runnin." Each and every one of them carrying a huge plastic bowl or glass fish tank style box of food on their heads, and they run in flip flops, of all things, not even Nikes. The first one to cross the finish line doesn't get a medal, but she (hopefully) makes a sale.

We tend to attract a fair amount of attention when we pull over. Most of the hawkers assume that the driver, is well, the driver (rather than my husband) and they ignore him completely and head straight for the obroni in the passenger seat. When you are the one "trapped" in a car, what comes immediately to mind is: Shark Feeding Frenzy. Only we are the bait! I'm quick though, and my window is closed even before the first food-laden hand can be thrust through. Sly gets out of the van, and the swarm now senses that he's the intermediary, so they leave us alone.

What the girls sell is an assortment of local foodstuffs: Tiny fried fish sold in a skinny plastic bag, called onemanthousand, and yes, you have to write it like that. Cause that's how they look, a thousand little itty bitty fish crammed into a tiny bag. About the size of a fingernail cutting from your pinky. But they're crunchy and delicious - head, tails and everything in between get eaten by the handful, kind of like popcorn.


There's also two kinds of fermented corn dough -- abolo is a bit of sweet corn dough that is wrapped and flattened in a folded banana leaf then baked, and the other pure starch is white kenkey which is a similar dough wrapped in a corn husk and steamed. Another offering is shrimp that is salted and smoked and sold unshelled, skewered on a stick. Not nice, but since I've got my own fresh shrimp, who cares.

On the way home, it finally starts to rain in earnest, we expected it since it's been threatening all day. But the kids don't even notice, they're pooped and sleeping in the back but I'm stoked. I'm already thinking about my dinner. Let the kids have there onemanthousand or abolo or kenkey. For me, it's shrimp shrimp and more shrimp. Yummy.