Thanksgiving in Ghana

I miss Thanksgiving in America. I miss the bite of the wind as I’m running from my car into my brother’s house. I miss the smell of sautéed onions and mushrooms that my dad used to cook every Thanksgiving morning. I miss watching the Macy’s Day Parade on television and getting all stupid and gooney when Santa shows up at the end. I miss the apple cider, the walnuts, the football games, the sweet potatoes, the good-natured ribbing of family we haven’t seen in ages. I miss it all.

In an attempt to recreate an American holiday here, I usually have to plan weeks or even months in advance. I kid you not. Turkeys are not that easy to come by here. You can’t just walk into the supermarket and pick up a 22 lb. Butterball and be on your merry way.
Last year, some of the obroni markets were selling turkeys, for about $75 each, just ahead of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Unfortunately, a lot of them didn’t sell -- $75 is steep, even for a rich white person. Up until July, I saw a couple of frozen turkeys in ShopRite, but they looked like they’d been through the wringer, and I think they were really left over from 2007 and they were being passed off as fresh. Not. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere within 15 feet of that thing when the cellophane was unwrapped. Can you say RIPE?

When I want a turkey, I have to put my “order” in for a fresh one with Herbie, a good friend of ours, months in advance. Herbie raises chickens and turkeys and the occasional goat and rabbit. And each time we visit Herbie, he points out our little gobbler, and we watch him grow fatter and fatter.

This year was no exception; my turkey order has been in place since the 4th of July. So, on Wednesday, Sly went to pick up our turkey which was to be plucked and cleaned. It was plucked, all right, but cleaned? Nope, as it turns out.

I like to make an herb butter concoction that I slip underneath the turkey skin, for flavor. But I couldn’t get my hand under there, for some reason. The skin was really thick and it was still attached. Let me tell you, I’ve been spoiled by the turkeys from the U.S., all of which were cleaned perfectly, with a little bag of giblets stuck in its butt, and a thermometer that popped out when it was cooked to perfection.

Fresh turkeys from Ghana are different. They’re walking around eating everything in sight minutes before they’re intended as someone’s meal. I’ve read that you’re not supposed to feed a turkey that’s to be slaughtered, in order to give it time to clear out of its digestive track. I guess Herbie didn’t know that, or wanted to grant the condemned turkey his last meal. But, there was a mess of crap (or soon to be crap, if we hadn’t already killed him) inside this guy’s throat and it was nasty.

Once Sly finishes cleaning this guy out, I scrub him out with some sea salt and get him ready for the oven. Problem is -- it is friggin hot here! It’s about 90 in the shade, and hotter still in our small house. Sly comes up with the brilliant idea that we’ll cook Tom outside on the barbecue grill. Sounds good to me!

We also don’t know how heavy this dude is, since there’s no little sticker that will help us figure out cooking times. So, we pull out our people scale and figure it out that way. As it turns out, he was about 17 lbs, which is way bigger than the one we got last year. Figure about 3-1/2 hours or so on the grill ought to do it.

The turkey is cooking, I’m assembling a bread stuffing like Dad used to make (only crisper and drier, as it turned out, but really the way I like it!), and getting the mashed potatoes and vegetables ready.

Now, all this time, the kids are at school – as I said, it’s not a holiday here in Ghana. Alex gets home early enough so she’s aware of the turkey on the grill. But we decide to trick the boys. I know, we are so mean. But, Sean deserves a trick. Here’s why: On Wednesday, he was teasing this poor exchange teacher at the school who is from Michigan, and who told the kids he was missing Thanksgiving. Sean, the gloater, couldn’t help but announce how his Mom had a turkey for the next day. The poor guy was probably drooling while he had to listen to Sean go on and one about how there’d be mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy and this and that… So you see, Sean deserves this.

I pull out an empty chicken nuggets box from the garbage and tape it up, so it looks like it’s unopened. When the boys get home from school, there’s no turkey in the oven, as they expect, and there’s general disappointment from the two of them. Sean tells us that he bypassed lunch because of the turkey. Ha! Mike quickly asks if he can have sausage for dinner. Nope. I was able to stretch out this charade for almost half an hour. The pain/pleasure was tremendous!

Finally, in comes the turkey in the blue enamel pan -- brown and crispy and lovely. With all the fixin’s we could fix. The kids went for numerous rounds – Alex had two drumsticks; Mike had two wings and Sean had four servings of everything! Delicious.

The only thing missing was my family. Hope your Thanksgiving was as great as ours!

Too Sweet Girl

I've created another blog devoted to caring for Alexandra, our daughter with Type 1 Diabetes. If you think it's tough in the developed world, you ain't seen nothing yet. If you're interested in reading it, see the link to your right, on Too Sweet Girl. That would be Alex. Not exactly apropos, since she's generally got a disposition anything but sweet, but you know what I mean.

Sweet Gig: Rubbing Shoulders with President Kufuor

When we moved to Ghana, we thought life was going to be all about retirement and relaxation and raising our kids. How wrong we were. Within a few months, we knew that there was no way we could settle down quietly; first of all, it was too boring, we needed the stimulation of the old gray matter, and second, we could use the extra money. Of course, who couldn’t? So, Sly went into consulting and one of his many assignments is with the Government of Ghana. He is the lead counsel for the Presidential Committee on Emoluments. Fancy words for saying that he helps decide the benefits and privileges (money-wise) of the government bigwigs. His boss, a very nice lady named Mary Chinery-Hesse, happens to be the president’s senior advisor. That’s a serious job, some would argue that she’s closer to the presidency than the vice president, and I wouldn’t dispute it.

Anyway, October 29^th was Mary's 70^th birthday, and Sly and I were invited to a birthday “thanksgiving” service in her honor. We knew that there we would be rubbing shoulders with some of Ghana’s most influential, the movers and the shakers, but we had no idea how close our shoulders would actually be.

What a great excuse for me to get “spiffed” up a bit! I went to a local saloon (no, it’s not a drinking bar with bat wing doors, it’s just that’s what they call it here) and got my nails done (fingers and piggies) and my eyebrows tweezed to perfection – which is truly amazing, I look like I’ve got more eyebrow now then I did before!

Dressing up was fun, but I’m glad I only have to do it once in a while. I got out my pink jacquard silk dress, a pair of pink and white mules from Talbot’s that I never ever wore before and a cute little pink beaded bag. Clothes-wise, I’m good.

But the hair. Oh, boy, what am I gonna do with the hair? I am in desperate need of a real haircut, but I’m still searching for a good place that can cut obroni hair. It’s too late for that now, so I search through the closets for a blow dryer that I haven’t used in ages. Voila! Within a few minutes (I don’t have that much hair), I’m dried and looking more normal than I have in months.

Now, the real challenge is make-up. I am a natural kind of girl, and hardly ever wear make-up – in this climate, it would melt within moments, so I feel like, what’s the point, ya know? Even when I’m in the states, my idea of make-up is a cherry flavored tube of Chap Stick. But, with Alex watching me like a hawk (drooling and desperate to be involved), I start doing the things that girls are supposed to have an innate talent for. Only problem is that my cosmetic gene seems to be defective, so I just take it slow and start light and hope for the best.

Fifteen or so minutes later, I’m as done as I’m gonna get. I put the clothes on, slip on the shoes (no pantyhose, thank God!) and glasses and grab my bag.

The kids are stunned. I guess I don’t dress up often enough. Alex tells me that I look beautiful. Michael wants to keep hugging me. And Sean says I don’t look right. Two out of three ain’t bad.

We hit the road with our driver. My hope is that the traffic won’t be too bad, and that we’ll whiz along at speeds of 50 mph just so that my make-up won’t smear off. I’m not worried about the hair, I’ve got enough hair spray on it that it’s as stiff as a 6 month old corpse.

Less than 15 minutes into the trip, on the Tema Motorway, our van breaks down. I refuse to panic; it’s only 5:30 and we don’t have to be at the church until 6:30. Ekow opens the hood and steam is billowing up out of the radiator… which was supposed to have been fixed today. Now, I’m panicking. There’s a 16 oz bottle of water in the car, half empty -- or half full (depending on how you look at it), but in either event – it’s not enough.

Ekow calls the mechanic, and tells him to bring super glue (!) and two gallons of water. About 30 minutes later, a taxi pulls up behind us and four guys jump up. It is nearing sunset and the skies darken here within minutes, and I’m worried about a semi crashing into the back of us at 65 mph. But if we put on our hazard lights, our battery will die since Ekow has been trying to restart the engine every few minutes. I insist that they put out the triangle… like that will really save us from that crazed semi driver.

Some 45 minutes later, the "mechanics" (and now I am using that term very loosely) have glued what they’ve got to glue and manage to get the car started. The mechanic rides with us (just in case). We only get about 5 miles before the car starts acting up again, so Sly makes the decision that we’ll take the taxi to the birthday celebration and Ekow will take the car back to the mechanics in Tema. Good plan. Cause I’m starting to get really anxious. I hate being late, and we already are. Good thing this is Ghana where lateness is an accepted fact of life – heck, I bet they haven’t even started the church service yet.

Within blocks of the church, there’s no parking, so we walk up to the building. The gates are closed except for a small opening, and there are police patrols everywhere. This must be the place.

Inside, the service already started (!)… it’s only 7:30 at this point; I am in shock that it started on time! The place is absolutely packed, and we have to force our way into a pew. Despite the dozen ceiling fans which are whirring at full speed, the place is like a giant oven. The incense is so cloying that I’m wishing I had remembered my inhaler.

We’ve got a program that the lovely, very well dressed usherettes gave us when we entered. It takes me a few minutes to find our place. Cripes! We’re only on page 8 of a 24 page program! This is going to be a very long night.

I can only take about 30 minutes of the heat and litany and now I need desperately to get outside for some fresh air. Now’s as good as time as any to call home to check on the kids. Fortunately, only a minor glitch – Alex’s high sugar level -- which I’ll have to deal with later.

I use the opportunity to scope out the bathroom and am amazed that it’s not only neat, has running water, but there’s toilet paper!! And for the first time that night, I catch a glimpse of myself in a full length mirror. Holy crap! It’s (a smarter and funnier!) Sarah Palin! I wished I had noticed this resemblance before I left the house, cause I’d have curled my hair instead and wore different glasses. Oh well, I doubt there are too many Democrats (or Republicans, for that matter) here.

I slip back into my seat and try to pay attention, but I’m overwhelmed by the number of dignitaries here. I can’t see or name them all, but Sly can and does. His neck must hurt from swiveling around so much.

When the service comes to an end (finally!), we’re invited to partake of refreshments at the back of the church. But first, we’ve got to find our way out of here. We follow the crowd, a few feet ahead of us is the President and Vice President of Ghana. Sure, I could follow them, but I’m gonna chase down that guy carrying the huge solid gold staff with the elephants on it belonging to the Paramount Chief of the Ga State! “Is that really gold?” I ask Sly, who assures me that it is. At about $730 an ounce, that staff is probably worth gazillions! Where the heck are his security guards?

I cling to Sly’s hand because if I lose him, I will NEVER find him in this crowd. Instructions are clear – if we separate, he is to look for me! I don’t tend to “blend” as much as he does, so I’m pretty sure he’ll track me down quicker.

The crowd is something fierce and we can hardly move. I’m trying with all my might (and what little grace I possess) not to fall into the open gutter on my right. The crush of people behind me is massive (and they're all pretty friggin pushy, if I do say so myself). There are some whirling dervishes dancing and spinning to my left and the gutter is looking pretty good at this point, as a safe haven of sorts.

Suddenly, I realize that the President is right next to me. Eeeek!! He’s got his private security people all around him, except for between us. I could literally poke him in the ear if I’d wanted to, though I’m sure that that would be considered a sign of aggression, and I didn’t want any trouble with the police (or immigration, for that matter!) so I left him in peace.

The entire rear of the church grounds was done up beautifully in tiny white lights and there's music playing softly (!) in the background -- very different from the Ghanaian norm, which is usually just eardrum bursting noise! Sly and I spot several long white linen covered tables set up with drinks, which we (naturally) head straight for (like a pig to a truffle). I’m used to white wine coming out of a box, so the bottle type had me a little bit flummoxed, but boy did it go down smoooooth!

Sly is trying to scope out Mary so we can pay our best wishes and get out of there (we've got Alex at home with blood sugars in the 300 range to attend do), but Mary's got a throng of well wishers milling around her, too. So, we do the next best thing… we head for the food tables! They had some really nice eats, too… chicken and vegetables kebabs (yum-0), mini pizzas (yucchy, actually), tiny quiches, chicken and cakes and cookies. All of it looked delicious. My only beef (no pun intended) was that the (tacky cheap plastic, by the way) plates were too small! No matter. Even though they're not Chinet plates, I pile it on pretty good and set out to find the ideal spot to observe the action.

Before I know it, within feet of me (again -- Sly's convinced he was following me for another look at my legs... either that or he really did think I was Sarah Palin) was President Kufuor. While not as close as the potential ear poking scenario, he was still near enough for a picture. Note that the little guy to his right (above the stomach of the guy in a pink shirt) is the Vice President Mahama.

So, Sly and I indulged in some nice wine and chicken wings, and hobnobbed with Ghana’s crème de la crème and then went home. On our way out, we scored a lovely little souvenir, too; a pair of candles inside a personalized (Happy 70^th Birthday Mary Chinery-Hesse!) bag.

Here’s a list of the “who’s who” that we spotted:

President John Agyekum Kufuor

Vice President Alhaji Aliu Mahama

Chief Justice of the Ghana Supreme Court Georgina Wood

First Deputy Speaker of Parliament Freddie Blay (who did fall in the gutter... heh heh)

Stanley Nii Adjiri-Blankson, Mayor of Accra

… plus assorted other Ministers, Commissioners, Members of the Council of State, Supreme Court Judges, MPs and heads of states from neighboring countries plus International Labour Organization directors and bigwigs. All told, I’d guestimate that there were nearly 500 people there.

Mind you, this night also happened to be the night of the Ghanaian Presidential Debate, and for these key figures to be here (instead of the debate) is testament to the respect that they accord Mary.

As my friend Leslie put it… sweet gig. Yup. And then some.