Soggy, boggy, rainy, wet, deluge… can you sense a theme here?

It has been pouring for a long time now. Ghana’s “official” rainy season begins in June and continues through September, generally. Some years, the rain is just a bit of a drizzle or a quick spritz here and there and it’s finished. Hardly enough to write home about. This year, I’m writing home.

The heavy deluge over the past week or so has been more than just an inconvenience to some of us trying to dry laundry on a clothes line. It has been deadly and destructive. Flooding in parts of Accra has caused the deaths of 7 people in the Kaneshie area, one primarily known for its huge marketplace.

I’ve seen the flooding in that area firsthand, when we lived in Mataheko. Traveling on the main road just past the Obetsebi-Lamptey circle, the flood waters came up over the curbs of the street, over the steps of the shops and into the buildings. People were wading in filthy water up to and over their knees. Cars were stalled or crawling through the standing water. Some cars were even carried away by the flooding water; a not-so-funny game of bumper-cars ensued.

Why does this happen every rainy season? I haven’t lived in Mataheko in more than 3 years, and still this is happening? Because there is no city-wide drainage system here. Open gutters are still the norm, and people throw their trash right into them.

We drove through Teshie the other day, not half an hour after a huge thunderstorm, trying our best to avoid the ever worsening rain-filled pot holes (Sly claimed that one of them was actually a well, not a pot hole) that threaten the undercarriage of every vehicle. As we drove, we saw several young boys – 8 or 9 years old – shoveling out the silt from a gutter that was choked. The garbage was snagged beneath a homemade driveway and they were trying to unblock it. I’m not sure if they were aware of the danger but on the other side of that blockage the water was gushing above the gutter. And when I say gutter, I really mean a culvert; these boys were in this culvert and I could only see their upper torso. If the water started flowing, they’d be thrown off their feet from the force. To where? The ocean? Hope they all know how to swim, but I doubt it.

Why are there no drains, you wonder? Because, the government says, there’s no money for them. Yet the government is somehow managing to find $50,000 to give to each and every minister of parliament for a new car. Sure, it’s a loan. And they’ll all repay it, right? What about that car loan they all got 4 years ago? I remember seeing loads of MPs (one who happens to be quasi-related) tooling around in their brand-new SUVs. I'm betting cedis to cassava those loans haven't been repaid. So what happened? Their debt was forgiven. Lucky ministers. Now they’ve all got an old “free” car and a new "soon-to-be free” car on the way.

One minister had the nerve to suggest that all MPs needed, not just a single new car, but maybe even 3 new cars! I can see a minister from the northern region -- maybe somewhere up near Paga -- needing an SUV, but really, the minister of East Legon? Come on.

Just check out the comments following that!

And really, why $50,000? Aren't there any SUV's cheaper than that?

There's more than 200 ministers... you do the math. But that money could surely be better spent on roads or healthcare. Hey, how about adding glucose strips to the NHIS coverage? That'd be really nice. And cost no where near $50,000.

Okay, done venting.

There’s no one to blame about the rain though. Mother Nature, I guess. But, like all mothers, she does what she wants when she wants. I just wish she’d be more like me... a bit of a push-over when her kids beg for something.

Just in case she’s listening…

Mother Nature, please, I’m begging you. A single full day of sunshine, just so I can dry my clothes and my sinuses, that’s all I’m asking.

I promise, I’ll be good.

What I believe

I am a firm believer in the premise that when life hands you lemons you’ve gotta make lemonade. I like to think I express that through my blog. Life in Ghana is different, to say the least. It’s almost always a challenge for someone who has lived the “easy” life of an American. Trust me – we don’t know hardship in New Jersey like we know in Ghana.

But a recent anonymous fan commented that I always seem to find the negative in everything I blog about, and he/she expressed a wish that I write about how wonderful Ghana can be. I have to admit, my first thought was, “does this person know my husband?” Sylvester always says that I only the see the negative.

I look at it like this: How can I not see the negative? The real question is how will that negative affect me? My answer: It’s not going to. I will deal with it, some how or some way – even if it is only by complaining about it; getting it off my chest, so to speak. And I’m from New Jersey; it’s what we do. It’s how we’re raised. We are world class complainers.

If I look at life through rose-tinted glasses – and blog about it in the same way – and a traveler comes to visit here in Ghana expecting a paradise but finding anything but, have I done him a disservice? I believe that I have. I want to be able to say, “Yes! Beneath all of that debris there is beauty. You just have to know its there and keep digging. Have faith!”

Finally, I want to say this. Ghana is my country, now, for all its faults. But, I say the same exact thing when I am in America (though I do seem to say it more if there's a Bush in the White House). There are only two places on earth that I can call home, and this is one of them.

Now, without qualification or disclaimer, here are a few things that I absolutely love about Ghana and its amazing people.

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I love the ingenuity and resourcefulness of Ghanaians; they are truly a people who believe that “where there is a will, there is a way.”

I love the camaraderie of the millions of Ghanaians who, in a single voice, cheer or despair over a football game. You know immediately who is winning or losing, even if you don’t own a television or radio.

I love the school children who start their day with the singing of the Ghana National Anthem; young voices raised in praise of their wonderful homeland never fail to bring a tear to my eye.

I love the lady in the beer store who never fails to have a smile and a kind word (or a free soda) for my children.

I love the Ghanaians who will immediately rally to help someone whose car has broken down, by stopping whatever they’re doing and helping to push the car out of traffic.

I love the craziness of the Makola market; the sights, the smells, the noise and the energy. And there is nothing that can’t be found there.

I love the vendors who roam the neighborhood touting (or shouting) their wares. Need your shoes shined or a hem repaired? Just wait a bit and someone will be along to do it for you, just listen for the rhythmic beating of the shoe shine box or the clinking of the scissors. Need an egg, or toilet paper, crabs or fresh fish. Be patient. The monger is on his or her way.

I love the Fan Ice vendors – especially the one who looks like ex-president Kufuor – who know Alex will have to buy from someone today, so they all ring their bells or honk their horns as they pass by the gate hoping that they will be the chosen one.

I love the weather, whether it’s scorching hot or pouring rain. There is no “bad” weather in Ghana, irrespective of the season. It’s all good.

I love the birds and the lizards. The diversity of the biological life – even in civilized Tema – is amazing. Splash a puddle onto the ground in the middle of a hot day and watch dozens of lizards come out of hiding to lap up the water at the puddle's edge. My own watering hole!

I love the fact that I can buy flip flops for 60 pesawas a pair. And that I can wear them year round.

I love the way Ghanaian women and girls carry babies and children on their back and still manage to do all of the things that they are “supposed” to be doing – shopping, cleaning, cooking, selling, etc.

I love the way the mere presence of a single football (or any sort of round thing that can be substituted for one) can draw men and boys out of thin air and into a pick-up game of football. Anytime, anywhere.

I love the Ghanaian handshake. Even though I stink at it (I never can get that thumb snap thing going) no one ever makes me feel embarrassed.

I love to watch a gaggle of Ghanaian women “teasing” a Ghanaian man for even the tiniest transgression. I may not understand a single word of what it’s all about, but it’s always obviously good natured and never demeaning.

I love the spiciness of Ghanaian food; our tongues have all gotten used to the inclusion of red pepper in nearly everything that anything we eat now needs a little heat, or else it’s too bland.

I love the wax print fabrics; they have the most amazing designs you’ve ever seen. Someone should make a coffee table book out of them.

I love the beauty salon where Alex goes to get her hair corn-rowed for 2 Ghana cedis. They watch this crazy Filipino soap opera on the television there that is weirdly addictive and makes passing the time a cinch.

I love the tiny single serving size of a whole host of goods – juice boxes, coffee sticks, Close Up toothpaste, shito, cookies, crackers, peanuts, powdered milk, Milo, margarine – sure it’s a killer on the ecology, but they sure are cute.

I love the family of monkeys that we see along the road going to Ho, who sit along side trusting that no one will harm them. And no one does.

I love buying 10 fingers of bananas for less than 1 GHC, and finding that the banana lady threw an extra 2 fingers into the bag.

I love having the freedom to express my opinion and perspective, without censorship from anyone or anything, except my own conscience. And my husband, of course.

Pampering, Ghana style

Every woman needs and deserves a bit of pampering now and again. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m no exception. It has been ages since I’ve had a decent haircut (I’ve grumbled about that before), but I self-mutilate my hair whenever it needs it – kind of a band-aid approach – and that’s good enough. But I just adore getting my nails done because I just cannot do it myself; I’d be better off allowing Alex to do it for me. I almost never do my fingers, though, they’re far too busy with typing and cooking and a billion other things to be fixed up prettily cause I’ll be too anxious about spoiling them. But my tootsies deserve a soothing once in a while.

Yesterday was the once in a while. I had already decided earlier in the week that I wanted to do this, but kind of hemmed and hawed about money and time for a few days. Then the inefficiencies of Ghana Water Company and Ghana Electric Company conspired to drive me out of the house, so off to Yakels I went.

Yakels is a local beauty salon located in community 11. For a long time, I’d pass by it on my way to the butcher shop and really wanted to check it out. But I have to admit, I was kind of anxious about going in. It’s a great big white building, with blue tinted windows so that you couldn’t see in. The parking lot never had a car in it either, so that kind of made me a bit nervous. Why was it never busy? Was it expensive? Was it crap? I had to find out. The experience was, um, different.

Inside, everything is white, glass and chrome, with scattered bowls of sea shells and candles floating in water. Very pretty. Very American. They’ve even got the beauty salon de rigueur magazines on the table. You know the kind, the ones with the oddly shaped and geometrically-styled haircuts that no self-respecting middle-aged white woman would be caught dead in. In truth, even if I had wanted one of those haircuts, I couldn’t have gotten one there. They still can’t cut obroni hair.

So Belinda takes me back for a pedicure. I was hoping I wouldn’t be sitting in a plastic chair soaking my feet in a plastic basin, and my wishes were answered. It looks just like one of the pedicure chairs you’d find in the U.S. and that’s very comforting. Unlike in the states, though, the controls for the chair are in the hands of the staff. Now, I like to play with the remote, and see what the chair offers – you know, massage or heat. I’m thinking this remote has only up and down and back and forwards. Then Belinda asks if I want the massage feature. “Why not,” I say, I love those magic finger massage things. YIKES!!! It’s like someone stomping a half a dozen bocce balls into my spine! I’m practically jumping out of the seat. Fortunately, Belinda sees my discomfort (how could she not, I was practically jumping into her lap) and turns it off. Who the hell was this chair made for? Put this contraption in a chiropractor’s waiting room and he’s gonna make a fortune!

After I realign my back, I settle in and put my toes on the towel. I’m not really conversant with pedicure procedure, because she’s got to keep telling me what to do. “Please, put your foot in the water” or “put your foot here,” or “bend your ankle” or “your other foot now.” I’m pathetically clueless.

First order of the day is to file down my nails. I have to admit, I let them get kind of long. Instead of clipping them regularly I figure I’m eventually going to get a pedicure and I really want to get my money’s worth. As a result, they’re kind of lunatic long by the time I’m in the chair. This, by the way, is not scary to Belinda. A lot of Ghanaian woman have amazingly long toe nails. Freaky looking toe nails, if you want my opinion.

So she pulls out the nail file and starts filing. There’s no clipping here; if that’s what you want, you have to ask for it. Naturally, the filing doesn’t really shorten my nails, but at least they’re not lunatic long anymore. Once filed down, she gestures for me to put both feet into the basin which has got some of the hottest water you’ve ever felt and she squirts in some Palmolive soap to make it all bubbly. And I’m thinking (guiltily) that Alex would love this. Five minutes of soaking and she has me hoist one slippery foot up.

Then, the torture really begins. Holding firmly to my foot, she grabs a butter knife (you will never hold a butter knife in your hand ever again and think only of food) and starts to scrape the soles and sides of my feet. My tootsies are tender, and this to me is nothing short of an assault. But apparently, its how Ghanaian beauticians are taught to scrape off dead skin. You’re thinking “Ouch and yuchh” (in that order), right? “Have they no pumice?” you wonder. Yes! They have pumice and lava rocks and lotions that slough off dead skin, but apparently there’s a whole gauntlet of torture tactics that has to be run through, and this is just the first weapon.

I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, suffice to say, it hurt. I’m sure an electric sander would have hurt less.

But then she moved into the next phase and that earlier pain was forgotten for this new pain. This was the torture tactic popularly known as cuticle cutting! Fortunately, she only cut me twice, once on each foot and they did stop bleeding before I left. The pain almost entirely went away, except when she whipped out the nail polish remover to take off the too-thick polish she attempted to put on me.

Finally, the time had arrived for putting on the polish. I had chosen a pretty bright orange, but then I also liked this lighter apricot polish with sparkles in it. I had a bright idea that the apricot could go over the orange polish, like pretty layers.

Only it didn’t work out like that. Belinda was more than willing to try it out, putting the first coat on. Only she discovered the polish was too thick and had to remove it, hence the repeat pain of the cut cuticle. But she came back with a thinned out version and went ahead and painted it the way I asked.

I hated it. It looked horrible; especially when she “cleaned” up the edges. It looked like all of my toe nails were bleeding, because you could only see the orange along the edges. Of course, me being the non-trouble-maker that I am, I told her it was “great.” Then I went home and took the nail polish off. All that fun for only 15 Ghana cedis.

I realize that getting a pedicure is kind of like having children. You don't remember anything about the pain when you see the beautiful result.

This was one ugly baby. I think I’ll let Alex have a go at it. It certainly can’t be any worse.

It’s off. No, it’s back on. Wait. Oh, it’s off again.

Water. Electricity. Electricity. Water. It’s a never-ending frustration. The last few weeks have been just hell on the utility front. Water has by far been the worst, with regular outages that last as long as two days. We just can’t seem to get caught up on our laundry because of it, and I am definitely leaning (practically falling over if you want the truth) towards getting a huge stack of paper plates. To hell with the trees and those tree huggers! Our two water barrels outside can only go so far, and I am judicious in allotting it for frivolous uses. “You want to wash your face? Let me look at ya. Ah, it’s not too bad, just let me spit on this tissue and wipe you down.” Oh, yeah, the kids love the rationing. NOT.

I’ve said it before: I love my showers and having the soles of my feet being cleansed of grit, sand and dust. When the weather is this hot, I may shower three or even four times a day, just to rinse off the sweat. (TMI? Sorry.) Ah, you’re wondering if we’re in a drought or something, right? Nope. This is the start of the rainy season, and it has been raining fairly consistently. As far as I know, the Weija and Kpong reservoirs are pretty full, thank you very much. Granted, there’s always a problem with the water lines and mains; they are old and gradually being replaced. But, no, the problem is that the workers of the recently privatized company that runs Ghana’s water system (Aqua Vitens) are having a work slow down. It’s not a Mother Nature issue. It’s a labor issue.

Here’s my opinion: Forget the mediation. Forget the arbitration. Give them whatever they want, for crying out loud. Now!

Oh, if only it were that easy.

Now, as for the electricity... who the hell knows what is going on? Every night, for the past several days, the electricity has been off, sometimes during the day, but more often at night. And when it is off, it generally stays off for between 30 minutes and 2 hours. Coincidentally, the night time outages always seem to occur during the hours when the children are propped up in front of the television watching the Bernie Mack show or Friends. They think it’s a conspiracy. Me, I think it’s just typical government ineptitude. It doesn’t matter whether the NPP or the NDC is in power; the little people are the ones getting screwed. I accept that the government has every right to screw their people. I’m an American, I’ve been screwed (we call it taxes, over there) so I’m not against getting screwed, in principle. I just want to be forewarned that I’m going to be screwed. This way I can prepare for it.

Are we doing load shedding again? I have no idea. They used to publish the dam levels in the local newspaper every day, but stopped when we were out of the danger zone. So, I’d assume that we’re still out of the danger zone. The most recent level I saw (on April 19th) was 10” below the maximum and 10” above the minimum water level. Seems to me we’re pretty okey dokey as far as water levels are concerned.

The load shedding issue was not fun, and a lot of people still have bad memories and continue to point fingers at the NPP administration which was in power then. Usually, those fingers were on the hands of a NDC person. So, you got to wonder, what do the NDC people say about this latest foray into load shedding (albeit “unofficial”), now that it’s happening on their watch? So far, there’s been no comment.

We’ve learned that when “lights off” happens at night, you may as well just give up all of hope of it being a momentary thing and go to bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy. So it’s best to just lie there and sweat in the heat until you become a puddle. Then get up and have a shower. Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. The water’s off, too. Shit.


ETA… I guess Vodaphone didn’t want to be left out; my internet connection has now been off for nearly 24 hours. Oh happy day.