ECG, VRA, Gridco, God? Who’s to blame for these power outages?

As I began this blog post, I slotted my pen drive into the USB port. That’s because I hate to lose this blog to the black hole of the blogosphere if, scratch that, when the power goes off. Again. At least I’ll only lose a minute’s worth of work since I set the autosave up for that. Besides the electricity in our house, I have a little problem with a laptop battery not charging. That’s entirely my bad; I need a new one and delayed in getting it.

What is not my bad is the “lights off” situation here in Tema. For the past three weeks, maybe even four, we have regularly had our electricity turned off. Twelve hours at a go here, ten there, another day it was 14 solid hours of no lights, no power, no nothing. Even the best laptop battery couldn’t withstand that degree of ridiculousness.

“Are you load shedding?” you might wonder. Who the hell knows? Ghana’s electricity related utility companies (ECG – Electric Company of Ghana, VRA – Volta Regional Authority, and Gridco – the transmission line people) are nothing if not obtuse and arrogant. No information was or has since been disseminated.

Well, that’s not entirely accurate. I did once hear a car driving slowly through the neighborhood with someone making an announcement in Twi through the loudhailer. And were I to understand Twi (I know, my bad) I could have perhaps been forewarned of the power situation. As it was, a shopkeeper told me what they said – the day after a “lights off” event.

But that really only explains one day. We still have no idea what happened the other seven or eight separate occasions when the electricity went off. The shopkeeper said that the announcement (done on the Monday after, by the way) mentioned that “routine annual maintenance” on Friday was the reason for Friday’s all-day outage, but that the outage on Saturday (which blacked out all of Tema) was the result of a fire. From what? My conclusion is that said “routine annual maintenance” caused the fire. That begs the question, has no one here ever heard of the expression, "if it ain’t broke, don’t fix it?"

Meanwhile, a friend through Facebook who lives somewhat close said she’d heard it was a transformer that caught fire. Another friend (the same day) said he’d heard that the heavy rains of the previous night pulled some wires down and that lead to the power disruption.

I don’t know what the truth is. As I said no one is forthcoming. Regular citizens like me are just guessing and hypothesizing. And, if they’re like me, they’re sitting in the heat (since we don’t have a generator) baking, simmering and stewing in our juices as we seethe over the situation.

And it’s not just a matter of heat. Yes, it’s hot; we’re all sweaty and have short tempers. And we could go to a pool or something. Except that with the constancy of the power outages I’ve now got a freezer full of food thawing. The drip pan beneath the freezer needs constant monitoring. On the first day of lights out, I was throwing chunks of ice into the sink to slow the filling of the drip pan. By the third day I was leaving the chunks of ice in the freezer, in the hope that it would keep the meat, fish and $100 worth of fresh shrimp we’d just bought from spoiling. There's not enough time between lights off for any real ice build up.

And let’s not forget that I’ve got a life-saving drug that needs to be kept cold here. I’d be out more than $500 if Alex’s insulin cache spoiled. And money aside, I’d be putting my daughter’s life at risk if it got warm, so I’m manic about keeping it cold. I’d had to shift the bag of a dozen insulin vials from the fridge’s crisper drawer which is no longer cool to the touch to the thawing freezer shelf that is still cold but no longer freezing. Then reverse the process when the power came back on. Whether or not I successfully kept the insulin at the proper temperature I won't know until... well, I'd rather not go there just now, let's just say I hope me and my OCD did good.

Oh, and let’s not forget that I happen to do freelance work from home. I’m a writer if you didn’t know. Yeah, this “lights off” problem could shoot my productivity level right down to zero. That is if it I let it. I can’t. My work is important to me, not just because the money is good and we need it, but because someone relies on me to produce it on a daily basis. I can get away with one or two instances of “Sorry, we lost power,” but after too many of those I’m embarrassed. Even though it is the truth, I just know my buyer is thinking, “Is she for real?” I have too much pride for that.

So I’m forced to throw on some clothes (we freelancers work in our jammies, ya know), grab my laptop, glasses, pen drive and money, and hightail it to the nearest internet café. Well, not the nearest, because the nearest also has lights off, the most reliable. In this case, all the way across town in Community 1 at Vodafone’s Tema branch.

There, I sit among the rest of Tema’s hot, sweaty and internet-deprived and do my writing, editing, posting. All interspersed with games of Scrabble and visits to Facebook or a non-virtual walk to the local junk store (Melcom), as I wait for article approvals, edits or distributions or what have you. Today, I spent five long bladder-bursting hours there. I’m sure they’ve got a toilet somewhere, but I couldn’t find it and the single customer service guy at the desk was deluged with customers. All in all, today's visit cost me about $10 for taxis and hourly connection fees. If I'm lucky I won't get a bladder infection.

That’s still better than the other day when I tried out a more local internet café that happened to be attached to a hotel here. Hotel Marjorie Y is where I went (the Y stands for Yaw – the first name of both hotel owners) and the internet café costs GHS 4 per hour (that’s about $3), and I needed two. At least Vodafone had lightening quick page loading -- this was worse than dial-up.

The only thing that redeemed the ridiculously expensive Hotel Marjorie Y was that while I was there I noticed a meeting of Gridco employees (yeah, that Gridco) being held in one of their conference rooms. I waited in the lobby for them to head for the buffet table out by the pool. And when they did, I took the opportunity to cast dirty looks upon each and every one of them as I whispered epitaphs and cursed them under my breath. I sure hope they all had a restless night's sleep, wondering about the crazy, sweaty obroni who kept staring at them. Yeah, that was worth it.

And he’s outta there!

I know I had misgivings about our oldest son Sean heading off to boarding school. Truth is I chalked most of it up to a mother’s over protectiveness of her little chick. But my husband, a product of the boarding school system here in Ghana, first going off to Anum Boy’s Boarding at the age of 8, and then onto Tema Secondary School, was insistent.

I looked at all of the good I believed would come of it for Sean. He’d develop strong friendships, he’d build some character (not that he’s lacking – he is definitely a character), he’d acquire better study skills and he’d focus primarily on his education in preparation for the all-important SAT exam (next year!), and eventually college life.

Sly had told me the “horror” stories of when he was a boarder. He told us of how seniors would steal his shito out of his chop box on a regular basis, and how he finally managed to stop the theft (adding washing soap to the jar would surely do it). And of jumping over the wall to go to the store, only to come back and find F.K. Buah (the headmaster at the time) waiting on the other side with his cane. He also told us of the amazing friendships he cultivated, and which he still cherishes, and the teachers who had such a strong influence on his academics and eventual career.

Yes, we wanted that for Sean.

We were excited when he got into his first choice school, Achimota, the top public high school in the country and renowned for its alumni.

So, off we sent him to become a man. Little did we know it would end the way it did.

Our first inkling of the difficulties came when he was put in the hospital for a sore that had become abscessed and nasty. It may not have ever reached that stage had the housemaster called us as soon as it was brought to our attention. But that’s in the past, and a whole ‘nother story.

This started last week. Sean had called on Thursday and asked us to get him an exeat for Saturday, that his ear was hurting and he wanted to go to the hospital to have it looked at. He was adamant, however, that we should not say anything about his ear to the housemaster (who has control over who does or doesn’t get an exeat) but that we should say it was simply a check-up. Done.

But Sly had misgivings about the request. And on Saturday morning, en route back to the house by taxi, Sly (over the phone) pushed him for details. Turns out he hurt his ear in a fight. That’s what Sly was assuming all along.

It was my job to take Sean to the hospital and find out what happened.

Long story shortened (as much as I can shorten a story, which is to say, not much)… it involves Sean (remember, a 1^st year student) and “Happy,” a 4^th year student (I don’t know his name, but wouldn’t disclose it here anyway).

Happy had “asked” Sean to fetch some water from the well for his bath. Sean responds that he’ll go momentarily, as he was sitting on his bed clipping off a toenail that someone had managed to break when he stepped on Sean's foot -- so it was already ragged and bleeding and it needed to come off.

Sean Zigah: Strike 1.

Sean takes the bucket, but there's a line of students waiting for the well. Meanwhile, another 4^th year student with a huge water bucket asks Sean and another 1^st year to help him carry it back because it takes two strong people. Sean, seeing as how he's waiting in line anyway, agrees and helps carry it.

“Happy” (impatient) comes looking for Sean, sees him helping someone else and insults him, "stupid obroni, can't even do what I tell him to do." Sean doesn't like that kind of talk, and goes over to “Happy” and tells him so. “Happy” says (essentially) tough shit and pushes Sean and, of course, Sean pushes back. A little tussle ensues and the nearby 4^th years put a stop to it by ordering Sean to kneel down.

Sean Zigah: Strike 2.

So Sean is kneeling on the concrete pavement (and developing an amazingly ugly soon-to-be-infected gash in his leg) all the while seniors are up in his face yelling at him. Meanwhile, here comes "Happy" who walks toward Sean, who is still kneeling with his hands behind his back, and wallops him up the side of the head. Sean saw it coming and moved his head back which is maybe why his ear got it so good.

Sean Zigah: Strike 3.

Sean gets up to go after “Happy,” but two seniors are restraining him, one of which is Sean's friend who is bear-hugging him and telling him to calm down.

Expecting quite a brouhaha, the old house prefect consults with the new house prefect and advises him to tell the housemaster – because they have all met my husband and know that this will likely escalate into something big. Housemaster is told but still doesn't call us. He does tell the school headmaster, however, just in case it is escalated by Sly.

Finally, it is Thursday before Sean calls us and tells us he wants to see the doctor because his ear hurts.

I underestimated my husband in all this, and I freely admit that. He was absolutely livid. Yes, he thoroughly enjoyed his years at boarding school, but I guess that was another time, another place. There was some “bullying” and “hazing” then, but mostly it was all in fun, not to the degree that we are seeing and hearing of nowadays. No one got hurt. And Sly was different; he didn’t demand or even ask for privileges that upperclassman seem to think is their right, their entitlement.

I wonder what really goes through the minds of some 1^st years (I’ll have to ask Sean) – are they so embittered by what they endure at the hands of these small-minded bullies that they can’t wait to mete out their pent-up wrath on unsuspecting and innocent kids when their turn as an upperclassman finally arrives.

First year students are low man on the totem pole. They are at the beck and call of every upperclassman, at any time, any place. They’re fetching their bath water, washing and ironing clothes, running their errands, making their beds, giving up their food, etc.

The things I had expected Sean to get out of boarding school he didn’t get, and I’m not sure that he would have, even if he had managed to stick it out for three years.

So we advised the Housemaster and the Headmistress that Sean would be withdrawn from boarding at the school, effective this Saturday. We understand that the issue between Sean and “Happy” is being looked at by the disciplinary board. I don’t know where it will go or what will be the outcome. I would not like to see “Happy” expelled (I’m not that mean, really), he’s a 4^th year student getting ready to graduate and he’ll likely get his comeuppance as a 1^st year in college. But face it, “Happy” is just the tip of the iceberg.

Am I glad Sean’s coming home? You bet I’m glad. At home, he’ll be safe.

Christmas Vacation

Panoramic view of Lake Bosumtwe

Our Christmas holiday was spent doing exactly what I have wanted to do for, oh, the last couple of Yule tides… we went to Lake Bosumetwe. Lake Bosumetwe is the largest fresh water lake in Ghana, and it was created when a meteor struck the earth a couple of years ago. It is about a 3 hour drive from Accra, under optimum conditions, which of course, we did not have. First, we departed from Tema, so that added an extra 25 miles, second, we left on Christmas Eve Eve day, which meant so did every other Ghanaian in Ghana. Traffic was its usual horrendous self, and ongoing construction of a highway intended to eventually provide a more direct link between Accra and Kumasi meant that the road we were on was left to its own devices – in other words, it was a frigging mess.

We didn’t go in our own van, which never would have made the (eventually 6 hour) trip but rather we hired a trotro and driver to take us and bring us back. I haven’t been in a trotro in a couple of years and, ya know, I wasn’t missing anything. Even with just six of us and some luggage, it was still cramped and tight and hot and jostly inside the van.

But we set off early enough and with only a couple of breaks we made it to Lake Bosumetwe by early afternoon. Our first break about 2-1/2 hours in was at the Linda Dorr Rest Stop which was, at one time, a beacon to Ghanaian rest stops. Now it is just decrepit and shameful. They charged us 20 pesawas each just to take a leak, and for that we got 4 squares of toilet paper and non-flushing toilets that are nauseatingly disgusting – it seems that Alex and I always manage to follow some poor soul who had the trots!

Mike wanted to buy a beef kebob while we were there (they used to be really good as I recall), but all they had was chicken; that wound up being completely inedible (even by Mike’s standards!). Alex asked for some grapes, and I had my money out to buy; when I asked the price, I was told 2, 3 and 5 cedis. So I asked to see the bunch that constituted the 5 GHC grapes. “Oh no,” the woman said, “not a bunch, I will count out the grapes from each stem and give you 20.” Um, I don’t think so, but not to disappoint Alex I did buy 8 grapes. But is that not ridiculous? I knew you’d agree.

About 30 minutes after that, we pulled up at Sly’s favorite resting stop, which is simply a chop bar – Ghana’s version of fast food. Within three minutes or so, there was an order of smoked fish with light soup at the table, and 2 cedis worth of perfectly pounded fufu. The soup was hot (in both respects) and delicious, and the fufu was as smooth as silk. Went down the gullet without a bit of trouble, and we were on our way 15 minutes later.

By then, we were about 90 minutes away from the lake and the kids were getting anxious. We reached the lake, stopped at the entrance hut where the “guard” looked in (no doubt saw me within a nanosecond) and then demanded 12 cedis entrance fee for the six of us. Then we read the sign: adult locals were to pay 1 cedi each; adult foreigners were to pay 2 cedis each and school children were charged 50 pesawas each. So, did we all – including our trotro driver and the children – look like adult foreigners? Apparently, but the guard’s attempt to impose the obroni tax on all of us was a big fat failure.

Finally, about 15 minutes later we reached our destination, Rainbow Garden Village. The owner of RGV (as they call themselves) showed us to our chalet, and it was the same one we stayed in several years ago. Not exactly big enough for the five of us, but with a couple of mattresses on the floor we’d make do. We had to “rough it” a bit, as there were only a few wall outlets (with different type pins than our laptops and sandwich maker, unfortunately) and a single ceiling fan that too gently pushed the air along. It would take a bit of strategy to get the laptops running (for gaming only, no internet and very spotty cell access) and to make our grilled cheese sandwiches, but we’d figure a way, of that I was sure.

And, once I saw the menu I realized we would indeed have to figure out a way to make sandwiches. The menu, by necessity given the remoteness of the place, was somewhat spare in choices: lots of rice – jollof, fried, plain – and fried yam or pasta, all essentially with either beef or chicken. Believe it or not, in spite of our location, right on the lake, no fish! For almost the entire week we were there, my boys survived on jollof rice with beef and fried yam chips, while Alex ate plain rice. On the second day I tried pasta with “creamy spinach stew” which was not spinach but kontomire (close enough, really); what I got was a dish with a lot of potential, except the stew was too salty and much too stingy a portion to even cover a third of my spaghetti. Fortunately, the cook was receptive to our criticism and the next (and next and next) orders of the pasta with spinach stew were larger and much less salty; with the grated cheese I’d brought along sprinkled liberally on top, it was pretty nice. We eventually found a way to make our sandwiches which broke the meal monotony and snacked on Frosted Flakes when tummies started grumbling.

When not eating (or waiting to eat – it typically took between one and two hours for the food), we did a lot of swimming. The lake was clear enough that you could walk out to your arm pits and see your toes (well, clear enough for me to see my toes, but not so much my darker skinned kids). It was also very warm, except for some delightfully chilly cold spots that we’d chance upon every now and again. The lake, unfortunately, also had leeches in it which we discovered on Day 2. Or should I say Alex discovered… the hard way. She had a tiny scab on her ankle that somehow broke off so the wound was open and she was swimming in the shallows with her brothers. Then in a split second, she comes rushing out of the water screaming and there on her ankle - -right where the scab should have been – is a skinny leach, and blood is trickling down her foot. She runs to me, I swat at it (*shudder*) and it is stuck good. I swat again (*shudder*) and it finally falls off into the grass. Alex, trooper that she is, asked for a band aid to cover it and got right back into the water.

View from the dock.

Yes, that's us swimming waaaaayyyy out to the log.

Ping pong hut

Weaver bird nests

Alex and friend.

For each of us, each day was essentially the same as the day before, with very little exception:

• Wake up
• Eat Frosted Flakes
• Watch the weaver birds build (and rebuild) their nests
• Swim
• Order lunch
• Swim (while waiting for lunch)
• Eat Lunch
• Swim
• Order dinner
• Swim (while waiting for dinner)
• Eat dinner
• Swim
• Look for shooting stars
• Go to bed

The exception, though, was truly exceptional – Sly got a couple of guys arrested! No shit. On the 2^nd night that we were there, Christmas Eve it was, these three Rasta looking guys come sauntering down to the water side, and position themselves beneath a tree house thingy. Among them, they share a single beer, and one of them keeps walking between the tree house and the dock, smoking (and not a cigarette) as he does it. I’ve immediately got my mom-hackles up. I rouse the kids out of the water and we all head up toward the ping pong table where Sly is talking with the owner, Ataa. Sly has also got his radar working pretty damn well, because the Rastas are the subject of their conversation. At Sly’s suggestion, Ataa went down to talk to the Rasta. They claimed that “someone” invited them to visit, and that they took a taxi all the way from Kumasi (40 km away, mind you) just to share a single beer.

Ataa’s staff at RGV is comprised only of herself and her daughter, her cook, her waitress and a teenage errand boy. No security in sight. And Sly is certain that what these guys are up to is no good. Ataa calls the local police. As they’re waiting for them to arrive, the Rastas get up to leave (this is not necessarily good, by the way). When they reach the road, Sly tells them that the police have been called and that they should stick around. They’re arguing to Sly that they just came to “check the place out;” meanwhile, one of them sidles his way closer and closer to the road and all of a sudden takes off like a shot. Now, this place is so remote that it’s not as though they could just grab a cab and get away – he’s probably only hiding in the next village. The police arrive a few minutes later, show their presence to the other patrons (mostly Europeans) and then haul the remaining two guys away in their police van for an overnight in the slammer. Got to love the Ghanaian justice system (when it works in your favor, of course).

It was essentially a very boring week. Every day we swam, we pet the donkey, we listened to the birds, we played word games on the Kindle, we enjoyed the weather, we ate, drank and relaxed.

And it was exactly what I wanted and what I think we all needed. Can’t wait for our next trip.

Happy kids.

Happy New Year!