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.