Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana

Excursion: Keta Revisited

2012-02-08T00:59:00.000-08:00

It’s been a long time since we’ve been anywhere outside ofTema. For one thing we are always busy busy busy. For another we have threekids who always seem to have something needing to be done over the weekend. Andfor another, we have a car that, that… well, let’s just say I am being kindcalling it a car. In truth, our 1994 Nissan Quest is more my husband’sobsession. He is convinced there is still good in there and has spentwaaaayyyyy more money on repairing her than I am comfortable revealing. I, onthe other hand, am certain that that car is the devil incarnate. Certainly ithates me and the feeling is reciprocal. I refuse to drive it, knowing it willconk out on me in the ghastliest place in Tema. Among friends and family I jokeand say, well, the car is older than Sean, after all, and we can’t get him todo all that we ask either.

But then along came the newest addition to our family, ahand-me-down 2000 Ford Excursion. It is a beast, a 9-seater with a V10 engineand it purrs like a kitten. I love that car. She handles like a dream – push 75or 80 mph on the motorway and you’d never even feel it, she’s that good.

We recently took our Excursion on our first familyexcursion, in celebration of Alexandra’s 11^th birthday and our destinationwas Keta. Now we haven’t been there in many years, when we stayed at LornehLodge. Our intent then, as was now, was to relax, eat, swim a bit and do alittle ocean fishing.

Not all of those things were accomplished then. The Lorneh Lodgewas nice by Ghanaian standards, but the food horrible – I might have revealedthat in a previous post. I ordered noodles au gratin for Alexandra to eat; whatwe got was a bowl of overcooked spaghetti with a slice of sandwich cheese ontop (think the generic version of Kraft American singles – yeah, that’s it). Itwas not nice. I remember I opted for spicy shrimp with pasta, which might havebeen okay if I could have actually swallowed it – it was that spicy.

So, off we drove on Saturday with lowered expectations (have I evermentioned my favorite quotation? No? “The key to happiness is loweredexpectations,” Chuck Finster, Rugrats) we drove to Keta in our cushy newair-conditioned car.

We left early Saturday morning and the kids slept soundlyuntil we reached Sogakope. From there it’s only another 45 minutes but since weweren’t sure what kind of food we were going to get at the restaurant wethought it best to fill up. That’s always a good stop-over point anyway becauseyou can get the best kenkey and fish around, which Alex and I pigged out on,while Mike opted for waakye, as he always does (rice and beans with anassortment of other semi-edible stuff).

Sean continued to sleep in open-mouthed splendor; Ghanaianfood holds no lure for him.

By 9:00 am we were in Keta, at Lorneh Lodge Beach Resortwhich is just a few blocks from the original Lorneh Lodge and fronts the ocean. And that was a goodthing that it is so close to the original lodge because we had to go back there to register and getthe key, and then had to drive back the staff member who came to open the doorto our suite.

Now, we were told we had a family suite which had twobedrooms, a living area and dining area, a bathroom and a kitchen. The kitchenwas a kitchen in name only; it was a tiny alcove which bore only a sink and a fridge. But the rest ofthe family suite was perfectly fine; it was spacious, clean, neat; there washot water in the bathroom, the beds were large, the coverlet and shams pretty.My only complaint was the pillows, which were stuffed with rocks.

Outside, hotel management had created a raised wooden deckwhere you could take your lunch and a soda a beer or two while watching the ocean. We were too far tosee where the waves broke but it was still nice. A swimming pool is also beingadded and was under construction; it will likely be ready within a few weeks or so which will be a verynice addition.

"What?! No swimming?!"

I cannot wait for the pool to be finished. Even though I love the beach, and have always loved thebeach – I mean I wouldn’t be a Jersey girlotherwise – as a 50-something with three school-age children, beaches scare thecrap out of me. In Keta, the beach is clean (yes, CLEAN!), beautiful and wild. But there areno lifeguards here. If you go in, you are on your own and you take your life inyour hands. I even checked the tide charts and we ventured in during low tide, andstill the undertow was incredible.

On Saturday, I knew we had already missed the daytime low tide andthere was no way I would let the kids swim; they were as pissed as you canimagine. Only the promise of a quick road trip to Aflao and the CEPS canteenwould appease them. If you’re ever planning to go to Aflao or crossing theborder into Togo,be sure to stop and eat at the CEPS canteen.

The CEPS border guards might be a bunch of [fill in your own blank] yahoos but the canteen they run is incrediblewith good, cheap and abundant food. If you like Ghanaian soups and stews,you’ll find none better. More the “continental” type? Try the fried rice andbeef sauce. Delish. And since you’re in Aflao anyway, stop at a local market stalland pick up some fresh baguettes which are brought in daily from Togo –they are wonderful! And don’t forget to buy a bag of local salt – that stuff isamazing! So beautiful and white and enticing that you’ll want to rush out andbuy a margarita mix.

Anyway, when we got back to the resort it was late afternoon so we walkedthe beach collecting shells and catching little crabs. Nothing out of theordinary here, though we did come across a dead puffer fish that was apparently tossed away from a fishing boat. Thatwas pretty interesting; did you know puffer fish were poisonous? Cool!

Mike with inedible but fun-to-catch crab

Alex caught one, too

RIP Mrs. Puff

By night fall, we ordered room service (without going intodetails here, let it suffice to say that some things never change), watchedfootball and went to bed.

I love sunrises. As a kid, in the summer when we went to Seaside Park for vacation, mydad used to wake up early and head for the beach a block away. I’d hear himsneak out and then I’d quickly dress and run to catch up with him so we couldwatch together. Those mornings were some of my best memories. Saturday February4^th would have been his 76^th birthday. We didn’t get tosee the sunrise on Sunday morning, clouds spoiled it for us, but it was stillgood. Dad was there.

Alex waiting for sunrise

But low tide officially came in shortly after sunrise and Ihad kids begging to swim.

I was a paranoid wreck.

I can swim, and I am a good enough, experienced enoughswimmer to save myself if I got caught in an undertow or a riptide. I know whatto do. Sean and Mike are also good, strong swimmers and I am not (as) worried about them.

Alex, on the other hand, can swim a little better than okay– if she is in a pool. But she has limitations, and the first one is that sheis as skinny as a rail (still, only about 70 lbs) and even a little wave canknock her on her ass. Her next limitation is that she has a mom who is an oldlady. I cannot get to her quickly enough if I need to, especially if I am inthe trench that sits only a few feet from where the waves break. Then there’sher diabetes; when she is having fun she doesn’t feel, or else totally ignores,her lows. That is a dangerous combination.

She had one low episode on the beach, after the swimming wasover and we were collecting shells. I had already let Sean go back up to theroom and had him bring the bags with him. I know, I am an idiot – what was Ithinking? I was about 20 feet away from her when she called to me. I’m low. Iknew. And we were still about 200 (very sandy) yards away from the hotel, andthe glucose tabs. I had Mike run ahead and get a soda ready. We walked slowly,she got there and gulped it down and we went into the suite. She tested at 42after the bottle of soda so I can only imagine how low she really was.

The rest of the morning passed quickly after that, since weneeded to leave to be home in time for the Ghana game. Along the way as wedrove toward Dabala Junction, we passed several boys who were sellingfresh-caught crabs. Hoping that they were my favorite blue claw crabs that we usually get from Atiavi we stopped and found that they were the kind that Ghanaianslove with a big humped back and killer claws. Sly took the lot of them home for25 cedis and they are now residing in three large plastic bowls where they arebeing lovingly cared for and fed a diet of palm nuts and cassava, in the hopethat they will grow bigger and fatter and juicier, destined for okro stew.

Very edible crabs and someone's new obsession

All in all, I couldn’t have asked for a better first excursion, don’tyou agree?

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

2011-05-27T08:41:00.001-07:00

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!

2011-02-09T01:53:00.000-08:00

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

2011-01-04T06:07:00.000-08:00

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!

Boarding school blues

2010-11-18T08:01:00.000-08:00

Well, it’s hard to believe, but tomorrow will mark a full two weeks since my “baby” went off to board at Achimota Senior Secondary School. I want to say that I miss him terribly – and I do, I really really do – but I have to admit I am enjoying some new found freedom (stick with me and I’ll explain).

Sean, my oldest at 15, is more Americanized than his siblings; after all, he was 8 years old when we moved here in January 2003. He doesn’t have a “true” Ghanaian accent (wholly unlike Alexandra who has now lived in Ghana most of her life) though it does intensify when he’s with his peers (and which he loses when he’s with me). He doesn’t really “appreciate” the local foods – kenkey and Keta school boys, grilled tilapia and banku, groundnut soup and fufu (light soup is fine, but not groundnuts due to a peanut allergy) – though he will eat them if he has no choice. He doesn’t know how to do the typical things that most Ghanaian children are taught to do from an early age – like hand washing his school uniform or using a cutlass (machete) for anything other than playing ninja (before I put a stop to it, that is). He doesn’t even know how to wear the traditional cloth or has spent more than an hour at any church service.

But none of that is his fault. It’s my fault… our fault. We’ve tried to shield our children from some of the “injustices” (that’s in quotes because I’m being facetious – before someone slams me) that this system tends to mete out on children.

So, two weeks ago Friday we brought Sean’s things to him at the school. The head of the dorm that he’s in (Guggisberg, for anyone curious) allowed us all to go on up into the dorm and see where he’d be sleeping. It was not at all what I expected – I guess I’m too Americanized, too, and used to seeing dorms portrayed in American television. It was very crowded, with easily 40 boys sharing the one room they were in, and there were several similar rooms in the building. Sean got a top bunk, right near a window – not sure if that’s good or bad seeing as how the screens were not intact, but he does have a mosquito net so hopefully he’ll remain malaria-free (though he does tend to get it a lot).

Fortunately, the head boy was very nice and seemed more than willing to show Sean the ropes – though I have to pray that that wasn’t just for my benefit and that he really is a nice boy. Then, without a hug or a kiss or a tear we left him and headed home. That was how Sean wanted it. I respect that. But stoicism is not my strong suit.

So, he’s at boarding school for nearly two weeks now.

In that time, I’ve seen him once for about 45 minutes during the first monthly visitation, and I’ve spoken to him on the phone for, oh, about 4 minutes. He told me that he wakes every day at 4:00 am so that he and the other Form 1 students can have their shower before the upperclassmen come down. He told me that he eats a lot of white rice and stew, and has learned to like Hausa cocoa. He told me that they must have a siesta every day, whether they’re tired or not. He told me that he had one mid-term exam and he thought he did well in it (but that’s what I expect – he is a brilliant kid, after all).

But, yeah, I miss him. Most of the time.

When I don’t miss him is when I see Alex and Mike playing nicely, with each other, with no one to instigate an argument that escalates into a fight. Teasing I can do without. It’s also really nice to have my laptop to myself, without anyone rushing me off so that he can play his pc games without lag (no clue what that really means, but that's what he always said). My argument that I’m “working” often fell on deaf ears. Now, I don’t have to worry about that. I also don’t have to worry about cooking for my American son; Alexandra and Michael are more than happy to be invited to dad’s dinner, whatever Ghanaian fare it may be. Sean always hated that I “didn’t eat,” as he put it – “Dad, she only eats like once a day!” So without someone nagging me to cook “real food” I can make myself a plate of French fries, or a tuna sandwich, or just drink Crystal Light all day long, and no one complains. That’s freedom.

Would I give it all up? You bet… in a heart beat. But I won’t because the sacrifice I am making now is for Sean’s benefit. Will he understand my sacrifice when he sits down to yet another bowl of white rice and stew wishing it were my meatloaf and baked macaroni instead? Will he acknowledge my heartache when I picture him with blisters on his hands from swinging a cutlass across too high grass? Will he admire the brave face I put on when people ask me how I think he’s doing (“Oh, I’m sure he’s doing great – loving every minute of it!”), even though I know he’s physically exhausted and emotionally drained. Will he even believe that I pray every single night that he finds inside himself the strength, resolve and determination to succeed? Probably not.

A good friend offered me this quote, "Being a mother means spending your life with your heart outside your body." *sigh* Yeah, so I’m learning. But as Sean is now discovering, some lessons are just more painful than others. I know he will get through this, and I know I will get through this. But that doesn’t make it any easier.

My son, the future Akora!

2010-10-07T02:47:00.000-07:00

Here it is, October 7, 2010, approaching 10:00 a.m., and as I sit here typing this blog post, my 15 year old is sound asleep in my bed. While today he is not feeling all that well, this is the norm. And it has been since we arrived back in Ghana in early September.

Because, while Alexandra and Michael have been attending SOS School as dutiful, well-behaved (ha!) children should, slothful Sean has been practicing his metamorphosis act. You see Sean graduated from JSS this past July, and soon (hopefully very soon), he will join the ranks of past and present Akoras as a Form 1 student. For the non-Ghanaian, that is the nickname given a student who attends Achimota Secondary School, long considered one of the best high schools in the entire country. Several notable (and notorious) people (and not all are Ghanaians, by the way) are Achimota alumni including Kwame Nkrumah (the first democratically elected president of Ghana), John Evans Atta Mills (the current democratically elected president of Ghana), Jerry John (J.J.) Rawlings (ummm, eventually a democratically elected president of Ghana), and Robert Mugabe (past, present, eternal president of Zimbabwe, with questionable pedigree).

Yes, we are very proud that Sean got into his first choice school, in spite of his relatively sloppy study habits – testament, perhaps, to his gene pool?

But I digress… as I said before, it is October 7th and he is NOT in school. Why is that? I haven’t a freaking clue.

When we learned in mid-September that Sean was admitted to Achimota, we took a drive to the school. It was deserted. Not a soul in sight, except for the guards at the gate and a single groundskeeper (who, apparently, will be spending the rest of his life trying to tame the huge Achimota campus with only a single cutlass – we can only hope that the blade was sharp!).

Entering the administration building, we found the office of the Headmistress. A woman working in the office (and no, I don’t believe it was the headmistress) could not help us. She didn’t know when school was going to be started. They didn’t even have the enrollment list from the Ghana Education Service. We were advised just to come back (come back?!) once a week (once a week!) and inquire. She wouldn’t even give us a phone number to call. I so wanted to say something about this being the information age. You know, making appropriate and effective use of technology… telephone, website, Facebook, tweeting, something…. but I held my tongue (I know you’re proud of me – it was not easy).

I blame it on the Ghana Education Service, since the buck can’t be passed higher than that. They have postponed and postponed secondary school opening day so many times that we will be fortunate if our kids are sitting behind a desk by the end of this month.

And what will happen then, I have to wonder. Will the school year be lengthened at the end? Will they shorten the between-break holidays? Will an extra hour be added on to the school day? Will students have to forgo their Saturday leisure time? Will teachers zip through the lesson plans with disregard, in the hope that students will learn through osmosis?

In the meantime, Sean is home. We’re steadily accumulating all of the things we think he will need for boarding school life – obligatory red and black metal footlocker, wooden chop box, towels, student mattress and pillows, bed sheets, buckets, cutlery and dishware, iron, etc., etc., etc. We’re not entirely sure we’ve remembered everything – Sly is trying to recall it all from his boarding school days, but as that was generations ago it may be things have changed. Who am I kidding? This is Ghana. Boarding school is a tradition, and tradition does not change.

Sean is home; he is sleeping, eating, playing video games, eating, arguing with his siblings, watching the Mexican telenovela Storm over Paradise and America’s Next Top Model (cycle 5, I think), eating some more. Essentially, driving me nuts. What Sean is not doing that he should be doing is studying the Form 1 books that we bought for him so that he will be ready for the start of school, regardless of when that is and how they attempt to squish five missed weeks into the lesson plan. Essentially, driving Sly nuts.

When will the madness end? Only the Ghana Education Service knows the answer… and they’re not talking.

The Whirlwind, Part 2

2010-09-22T07:23:00.000-07:00

Part 1 of my blog covered all the things that made our trip a good one. In Part 2 you’ll understand why I consider it was a great one!

Family! (Bride's side)

The best part of the trip was seeing family from far and wide that I haven’t seen in many (sadly, too many) years. Thanks to a family reunion (my side) we fortunately got to see almost everyone including…

Mom and her significant other, Harry
Uncle Ray and his wife, Karen
Bob and Pattie, with their kids Jason and Joshua, and their kids, Logan and Lilliana
Jim and Maggie, with Jim’s daughter Chelsea
Christine and Jerry, with their kids, Rebecca, Patrick and Elizabeth
John and Heather, with their kids, Tyler, Hunter and Kailey

The whole gang

Christine, Mom and me

Jim, Bob and John, with Christine, Mom and me*

*BTW, for anyone curious, I'm the oldest -- hard to believe, huh?

Harry, Maggie and Mom

Pattie and Bob

Heather and John, with Tyler, Hunter and Kailey

Jim and Maggie

My nieces, Elizabeth and Rebecca, with my great-niece, Lilliana

And cousins…

Sallieann and her husband, Ralph, with their son Nicholas
Darleen and her husband, Christopher, with their son Murphy
Susan, who flew in from Bermuda
Allison, with her daughter Samantha, who came in from upstate New York
Tara, who could only stay a little while but managed to find time to snag a little sangria

Susan and me

Sallieann and Ralph

Allison and Samantha

And people who we consider family, like Joan and Nick, my mom's oldest and dearest friends.

Nick and Joan

Joan and Mom

The weather was gorgeous, the food was amazing and the happiness and love was simply overflowing. These are the people with whom I share some of the most wonderful memories.

Family! (Groom's side)

On two separate occasions (including the 60th birthday celebration for my sister-in-law, Judy), we also got to see the side of my husband’s family that almost all now live in Maryland, including many nieces and nephews who have grown into lovely young women and men.

The birthday party took place the first weekend after we’d arrived, and with a lot of planning and a little deviousness on the part of my nephew-in-law, we made sure we were available for it. It took place at a Chinese restaurant in Silver Spring, not far from our old stomping grounds. Harriette and Augie were the only ones who knew we were coming, and I’m pretty sure my sisters-in-law were all pretty shocked that we were there. It was a heartwarming feeling to see how happy we made Judy by sharing her special day. It had been a long time since we’d last seen Sly’s side of the family – in some cases more than 7 years – so it was lovely being able to catch up with…

Sisters-in-law Stella and Paulina (the matriarchs of the clan)
Judy and her husband, Sark, and their daughters, Harriette and Serwah
Lucy and her husband, Osei, with their children, Nana Yaw, Akuamwuah and Obiniwah (who have all become quite Americanized – it was weird hearing their friends refer to Akuamwuah as Edwin, and Obiniwah as Stella – or maybe we’re too Ghanaianized?)

All of the people who love Judy.

Serwaah, Judy and Harriette

Stella, Judy and Lucy

Last, but certainly not least, we were lucky enough to catch up with Sly’s son, Jules, and spend at least a couple of hours with him. We haven’t seen Jules for many (too many) years; he has grown into nothing less than I ever expected him to be.

Jules, with Alex Sean and Michael

Friends!

Old friends (and older friends), and new cyber friends – we saw as many as we could.

I reminisced with Fran and Lori (separately) about our days in Lloyds Bank (could that really have been 25 years ago?!). Neither have changed much, and they are both still the same amazing funny women I came to know and love way back when.

Me and Fran

We also stayed with Leslie (whom I met in Ghana nearly two years ago) in Maryland for a few days and we had a blast! My kids count the trip to Dave and Busters as the second best day of their lives (and I can't download the pix I took as someone took them in high definition!). I liked the fact that her house was so livable, and not a museum – my kids felt right at home (though, maybe a little too at home). Many, many thanks to Pam, Eric and Adam for putting up with us all.

We also paid a visit to (and had a delicious Jamaican jerk chicken) Tracy-Ann’s house (which is in our old Maryland neighborhood – how’s that for a coincidence!).

We also met some of our CWD cyber friends.

Amanda and Rosemary!

Our first meet up with CWD friends was at McDonald’s Play Place in Leonardo, NJ with Rosemary and Amanda. Rosemary is a typical Jersey girl (and likely why we got on so well together) and Amanda is a cutie par excellence. Despite the age difference, she and Alex had so much fun!

Amanda and Alex -- what a pair of cuties, eh?

Jenny and Caro!

Then, early on a Sunday morning, we rode the train into New York’s Penn Station to stay a few days with Caro, her husband Hans, and their amazing, talented and vivacious daughter, Jenny Mollet!

(Oh, funny story, we got a little lost in Manhattan – not really lost, just couldn’t find the street I wanted and thought I was headed in the wrong direction – so I stop a man on the street who was directing people to a tour of the Empire State Building to ask for help. He’s got a familiar accent so I ask him where he’s from. “Ghana,” he says. “So are we,” I reply. Small world, eh?)

Fortunately, Caro found us and herded us downtown to watch Jenny who was performing in the musical Aida, along with a very talented group of young men and women (Jenny was cast as one of the Nubian singers!). I wasn’t sure how the kids were going to like it – the boys are more into action and maiming and killing than a love story (even if there is killing involved), and I didn’t know if Alex would sit still long enough. Alex kept asking me during every ovation, “is it over?” And then when I’d reply, no, she’d start clapping with glee. Guess she liked it. The boys, too, kept asking when it would be over, but that was because they were hungry. Boys. Gotta love ‘em.

Alex and one of the cast from Aida

After some pizza, we rode the subway up to Harlem. Caro had generously offered us a place to stay in her home (which, by the way, was only about two blocks from where my husband used to live and the site of our humble beginnings as a couple – and boy, has Harlem ever changed! For the better! Back then, I was the only white person for blocks and blocks – hmmm, I am beginning to see a pattern here).

64 Edgecombe where history began!

On our second day in the Big Apple, we rode the bus down to Central Park. Caro and I enjoyed the beautiful weather and yakking it up (she is so easy to talk to!) as we tried to keep an eye on the girls who were running through the sprinklers and swinging on the swings. After a while, Caro went to look for the girls and was gone only a single minute when I spotted Alex kind of dragging Jenny toward us. Jenny had that washed-out look that Alex (usually) gets when she’s low, so I pointed Caro out to Alex and told her to run and bring her back. When Alex came back with Caro, I made her stop and check herself, too. She was also low (an ugly 2.3 mmol or 50 mg if you're keeping track). Then I felt bad that I had sent Alex off running like that, but she certainly didn’t seem to be acting low. (I hate that, by the way; I’d rather that she acts low as Jenny did, so I am prepared for the number on the meter. Alex’s low came as a complete surprise.) Fortunately, we were well stocked with juice boxes and glucose tabs and it didn’t take too long for the girls to perk back up. (And the nearby hot dog stand helped a lot, too. There was no way I could resist the temptation – I admit, I had 3 – with the works!)

Alex and Jenny, wet, but happy

Later we took a little walk down 6th Avenue, passing by the very cool Jekyll and Hyde Club.

Jenny and Alex

Mike outside Jekyll and Hyde Club with a new friend

Then we did some shopping at the American Girl Doll Store (never again) and the Nintendo Store (also, never again), before stopping to eat at the absolutely bone-chilling Applebee’s restaurant – Caro had to run out and buy a sweatshirt for Jenny who was freezing, and Alex threw the pajamas top that I’d bought for her at the American Girl Doll store over her clothes. I am thinking that the frigid temps in there are merely a ploy to force patrons to eat quickly and get out!

Alex and SpongeBob (cost $1)

Alex and her new American Girl Doll (cost? Waaaay more than $1)

Maddie and Sarah!

On Tuesday, we met Sarah and Maddie who came down from Connecticut, and we all rode the Staten Island ferry to Staten Island (duh) and back, then roamed around downtown a bit (where the smells of the gyro truck were just too mouth-watering to bypass – I hadn’t had a gyro in more than 7 years! Yum-O!). Then we headed down to the South Street Seaport. There, we watched some street performers (who were kind of crappy in comparison to Jenny’s troupe of friends), and enjoyed Haagen Dazs ice cream.

Jenny, Sean, Mike and Alex

Maddie, Alex and Jenny

We left for home on Wednesday with wonderful memories of a great time and even greater new friends.

The CWD Moms!

Toward the end of August we had a planned outing with a group of CWD moms in Virginia. The weather was really threatening, but we figured we were there more for the camaraderie than the swimming so onward we charged (this was just Alex and me at this point).

Me, Ashley, Barbie, Nancy, Becky, Misty, Frannie, Loren and Barb

It was like meeting old friends. And so it was.

So, there you have it. The most amazing trip ever.

The Whirlwind, Part 1

2010-09-20T06:41:00.000-07:00

As I sit here reflecting on our vacation, I took a look back over my “bucket list” (as some of you called it, though at the time I wasn’t entirely sure why), and I am gratified to say that, with only a single exception, I fulfilled all of my desires. And then some. What an amazing whirlwind (yes, despite the fact that we were there for amazing 42 days, it was still a whirlwind) trip we had to the states.

The flight out of Accra was uneventful (thank God), and the children and I touched down at Philadelphia Airport right on time and walked out to find our stretch limo (the best part of the trip so far) waiting to take us to my mother’s house. The limo pick-up was a gift from my lovely mom who couldn’t wait to see her favorite (just kidding, sweet sister!) daughter and her ready-to-be-spoiled-even-more-than-they-already-are grandchildren.

Mom and her significant other, Harry, and their little (and hyper!) Boston Terrier, Buddy, waited for us on the porch and rushed (well, as much as a septuagenarian and her octogenarian partner could rush) down to meet us at the curb. The homecoming was the one of my dreams, and I didn’t even try not to cry. You can’t stop the tides, can you? Our first day involved a lot of hugging, eating, talking and laughing. Maybe even a little bit more crying. As far as I'm concerned, it was the perfect first day, one that I ended with the hug and kiss I'd wanted to give so badly.

Now, I don't want to give you a blow-by-blow of the events (you do have a life, elsewhere, don’t you?), here are some (Part 1) of the Bucket List highlights of our trip.

Fast food! I am somewhat chagrined to admit that we indulged in fast food more than once (truth be told waaayyyy more than once). Why, we hadn’t even left Dulles Airport and we’d eaten at Wendy’s twice that very first day (breakfast and lunch)! Suffice to say that I clearly understand why I weigh 20 lbs less in Ghana than I do in the U.S. By the end of the trip, we’d visited (in no particular order of favoritism) Burger King, Taco Bell, Wendy’s, McDonald’s, Chick-Fil-A, White Castle and Pizza Hut; some of them more than once (waaayyyy more than once).

Coffee! Oh, did I ever enjoy real coffee, in every way, shape and form (caffeinated, half-caff, with milk, with flavored cream, hot and iced). I now know how to operate nearly every brand coffee maker in the U.S. – a skill I had to learn as the early riser in nearly every home we visited overnight. Besides regularly ingesting fresh brews at mom’s house, Christine’s house, Pattie’s house, Heather’s house, Fran’s house (and Frannie, that is a really cool coffee maker you’ve got there!), I grande-ed at Starbucks, 7-11 and Dunkin Donuts (naturally, I had to buy some donuts while we were there... doest that count as fast food?).

Diet Coke! If I ever see another can of Diet Coke again I will throw up. Just kidding! I have to admit I drank through many, many cases of Diet Coke. But, hey, when you can buy four 12 packs for only $10, how could I resist?

Gasoline! Pumping my own gas is totally over-rated. And so is buying gas in gallons, for that matter. We were fortunate enough to have the use of my brother’s amazing Ford Excursion while in the states, and it was a dream to drive and easily held us and all of our junk. But that car sucks down gas like a diabetic with a high blood sugar drinks water (sorry, my CWD friends, I couldn’t resist). I was constantly stopping to fill or top off the tank, to the tune of nearly $600 worth. Still cheaper than a rental, right?

Pizza! We indulged in pizza more than once (including on the first day), and it was kind of interesting to note that it didn’t really matter where we bought the pizza from – it was always still better than Ghana pizza. Except for Pizza Hut – that was gross – my pizza is better than Pizza Hut.

Mail Delivery! Every day (except Sunday, of course) there was mail delivery. And more often than not there was Debbie, a sweet lady and my mom’s personal mail courier (just kidding, she really does work for USPS), who was bringing boxes and mail for us, either from stuff we ordered or diabetic supplies being donated.

Credit Cards! Better I should have buried them in a block of ice… Target, Walmart, BestBuy, Game Stop, RiteAid, PayLess Shoes, American Girl Store, Nintendo World, etc., etc. Need I say more?

To be continued…

When we get to America

2010-07-19T07:20:00.000-07:00

In exactly one week’s time – give or take an hour or so – my children and I will be touching down at Dulles International Airport in Virginia for the start of a long-awaited, well-deserved 6 week vacation.

Now, I’ve said time and time again to visitors and travelers that are thinking about coming here that Ghana has everything you could possibly want, albeit at a price. But some things, well, some things just don’t have a price, if ya know what I mean.

So here for your reading pleasure (and maybe some food for thought) I give you some 25 of the things that I will relish when we arrive in the United States next week, after not being home for more than 3½ years.

Drinking Diet Coke, icy cold straight from the can, one right after another simply because they’re so cheap, and because I can.
Lighting the stove with the mere turn of a dial, and not the turn of a dial and the pfffft of a wooden match.
Waking up to the sound of a lawn mover cutting the grass instead of the scree, scree, scree of a straw broom sweeping up the previous day’s rubbish.
Flipping the channel and finding a baseball game on it instead of a soccer match.
Hearing the children cry out that they want pizza for dinner and ordering one or two for delivery, instead of groaning about how long it will take for me to make them from scratch (that’s if I have all of the ingredients in the first place).
Buying gasoline in gallons instead of petrol in liters and having the ability to pump it myself if I want.
Drinking real coffee and not instant.
Walking into an air conditioned room and needing a sweater instead of turning on the ceiling fan and removing yet another item of clothing.
Eating pasta with a sauce from a jar of Ragu rather than homemade (you really do get sick of homemade after a while).
Having mail delivery come right to the house and not having to go retrieve it from the post office weeks after it’s been mailed.
Eating fast food that really is fast as opposed to waiting 30 minutes for fried chicken and chips at a local “fast food” restaurant.
Dialing an 800 number at any time of the day or night, even if I get a recording, and knowing that my call is important to them and it will eventually be answered.
Working on my tan with people who are doing exactly the same thing and no one raises an eyebrow or questions my sanity.
Speaking in my normal cadence with my New Jersey accent and everyone will understand me.
Being called Barbara or “miss” or “lady” as opposed to “obroni.”
Scarfing down a sack full of White Castle hamburgers instead of the single burger that I cooked and which the boys didn’t eat (only because I hid it).
Not worrying about coming home to a defrosting fridge or freezer because the power is out or because my prepaid meter ran out of money.
Enjoying the night air and the dance of fireflies instead of running inside as quickly as possible to avoid the mosquitoes.
Having access to a clothes dryer and not just a clothes line.
Listening to rock and roll or oldies music instead of gospel or high-life.
Paying with a credit card if I want to and not worrying that someone has just copied down the number to try to buy a computer online later.
Relaxing on beautiful sandy clean beaches instead of ones used mainly as a latrine.
Having my choice from among dozens of magazines bought for a few dollars rather than just Oprah magazine for $25.
Visiting my friends and family in the real world and not just the cyber one.
Saying goodnight to my mom with a hug and a kiss rather than a whispered prayer.

Power tripping

2010-04-23T03:30:00.001-07:00

Wondering where I've been? Let me just say (before I start rolling with my next diatribe) that I am the type of person who doesn't talk (or write) just to fill up an uncomfortable silence. There really wasn't anything that I hadn't already said. :D

But today, today is different. I'm still a little ticked off from the experience we had yesterday at the U.S. Embassy in Accra. Up until a few years ago, the Embassy was located in an ugly little building within a tiny run down compound in Osu R.E.; there was no air conditioning, no waiting room, an abundance of supercilious security personnel and the usual bureaucratic inefficiency.

Well, it's different now. The U.S. Embassy is now located in Cantonments, in a big ugly building (or as my friend Leanne calls it, "U.S. penitentiary in Accra) on a huge compound with cold, conditioned air, and a fairly large waiting room. There's even a working television broadcasting VOA. That's the good news. Unfortunately, there remains an abundance (even more so, now) of supercilious, arrogant security personnel who apparently are contagious to the point that even the groundskeepers have serious attitudinal issues.

We needed to do the passport renewal thing, me and Mike, and as a minor, it is a requirement that both parents be present to "swear an oath" so poor Sly had to take time off from work to come with us. Naturally, Alexandra had to tag along for the ride (not that I could have or would have let her stay home alone, nor would she have permitted it). Hours for consulate related activities for American citizens are 8:30 am to 12:30 pm. Now, I was familiar with how it used to be at the old embassy, so I made sure that we got there at 7:30. There was already a long, long line of Ghanaians waiting to enter the consulate for their visa appointments. We whipped out our American passports and showed them to the security guard at the front. With hardly a glance, he responded simply, "8:30," and turned his back on us.

We walked away a little and huddled. Should we go to the car? Find a place to sit? What? And do we come back and have to stand in that line? Sly suggested I go over and ask the other security guard, the one who was guarding the entrance door. So, I walked along the cordon (you didn't think I'd be able to get that close, did ya) and yelled out to him, "Excuse me!" He glanced my way, frowned and gesticulated that I should see the other guard (the one who couldn't be bothered from before). I shouted out, "I only want to know do we have to wait in that line at 8:30 or should we just go to the front?" Again, he pointed at the other guard. "No, I don't want to see him, he couldn't be bothered with me... I just want to know where do we go at 8:30? Do we have to wait in that line?" Finally, finally... "No line. Just come to this door." Seven friggin words. Could he spare 'em?

Our van is parked around the corner and down a bit. The building is surrounded by an ocean of grass, and I begin to tromp across it to get to our van. A groundskeeper is yelling at us to get off the grass. A couple of things crossed my brain just then: 1) Had he never heard of the Pythagorean theorem? (which I actually yelled out, much to Sly's chagrin -- and, in retrospect, he's a groundskeeper, of course he hadn't heard of the Pythagorean theorem); 2) there were no "Keep Off the Grass" signs anywhere; 3) How hard would it be to put a couple of paving stones from the building to the street; and 4) It.Is.Only.Freaking.Grass (and pretty pathetic looking grass, at that)!!!

So 8:20 arrives (I am anal about punctuality -- that' s the American in me, I guess) and we're at the entrance door; there are a group of Ghanaians in front of us, all bearing American passports. He let's them in and signs to us that we should wait (cannot figure out this no-talking rule of his -- maybe he's aspiring to become a Queen's Guard!). After a few minutes, he opens the door and waves (!) us in.

Here's where it gets fun... we sign in, indicate we have no phones on us and walk through the metal detector. Sly and I get to put our jacket and bag on the x-ray machine. My bag sets off all kinds of concerns. Despite the signage that says no phones or cameras, now, all electronic stuff is banned inside the consulate. So into a little pouch go the Nintendo DS consoles I brought for the kids, as well as Mike's MP4 player. My bag goes for another ride through the x-ray machine.

"Madam, you have a pen drive in your bag." Um, no, I don't. I do have Alexandra's glucose meter and insulin pens, but other than that, nothing electronic. I pull out her glucose kit and show him. He shakes his head, "that cannot go into the consulate" he says. I say, "it has to go, I don't know how long I will be in there (understatement of the year!) and I have to be able to check her blood sugar if she feels low." He refuses, and tells me I need to put it in the pouch.

Momma bear's hackles are up at this point. "No," I insist, "I want to speak with your supervisor." Eyebrows raise here, but that's my right (as is bringing Alexandra's glucose kit into the Embassy itself). A few minutes later and I'm talking to Carol, an American who claims she is familiar with type 1 diabetes and knows that the meter is important, but she's got to defend the stance on the electronic ban so she'll have someone come and "inspect it." I was really ready to whip out the Americans with Disabilities Act, if necessary... I mean, an Embassy is American soil isn't it?

We're directed to sit and wait, though one guard tells Sly he should proceed and Sly basically scoffed at him and sat down. Truth be told, I had expected Sly to suggest I give them the meter (he's really not big on confrontation in situations like this), so I was very (happily) surprised when he backed me 100%.

A few minutes later, another Ghanaian security agent comes through the door -- I'm pretty sure he's in charge, because everyone hops to attention and yells out, "Good morning, sir" to this guy. The security agent at the desk, in a local tongue, must be telling him about the "machine" and how it "measures sugar pressure." I assume this means Alex's glucose meter.

I indicate that it is for Alexandra, and he wants her to use it so he can see. No problem, she does this nearly a dozen times a day so what's another, even for an audience. Everyone is watching. She does her thing in about 10 seconds and the meter reads a 9.7 mmol (not good, but she did just eat granola and apparently the insulin hadn't kicked in yet). Even though he sees what the meter is for, he still has to ask, "Do you really need to bring this in?" (Can you picture me rolling my eyes -- well, I didn't -- but, oh, how I wanted to!) I can't even imagine what would happen if Alex were on an insulin pump.

I relinquished Alex's juice boxes to the pouch (no liquid inside, either -- I wasn't gonna argue), and once inside the consulate it was a relatively smooth process, in air conditioned bliss. And within an hour we were on our way home.

Ghanaians are generally the most pleasant, helpful, friendly people you'd ever want to meet. What's the saying? "Absolute power corrupts absolutely?" Yeah. Yeah, it really does. But here's the thing -- I can board a plane (of course, only once I've dealt with the ineptitude and attitude of the Kotoka Airport security agents over the same glucose meter and insulin) and fly to America. And those Ghanaian embassy guys, can't.

Ghana celebrates World Diabetes Day!Have you hugged a diabetic today?

2009-11-13T23:49:00.000-08:00

In honor of World Diabetes Day today, I'd like to ask you... have you hugged a diabetic today? Whether they have type 1 or a type 2 (or something in between), are pre-diabetic, have gestational diabetes or LADA or MODY or whatever... let's show all of the people we care about a little compassion, sympathy, understanding and love, today and every day.

And in special recognition of a brave young soul, our sweet girl Alexandra, who has thus endured thousands of shots and finger sticks since her diagnosis with type 1 diabetes little more than a year ago (1 year, 4 months and 20 days, if you're counting) I'd like to share this letter with you, and maybe you'll share something with us in return...

====================

Open Letter to Our Friends

Those of you who know me well know that I am one of those people who, as a child, was always in search and support of a good cause… I trick-or-treated for Unicef, raised money for “Jerry’s Kids” with Muscular Dystrophy by knocking on doors, walked 20 miles with Christine or Josie for a pledge of 10 cents a mile in support of the March of Dimes. As I grew older, I did my bit with United Way and Salvation Army, too. It seemed there was always some needy kid who I was compelled to help or research group to be funded. There was always a cure on the horizon for lots of horrific diseases and disabilities.

But I did that without any real personal involvement. I didn’t know any of those kids. I was sympathetic to their plight. But I had no had no real feeling for what they endured.

Now, I have a new cause. And this one I embrace with all my heart and soul and every single fiber of my being, because it affects my youngest child. Some of you may not know this, but a little more than a year ago, our daughter, Alexandra who was 7 years old at the time, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, or what used to be called juvenile diabetes.

Now, I didn’t know anything about diabetes. I knew Mary Tyler Moore had it, but couldn’t figure why it was called “juvenile” diabetes – certainly she was no juvenile. I knew diabetes had to do with sugar and sweet stuff, but I didn’t know anything else.

Boy, what a difference a year makes.

I’ve learned that type 1 diabetes is an auto-immune disease; that a person’s body basically attacks itself – in this case, the pancreas – and that nothing a person did or didn’t do could have prevented it. No one knows why some people get it and others not. The pancreas no longer produces insulin, a hormone needed to convert the sugar and carbohydrates you eat into energy.

Without insulin, plainly speaking, Alexandra will die. But insulin – as wonderful as it is – is not a cure.

The only cure is a cure.

But there is hope on the horizon, and it takes the form of Dr. Denise Faustman of Massachusetts General Hospital. Dr. Faustman has actually cured type 1 diabetes in lab mice, with an FDA-approved drug that is already on the market. The problem is, because the drug is already on the market and widely available, there’s just no financial incentive for the pharmaceutical companies to embrace Dr. Faustman’s efforts.

I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say it’s something I’ve researched, and I am more than hopeful that within my daughter’s lifetime there will be a cure.

But the cure won’t come without funding. The Lee Iacocca Foundation has contributed $10 million to jumpstart the human trials, and money is trickling in through grassroots organizations such as one I’m happy to be a small part of – Help Cure Childhood Diabetes.

So, if you’ve stuck with me this far and you knew me as a child, you know where I’m going with this… please help. Your donation toward research for a cure would be appreciated more than you can ever know. This link will take you to Alexandra’s web page and from there you can link to the donation page at Massachusetts General Hospital.

And if you just can’t make a donation right now – times are tough here, too, I understand – I’d appreciate your prayers instead.

With thanks from the bottom of our hearts…

Barbara and Sylvester

Where in the world are you?

2009-10-28T02:34:00.001-07:00

Ya know, basically I'm a nosy person. I'm easily intrigued, my curiosity gets piqued and I just have to know. I'm not one of those people who are obsessed with wrapped packages, though, so don't get me wrong... that would be my sister. But, I'm just mildly interested in learning where you're from? You see that little ClustrMap to your right, there? Yeah, that's it. Did you ever click on it just to see what happens? Where it goes? There are a lot of dots on it, from all over the world, it looks like (though my geography sucks, probably only 1/4 of all the countries in the world are represented).

But, I'm curious, and I want to know you better. So, don't be shy, leave me a comment and just say where you're from. I promise I won't write and ask for money or anything and I won't sell your email address to some online marketer, it's just that I'm so happy to have friends from all over the world, that I want to know where in the world you are. Kind of like Carmen Sandiego, but in reverse, ya know?

So, please, leave a comment if you will, and you can do it anonymously. If you've got a blog, let me know. I'm always curious to read what life is like outside of the jungle. ;-)

Summer Titbits (sic)

2009-09-23T09:21:00.000-07:00

As a sometimes writer/editor, I know that in the uptight, too politically correct land that I know and love, we stuffy Americans prefer to call it “tidbits” – publicly eschewing any reference to tits as somewhat crass. But when in Rome (or in Ghana), you’ve got to do as the Romans (or Ghanaians) do… so, this posting is all about our summer “titbits.” It’s a potpourri (pronounced pot pouree here, by the way, at least by one television sports journalist who shall remain nameless because I can’t remember his name) or a compendium of our goings on (or not, as it often were) here in Ghana over the past two months. And while I’m on the subject of spellings and pronouncements, I just can’t allow this one to get away… “As Kwame Nkrumah put it so succinky…” Yes, this was the tag phrase on a commercial for a popular African television show, Africa Today, as uttered by the beautiful television show hostess having the African equivalent of a blond moment.

Moving on….

The kids were on summer vacation from mid-July through just yesterday (and hopefully that will go a long way to explaining my absence from this blog). Ah, sweet relief and blessed silence. For the most part, it has been a long, hot, somewhat uneventful summer. But there have been instances and days of emotionally charged activity. For example:

Our Day

The last official day of school is “Our Day” and meant for one thing and one thing only: Fun. Unlike last year (b-oring!), this year’s Our Day celebration had trampolines, balloon bounces, face painting, horseback riding and lots and lots of food. Sean chose not to go – he is 14 after all – but Mike and Alex had no intention of letting this day pass them by. They took full advantage of having Mommy (and her purse) who was on standby holding onto Alex’s diabetes kit. Mommy made sure she was prepared, too, with a fully charged phone battery, 5 GHC in top up phone credit, her Nintendo DS lite, a good book and a Diet Coke.

You might be wondering where Mike was in all of this… did I mention that there was lots and lots of food on Our Day? He could be found hovering (perhaps hoovering is the better choice) near the kebob and sausage seller on the other side of the school, only a few feet away from the Lucky Dip seller. Now, Lucky Dip, for those of you not in Ghana, is a game of random draw. You pay your money to the lady, reach into the bag and pull out a scrap of paper on which is your prize. Michael was desperate for an iPod, which was why he spent a small fortune in Lucky Dip attempts. At the end of the day, all he had to show for it was half a dozen rulers, some erasers, a string of Pepsodent toothpaste in disposable pouches and a bottle of Frytol cooking oil. Total cost of attempts (don’t tell my husband): approximately 20 GHC. Total value of goods: approximately 5 GHC. I am thinking about signing Mike up for Gambler’s Anonymous because the warning signs are all there. I’m also thinking of never returning to New Jersey. Note to self: Research which state does not have legalized gambling?

Score one for Mom

One of my pet peeves is incorrect pricing. No, I’m not talking about obroni pricing; I’m talking about overcharging at the register simply because the “computer” reads differently than the sign. I’ve argued over lots and lots of things – even kite string in MaxMart – who ever heard of 10 GHC for kite string! Ridiculous.

Unfortunately, I’m usually the loser in the fight. I often forget this is not America. But, occasionally, I win.

Case in point: A trip to Evergreen supermarket and a purchase of a can of Dr. Pepper soda. The register says 1.60 GHC. But, the sign says .90 GHC… see?

After a quick glance at my cell phone camera, an even briefer chuckle by the cashier and a lengthy dash to the manager, I got three cans of Dr. Pepper for .90 GHC each. Ha!

Thanksgiving

My husband’s sister who lives in Maryland has been battling colon cancer for the past year and has undergone surgery and chemo with (knock wood) very good results. Early in the summer, she and another sister came home to Ghana after Paulina had been given the okay from her doctor. It’s natural, then, for her to thank God for his mercy and, in the traditional Ghanaian way, a Thanksgiving service was arranged. Paulina had requested that we attend the mass, all of us dressed in the same special fabric. Now, some of you may be aware of this already, but I don’t do church. None of us in this branch of the family “do” church. But we planned to go and so we all dressed in the special cloth; kaba and slit for Alex and me, and dress shirts for the guys.

I have to admit, I’m not really a fan of everyone dressing alike, but the fabric was really beautiful and of the best quality you can buy in Ghana. The kaba and slit outfit that was made for me, on the other hand, was, um, interesting. Our tailor, Kofi, came over and took the measurements, and he had very explicit instructions from Sylvester not to make anything too small; Sly believes that Kofi, our quite small in stature tailor, suffers from some strange complex, because truly, everything he sews is too tight. Anyhoo, the day before the event the clothes come to the house and we all try them on. Everything fits as it should. Except that’s not necessarily a good thing; the kaba and slit fit me like a glove and I can hardly move about in it. Interestingly, inside my very tight skirt and top is a 5” inseam of surplus fabric. I point that out to Sylvester and he makes a very astute observation which I will relay to you here, but not before I apologize in advance for offending anyone – sorry, if you’re offended – he says that the reason they do that is because typical Ghanaian women only get bigger, never smaller. And in this way, when they’ve grown from a size 10 to 14 to 18, 20 and 22, there’s no need to have new clothes made – you simply have your inseam let out. Oh, and before you think my husband’s observation is in jest, just let me tell you that all of his 6 sisters, with the exception of Paulina are, um, pretty sturdy Ghanaian women.

After the Thanksgiving celebration we all went back to the family house for a while. It was a good time to meet up with Paulina’s sons whom we hadn’t seen in a while. The younger of the two, Bob, brought his girlfriend – didn’t catch her name at all and not sure she’s still in the picture anyway, but that’s another story. Actually, that’s the point of this story. You know Alex, my often too-friendly, gregarious, sometimes charming daughter? Well, unbeknownst to any of us that day, Alex caused a little brouhaha. It seems she was chatting with Bob and nameless, and Bob was teasing her about something. Alex doesn’t respond well to teasing, so in defense mode, she teases back. What happened here is that they were teasing her and Alex told nameless that she shouldn’t marry Bob because he was a witch.

Here’s where the story doesn’t end. “Witch” has entirely different connotations in Ghana than it does in America (at least this particular century in America – I read the history books). Anyway, when I call someone a witch, I mean that they are being difficult to deal with. Alex is often called a witch (alright, I admit I call her worse than that under my breath sometimes) and so that is what she understands. In Ghana, calling someone a witch is tantamount to calling someone Hitler or Osama Bin Laden or Satan, himself. It just isn’t done in polite company. Nameless took great offense on Bob’s behalf and brought the topic up to Paulina after we’d left.

The next day, Sly was summoned for a family meeting to discuss Alex. I was not invited, and I’m just as glad I wasn’t. I would have taken great offense on Alex’s behalf. I don’t know what exactly was said, but Sly did call me for confirmation and I said it was quite possible she called someone a witch. I also pointed out to him that Alex’s definition of “witch” is not a juju person, but one who is troublesome. I also pointed out that Alex is 8 years old.

Alex now knows not to call anyone a witch, except me. This is a picture of the witch, er, I mean Alex, stirring up her fire.

Akosombo Revisited

We also went to Akosombo for two days just to swim, fish and relax. The boys wanted to take a paddle boat out to the middle of the river to fish from there. They built up their leg muscles but caught nothing. We noticed that the hotel had a couple of new creatures in their mini zoo. See if you can spot the lizard.

While we were there, we bought 10 GHC worth of amazingly fresh caught shrimp to take home, which I had the pleasure of cleaning. And then the distinct pleasure of eating. All 120 pieces of shrimp (eat your heart out, it was delicious!). While there were a couple of little guys, the majority of them were at least as big as the one Alex is (grudgingly) holding.

Teshie International Airport

As far as I know, Ghana has only a single international airport. Haven’t found this one yet, but there is a free urinal for anyone interested.

The Pirate’s Life for Me

Sometimes, when you’re bored, you just need to get out of the house and enjoy a little Vitamin D and the great outdoors. And that’s just what Mike did. Except he didn’t get farther than our yard but he was well prepared: Pirate hat (check), pure water sachet (check), cell phone (check), Nickelodeon magazine (check).

Queen Sheila

Around the corner from us is Queen Sheila, a local drinking spot with cheap beer, cold minerals (soda), loud music and great spicy kebobs and sausages. There’s not much to it, nothing at all fancy – plastic tables and chairs, dead plants in broken planters, ripped canopy overhead and flapping in the breeze. But, boy, what a breeze. Reason enough to head over there for a quick Star beer.

The Gutter Ball

There is a single bowling alley in all of Ghana, and I’ve been dying to go to it for many years. But, I’ve come to the realization that dying is not all its cracked up to be, and neither is bowling. We all trooped over to Harbin Entertainment Center one fine Sunday morning, everyone with a clean pair of socks at the ready to go bowling. My friend Leslie had been there a few months ago and she really enjoyed it, as she said in her blog post. I guess I didn’t read her blog post too closely though – got caught up in the great pictures – because I’d have noticed that she said something about how expensive bowling is in Ghana. I vaguely remember reading 8 GHC but not the specifics. Let me tell you, it’s all about the specifics. We get to the bowling alley and there are a dozen lanes all unoccupied. The Chinese guy behind the counter wants to take down our names for the computer because it’s all computerized. Cool. Sly (thank God for Sly) asks the guy, “So how much are the games?” And the Chinese guy says 8 GHC. Each. “So,” I say, “excuse me, don’t you mean for each game?” And he says, “No, each person is 8 GHC for each game.” Now, I’m not a math whiz, but I can tally up 4 people at 8 GHC pretty quickly to get my answer: NO WAY IN HELL!

I really felt bad – the kids so wanted to bowl, and poor Mike had to hand back the shoes (he already had his sneakers off even), but I just could not justify 32 GHC for a single game of bowling. I even argued that the internet “said” it was per game, but he said no they’d changed that. No wonder there was no one bowling. No one can afford it! I’ve bowled at Madison Square Garden and it was less money than that.

So we headed out the door, with three very sorry kids in tow. Then, out of nowhere, Mike spots flashing lights and hears bells. He goes to investigate. Ta da! A game room! Just like in America! Well, not really, but enough to hold their attention for a while and distract them from the pain of not being able to bowl. Sly breaks a 10 GHC note and gives each of the kids the special coins to play. Sean heads straight to the driving game, Mike is shooting hoops and Alex is on one of those dancing thingamajigs.

I walk over to the other side where there are some casino-type one-armed bandits. Only these have funnier names than the boring old Lucky 7s machines; how about Crazy Monkye (sic) and Lucky Haunter (Hunter? I didn’t see a ghost or a gun anywhere, but there were some guys drinking beer and wearing lederhosen on the front)? I’d have thrown a coin or two in just to test my luck (yes, Mike gets the gambling bug from me, I’ll fess up here) but it was minimum bet $10. If I wasn’t going to pay GHC 8 for bowling, there’s no way I’m going to fork over $10 for a single bet. If I want to bet I’m going to La Palm where the one-armed bandits take American dimes and the maximum bet is ninety cents!

So, after playing in the games section for nearly an hour, the kids blew at least 32 GHC, but they didn’t complain when we left that it wasn’t enough. They were satisfied and happy, and that’s enough for me.

Ghanaian Must-See Television

2009-07-15T06:50:00.000-07:00

Ghana television has come a long way since my first visit to Ghana, back in 1990. Then, there was only a single television station and it only broadcast for 3 hours, from 7:00 p.m. through 10:00 p.m. or thereabouts.

Over the years, broadcasting has grown in Ghana to the point where we now enjoy 24 hour television, and have access to BBC, CNN and recently, Aljazeera. We’ve also got a lot more channels – we’ve got GTV, TV3, Metro TV, Crystal TV, TV Africa, Net1 and Viasat 1.

It’s really wonderful (to some extent) that we can watch television sitcoms from the U.S., the U.K. or South Africa, including perennial favorites like the Cosby Show, Everyone Hates Chris, the Bernie Mack Show, Hanging with Mr. Cooper (sensing a theme again, eh?) and Friends (we are a diverse people, after all). We also get “newer” shows like CSI Miami and Las Vegas (which sadly, just ended – I so prefer Grissom to that Caine guy, ever since David Caruso dropped his drawers and bared his butt to the world on NYPD Blue I’ve disliked him – what a sorry looking ass that was! And no, I won’t post a picture. Even I’ve got my limitations. But if you’ve got a strong stomach, follow the link). The more recent forensic crime drama Bones is on every Saturday night, which my boys beg to stay up and watch (though try as I might I can’t get them interested in the Kathy Reichs books – which the television show can’t hold a candle to, in my opinion).

And, of course, we get nature shows with David Attenborough and reality television shows like American Idol (season 5 just finished out) and Sports Science (the boys LOVE this show) and historical documentaries from the U.S. about civil rights and from South Africa (Shaka Zulu).

Soap operas fit into a whole ‘nother category. We get them from all over the world – China, Japan, Mexico, South Africa, India, Nigeria – even from Ghana. And not all of them are in English, nor are they dubbed, so you better be really quick to read the captions. Oddly, even on some American or English movies they’re captioned. And let me tell you, in some cases, the captioning is absolutely hysterical. I don’t even listen to what’s being said, just because it’s too much fun watching the interpretation.

It’s also funny, and a bit odd, that a lot of the movies that are being broadcast seem to be the same ones that we’ve got in our DVD collection. The kids swear that someone is stealing our DVDs. Even our crappy movies (Popeye with Robin Williams, for instance) are being shown on Ghana television. But there are also good movies, recent releases and lots of old Hollywood favorites.

Take today, for instance. I turned on the television at about 11:45 and spotted Gene Kelly’s face staring out at me. Now I’ve been a Gene Kelly fan since way back, and there was no way I was gonna switch him off. So I waited a few seconds to try and figure out what it was – an American in Paris! I love that movie! Granted, I haven’t watched it in probably a quarter century, but really, Gene Kelly is timeless. So I hunkered down and watched only to realize that it was essentially the finale – you know the scene where Gene imagines he’s dancing through the streets of Gay Paree with Leslie Caron, even though in actuality she’s traveling with her fiancé (whom she doesn’t love) to get married. Now, I happen to know that the movie ends on a happy note, when a car horn blows and Gene comes out of his reverie to find Leslie Caron returning to him.

Sadly, the Ghanaians watching An American in Paris for the first time will never ever ever find out that this movie had a happy ending.

“Why” you ask? That’s a very good question. I wish I knew the answer. Almost without fail, the last five minutes of every single movie are cut off for a station break and then the next television program begins. Talk about frustrating! In fact, I think it’s nothing short of evil.

Perhaps the programming director doesn’t understand the importance of those last five minutes of a movie, when everything is finally made clear. When you learn who the killer was or whether the guy got the girl or the lost dog found his way home or the whale was finally freed or the little girl was adopted.

I’d like to show them how important is the final minutes with an analogy. Say the Ghana Black Stars are playing in the World Cup finals against Brazil. After the second half the score is tied 2-2. Injury time has been taken and the score remains unchanged. They go into extra time. After 30 minutes the score remains 2-2. So there’s a shoot out.

Ghana goes first… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes wild.)

Brazil goes… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd groans.)

Ghana takes their second kick… MISS! (The Ghanaian crowd gasps.)

Brazil takes their second… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd starts praying.)

Ghana takes their third shot… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes wild again.)

Brazil takes their third… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes into shock and starts praying anew.)

Ghana takes their fourth shot… ♪♫♪ Drink delicious and nutritious Healthilife, Healthilife Grow! ♪♫♪ Tom and Jerry theme music begins to play. ♪♫♪ (The Ghanaian crowd gets ready to stage a coup.)

Five minutes. That’s all I ask.

President Obama:Thank you for an amazing 10 seconds

2009-07-12T01:35:00.000-07:00

By now, the President and Mrs. Obama and children are nestled, all snug in their beds, with visions of dancing Ghanaians in their heads. What a whirlwind! Twenty-four hours in Ghana and I’m amazed at the Obama family’s energy. I’m exhausted just watching them.

And watch them we did. Yesterday morning, we left Tema for Osu at 6:30 a.m. to get the bird’s eye view of the presidential motorcade. Even at that early hour, the police presence along the route that the president was expected to take was serious. It seemed every few feet you’d see another stern-faced cop. It was rumored that more than 10,000 police would be available for this event. I think they were all in Accra. This picture with 5 Ghanaian police officers was taken before 9:00 a.m. but the number of police grew as it got later.

I had expected that we would have a front row seat and I was wrong. The U-turn that takes the president to La General Hospital (formerly La Polyclinic, but upgraded to hospital status over the past few years) is not beyond our Osu family house. There’s another U-turn first! I forgot completely (since we always take the second U-turn to get to the family house). Oh well, it’s only a 100 feet or so.

But that’s a problem for the old lady, aka Zerb, aka Sly’s 89-year old mother. Sly did his best convincing that she should come and watch history in the making. She hasn’t been out of her house in decades I think (only kidding, she comes out every few months or so for church and every few weeks ago for doctors appointments) so she took a lot of convincing. But finally, with the decision made for Sly to drive the first 50 feet, and Sly's sister Paulina to help her along the other 50 feet, here came Zerb.

Zerb, Paulina and Alex

We had already talked to the police officers (that's Officer Oppong above) along the route where we intended to stay and told them we’d be bringing grandma to watch, and they were very sweet to suggest a place to park her, and shooing others out of her way when they blocked her view.

But we weren’t privy to exactly when the president would be coming, so we moved into position at 9:15 and waited. The crowd was non-existent when we first walked over, but grew in dribs and drabs. Perfect chance for a family photo.

Me, Paulina, Alex, Sly, Mike and Sean with Zerb seated

People were wearing Obama tee shirts (some of which were really stretched to the limit), or wearing special Obama cloth made into kaba and slit or simply carrying American and Ghanaian flags.

Ghanaian with an Obama shirt (stretched to the max)

Finally, the hawkers were around selling their Obama-wear souvenirs; I convinced Sly (not too hard, the wallet was freely opening) to buy handkerchiefs with both presidents printed on it. The ladies (except for me), all used it as do-rags, and the boys all used it bandito-style.

Do-ragged Alex, Zerb, Paulina and Comfort

Banditos Sly, Mike and Sean

At around 10:00 a.m. the activity picked up, we heard cannon fire in the distance – it was a salute for President Obama at the Osu Castle, about a mile away. Then Black Hawk helicopters began circling the area, with a strategically placed watchers (dare I say it, gulp, snipers?) in the open door. Then secret service-driven vehicles with sniffer dogs arrived and the agents let the dog out for a quick sniff (pee?) and they were back on their way. We were situated right at the point where the Beast would be U-turning, so it would have to slow down a lot. Maybe that’s why the dog came out. No problem, it was only seconds before the dog was back in the end, and my dim-witted fingers weren’t quick enough to take a shot of the German Shepherd before he was back in the van; all I got was the tail end (literally and figuratively).

Black hawk helicopter (with sniper?)

Tail end of Secret Service dog

The crowds continued to thicken, and more and more hawkers came by with their wares, generally food or Obama-related. We bought American flags for the kids to wave (made in China, by the way) at 1 GHC each, as well as a bunch of bananas and some ice cream.

Obama shirts for sale, coming and going

Banana picking

One Cedi each!

Alex made up a sign on the back of a piece of paper that said BARACK OBAMA, WELCOME TO GHANA in washable marker. And grandma got into the flag waving act.

Welcoming sign

Patriotic Grandma

Finally, a Ghanaian police officer in a Jeep drove by and signaled that the motorcade would be coming momentarily. Then another came by and yelled at our police officers to push us out of the way that we were too close to the U-turn. Hell, we’d been here for 2 hours and I was not giving up this space easily. I saw the owner of the property behind us (certainly a Bangladeshi if I ever saw one), and asked him if we could stand in his easement to avoid eviction. No problem. He was as excited as us. But not necessary, because the motorcade was coming and there was no time for movement of any kind. My fingers were ready to shoot. Sean had the other camera set in video mode and we were both anxious to go.

First the Ghanaian motorcycle escorts with their sirens blaring, then a Ghanaian police patrol, then a limo with Secret Service, and then, at long last, the Beast!! It was slowing down right in front of us. And there he was! President Obama was waving at us and smiling through the tinted windows (which, alas, you can’t see from the pictures – but believe me, he was there. He was there!). People were shouting and screaming and waving their flags.

Ghanaian motorcycle escorts

Ghana police patrol followed by Secret Service car

The Beast (get out of the way, lady!)

It was the most awesome 10 seconds I’ve spent in a long time. It was sooooo cool.

And then he was gone.

But man, while he was here, was it ever neat?

The President of the United States... Now and Later!

2009-07-10T03:46:00.000-07:00

In a few hours time, Air Force One will touch down at Kotoka International Airport and President and Mrs. Obama and the Obama children will walk down the steps into the history books. I know, I know… what’s the big deal? We’ve already had two American presidents here before. Both Clinton and Bush made forays into Ghana during their respective terms of office. But this visit by an American president is different. Because this is one my American-born children can relate to, in more ways than one.

We would love for our children to get a glimpse of history in the making, and we are going to try our darnedest to be somewhere close to where the President will be while he is in Ghana. We have learned that he will be paying a visit to La General Hospital in Accra, a few blocks away from the Zigah family residence in South Labadi Estates in Osu. The family home is situated directly on the main road, so you can bet your bottom U.S. Dollar (or Ghana Cedi, for that matter) that we will be outside of that house waiting for the Beast to roll by. Even if it means that we have to wake up before God to get there (and before the roads are closed, of course).

We will wave and yell and cheer when the presidential motorcade passes, and hope that he may notice out his window the three children who are “different” than the rest of the people surrounding them (but certainly, not different from President Obama). Let me tell you something: One of those children is destined for the White House. I can feel it. Remember the picture of a young Bill Clinton shaking the hands of President John F. Kennedy? What were the odds? Well, this will be that kind of photo opportunity, so if you’re anywhere nearby Osu, have your camera handy.

Sean C.K. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2032

Michael P.K. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2036

Alexandra G.A. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2040
(she can actually run in 2036, but let's give Michael a shot, eh?)

All this, of course, is provided that we can even get to Osu. You see, Ghana is still Ghana. The visit by POTUS is not going to change that. We’re still going to have all of the problems that face a developing country – crumbling infrastructure, corruption, illiteracy, child abuse, health-care issues, etc., etc. Today, the problem – at least as it applies to us – is a fuel shortage. There is absolutely no gas (petrol, they call it here) to be had, anywhere in Tema or Accra. I can’t even back my car out of the gate to hang my laundry much less drive the van into Osu.

So, there may very well be no opportunity for our children to see history in the making. At least, not in person. Thank God for television and the internet. Of course, that only works if there’s electricity coursing through the lines. Lights off, anyone?

Somewhere, not far from here

2009-07-07T08:08:00.001-07:00

Yesterday, I was tagged by a friend on Facebook to read an article in the Daily Guide, one of Ghana’s newspapers. The article reports the death of an 8-year old girl who died, allegedly, from a caning she received from her teacher for doing poorly in a mental exercise.

I am at once saddened and angered that these kinds of things still continue to happen here in Ghana. I just did a google search and was horrified to learn that the Ghana Education Service has never “officially” banned caning in schools. Headmasters are allowed to use their discretion to administer 6 lashes of the cane.

My children, all of whom attend a quasi-private school here in Tema, have a fear of the lash or the cane or the “black beauty” as one teacher quaintly referred to a hard lengthy piece of black rubber. Sean has been caned, and I came to know of it after the fact, when he reported that the headmistress of the school (his previous one in Accra) caned him and another student for playing football on the balcony. He told me that he protected himself by wearing “armor” beneath his school shorts, i.e. several pairs of underpants and boxer shorts. Funny, right? Not at all.

One of the questions we always ask when we apply to a school is about their position on caning and corporal punishment. Invariably, they all deny that they use it as a means of discipline. Granted, my children have not been “caned” at SOS. They have, however, been subjected to various other forms of punishment including being made to kneel down on gravel with their arms upheld over their heads for an undetermined length of time, having to clean the (absolutely disgusting) bathrooms or the gutters or having to march in the hot equatorial sun.

Gee, I know it was a long time ago that I was in public school – 1966 through 1979 – but I can’t recall ever being punished in any manner such as these. Yes, I had to stand in the corner or wear a piece of gum on my nose or write lines over and over again. I was no angel – a goody-two-shoes, perhaps – but certainly not an angel. Nonetheless, no teacher ever laid a hand on me, or forced me to do manual labor (other than cleaning a blackboard, of course).

Caning a child because she was doing poorly in her dictation and mental… I still can’t believe that. What if she wasn’t feeling well? Perhaps she was malarial, or had slept poorly the night before, or hadn’t eaten and was merely hungry and distracted? Or what if – shocker – she was just not a good student?

Herein lies the crux of the whole caning issue. The continuing misguided belief of ignorant people that discipline and punishment is the only way to ensure that a child excels in school. Nothing about reward or encouragement or nurturing or empowerment. Nothing about doing your personal best. It’s all about being “the” best. Being number one.

News flash! We.Can’t.All.Be.Number.One.

I will probably anger a lot of Ghanaian parents because, if they went through the school system here, it may be what they continue to believe. They all feel that they lived through it (relatively unscathed), and so should their children. Heck, my husband still believes it, and it is probably the primary cause of stress in our marriage.

Not that long ago, Mrs. Anna Bossman, the Acting Commissioner of CHRAJ (Commission on Human Rights and Administrative Justice) visited a public school to talk to children about child abuse. I am sure that this case will be brought to her attention and, knowing her as I do, that she will take a firm stand and bring this matter to resolution. Let’s hope the Ghana Education Service does, too.

Of course, there will be no resolution for a mother and father who are today making plans to bury their child. There may be closure, but that’s little comfort.

Somewhere, not far from here, a mother is crying. She shouldn’t have to be.

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

2009-06-29T03:36:00.001-07:00

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

2009-06-17T02:41:00.000-07:00

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

2009-06-11T05:40:00.000-07:00

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.

2009-06-06T00:03:00.000-07:00

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.

Korle Bu revisited. And revisited again.

2009-05-29T07:42:00.000-07:00

The other day, I was talking to Eric, Sly’s best friend, who called to see how Mike was doing. The first words out of his mouth were, “Man, and I thought Mike was Superman.” You know, we all did. But apparently, Mike’s kryptonite is a little thing called grass. Well, that’s my opinion anyway. Let me begin the story.

On Monday, May 18th, I went to the kids’ school to pick up Alex. Mike saw me and came running over (to get more money, as usual). He was covered in grass clippings, and explained that the PE teacher had assigned him and some other kids to help rake up the football pitch. He begged me to take him home, even though he still had another 2 hours of school. I wonder now if I had taken him home, if it might have prevented what happened later. Anyway, I didn’t take him home just then, and he kept on picking up grass. Later when he got home, he had a shower and showed me how there were even clipping inside his high top sneakers.

Friday

Fast forward to Friday, May 22nd. The kids don’t have school, and Mike wakes up a bit later than normal but comes out complaining about the mosquitoes in his room, and that “daddy” should spray when he comes home from work. Sure enough, he’s got about half a dozen bites on his back. Or so I thought. A few hours later, I see him squirming in the chair, and the bites have now spread over his back and around to his stomach. Obviously, they’re not bites; it’s a rash of some sort. I tell him to take another shower and give him a Benadryl. The rash gets worse as the day progresses.

Saturday

Saturday comes early, because at 5:00 a.m. Sly is waking me up because Mike’s rash is worse – its up into his neck and face and spreading down his legs and arms – and his hands and wrists are swollen. We decide to take him to our family doctor and head out. Mike’s not his usual jovial self, just sitting quietly in the car. We find we’ve arrived to the doctor’s office too early and we have to go sit somewhere to kill time.

Time killed, we’re back at the doctor’s office and are now second in line to see the doc. But, guess what? This is Ghana, and even doctors run on Ghana time. The office is supposed to open at 10:00 a.m. The doctor finally arrives around 11ish. When we finally go in, it’s a new doctor that we’ve never seen before. He has Mike sit in the chair next to him and without even touching him, or listening to his heart, or asking him to even remove his freaking shirt, the doctor declares: “It’s an allergy.” Let me tell you, it took all of my resolve not to yell out, “No shit.” At that point, Sly comes in to the room and the doctor quickly whips out his stethoscope to listen to Mike’s heart beat. Big deal.

Still declaring the allergy, he briefly interrogates us for new food that could be causing it but really, Mike hasn’t eaten anything different, with the exception of these little coffee creamers that I recently bought (you know, like the kind you get in restaurants with your coffee). He loves these things, and drank one on Wednesday and another on Thursday. He would probably have had more, but they cost me a fortune and I wouldn’t let him. Anyway, doc says he’ll put Mike on something called tab cetrizine and “personally” give him a hydrocortisone shot. Then we’re summarily dismissed. Oh, the doc did mention that if we didn’t see improvement, that we might want to come back on Monday to see the regular doctor. That left us with a warm and fuzzy. NOT.

Twenty minutes pass before we give up on the “personal” touch and beg a nurse to give Mike the injection. Then home we go.

Sunday

Sunday morning is another early day. Mike wakes up Sly because now his face is all swollen (really he looked like Marlon Brando in the Godfather!), his hands and wrists are still swollen, and the rash is red and itchy and spreading to the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. With a call in to Dr. Renner (Alex’s pediatrician) we’re off to Korle Bu emergency ward.

The stuff that you have got to go through to be seen at Korle Bu is mind boggling. Fortunately, the call to Dr. Renner paved the way, and she gave us the names of the doctors to ask for. Even more fortunate, I spotted one of the residents who is training in endocrinology and she guided us through the maze.

First, you have to buy a folder from the folder man. Cost GHC 3.
Second, you bring the folder to the folder desk, where a woman completes a history and contact information sheet.
Third, you see a nurse who takes your temperature and logs in your weight. Cost 10 pesawas.

Finally, you track down a doctor. We got lucky because Sly was regaling some of the residents with the story of the lazy/apathetic/couldn’t-be-bothered doctor we’d seen the day before, so that set the stage for a very thorough examination.

The diagnosis remained the same: Allergy to “something.” But the treatment was admission, with regular hydrocortisone injections and a drip (because Mike wasn’t eating – surprise surprise!), and continuation of the cetrizine (which I discovered is – ta da! – Zyrtec).

Mike is so not a happy camper. He’s weak, his legs can hardly hold him, his face is fatter and puffier than normal and his rash is itching like crazy. We take him up to the ward and we get our “favorite” room: The Amenity Ward.

The Amenity Ward looks just the same, except for one major improvement: the addition of a television! Yippee! Give Mike a TV and a couple of 40-year old cartoons and he’s as happy as a pig in doo doo. Who cares if he’s got a needle stuck in his arm? “Get out of the way! Tom and Jerry’s on!”

So Mike is on a drip, getting hydrocortisone injections every 6 hours and they’ve given him an injection of adrenaline to counteract the rash. Fun, right?

Now we had not prepared for an overnight stay, and there was no way we could go home and bring stuff back, so we had to make do with what we had. Sly and Sean stayed and kept him company and Alex and I drove back home.

Sly had to do a lot of running around. As I’ve said in my older Korle Bu blogs, the parent is the nurse, and the dietician and the janitor. So Sly had to go up and down the 66 steps at least 5 or 6 times, until Mike was settled in for the night. On the list of stuff to buy: Bowls, spoons, washcloth, toothbrushes, toothpaste, water, juice, snacks, phone cards, etc. By the time Mike was settled in for the night, I bet Sly was ready to fall out from exhaustion.

Monday

Mike’s been off the drip, but continued to get the hydrocortisone shots through the port, and he is feeling better. They are all anxious to go home, and the doctors give the approval, since the rash seems to be subsiding and the swelling has diminished. They give us a prescription for Prednisone to continue at home. At about 4:00 p.m. we’re signed out and ready. But there’s a catch. They don’t have the bill that we have to pay before we’re permitted to leave. And, oh, the billing office is closed. Sly, of course, doesn’t stand for that kind of crap, so he calls Dr. Renner and tells her we’re all leaving and he’ll be back the next day to settle up the bill. The nurse warns Sly that the guards might prevent us from going, and he shoots her a “what are you, stupid?” look. We leave. Unaccosted. We’re home by 8:00 p.m. and hit the hay, all of us exhausted.

Tuesday

Mike isn’t any better. The swelling is back in full force. He can hardly see through his eyes, they’re so puffy and slitted. We drop the kids off at school, Sly off at work and Mike and I head back to the hospital. We call Dr. Renner (who is, by the way, supposed to be on holiday) and she says she’ll alert the ward that we’re on our way back.

Yup, you guessed right. We’re readmitted, and Mike is put back on the hydrocortisone injection and they double his Zyrtec and once he complained of tightness in his throat, but I gave him a puff on my inhaler and that helped immediately. Over the course of the day, he slowly got better, but we still had to stay overnight.

Again, we didn’t plan for an overnight. I had on a long linen dress – not the most comfortable thing to sleep in, believe me. And we had to buy more bowls, more washcloths, more toothbrushes and toothpaste. And this time Mommy had to go prowling through the neighborhood for sardines and kenkey and waakye. I’m sure that was a funny sight – the tall obroni in the heavily wrinkled dress standing in the waakye line.

Wednesday

We’re released. Mike looks better, the rash has stopped spreading and the swelling is no worse than it was the day before. No better either, but no worse. Sly is declaring that the bill better be ready before we go and that we’re leaving at 1:00 p.m. sharp. Well, that spurs them into action, a little bit, but by 1:30 we’re still empty handed. The woman in the other bed with her infant son tells us that another patient who was discharged waited nearly 8 hours for her bill, then went to the billing office, dashed the clerk something and she had the bill within the hour. Sly does not dash. Sly gets angry. Then Sly leaves.

And that’s what we did. We left the building without paying and went home.

Here it is Friday and Mike is still home with us. I’ve gotten on the internet to do my own investigation and I learn that Benadryl is better than Zyrtec, because it works faster and is more “powerful” so we’ve been giving that to Mike instead and it’s helped a lot. We decided to give him the Prednisone last night before bed, and that kept the swelling at bay.

Now, there are a couple of complaints about joint pain in his shoulder and legs, but I’m not taking him back to Korle Bu. We’ve had enough for this year. Let’s hope.

Providence: Break down

2009-05-15T05:08:00.001-07:00

Break down isn’t exactly the right wording. Better it should be called the “break off,” ‘cause that’s what happened. Yesterday, Sly calls to tell me that the SOS school called him because Alexandra forgot her PE clothes. It was just after 1:00 p.m. anyway, and she gets out at 2:00 so I tell him I’ll bring it and just wait for her to close. I hop in the car and she’s waiting there already for the uniform handover.

At 2:00 she’s eager and ready to leave, and I decide we’ll head over to the butcher shop in Community 10 (11? I never can keep track of these communities) and buy some luncheon meat. It’s really mystery meat, but my kids like it and it fries up a little like Taylor ham, so it’s worth the trip. We leave and head home. At the intersection that we’d normally cross, the traffic light isn’t working and the cars on the primary road NEVER give the cars on the secondary road a chance to come through. There’s no such thing as a 4-way stop or all flashing red traffic light. It’s more like every man for himself.

Well, I’m behind a van who is dilly dallying at the intersection, and I decide to make a right turn and go to the next traffic light and then make a left. Normally, I’d go straight across, but this just seemed easier. As I get to the intersection the light is red for me, so I move into the left land and put my turn signal on. Now, I might have mentioned this before, but Ghanaian drivers generally don’t understand the concept of driving courteously. It really is dog-eat-dog on the streets of Tema. But I spot my chance, as a big white 18 wheeler is slowly approaching the light and I know there’s just enough time for me to make the turn in front of him.

And then. THUNK. Make, that a very loud THUNK. And the car doesn’t move. Fortunately, we didn’t move even an inch forward, so I wasn’t in the lane of oncoming traffic, but I was pretty frighteningly close. I couldn’t move the car at all. Another car makes a turn in front of me, and the female driver (who turns out to be an SOS parent with an SOS kid in the back of her car) tells me that something fell off the car. I resist the urge to yell “D’oh!” Another driver in a pick-up also motions that something fell, and I yell out to him, “Can you help me get out of the intersection?”

Miracle of miracles. He stops and gets out. He is going to push me and Alex, in our big-ass mini van, through the traffic light. One thing about Ghanaians, they can really rally to help in an emergency. Within minutes, there were 6 guys helping to push the car through the intersection; one of them ran back and grabbed the thing that had fallen off the car and handed it to me through the open window.

Meanwhile, I’m screaming at Alex to take my cell phone and “Call Daddy!” I know I don’t have enough units to call him for more than a few seconds; I’ve only got about 35 pesawas worth of credit. But Sly picks up and I shout that it’s an emergency and he should call me back. Seconds later, I’m yelling (my adrenaline was really kicking into high gear at this point) that the “shaft” fell off the car and I’m stuck and that a bunch of guys are pushing us to a safe spot.

Sly is somewhat directionally challenged, so it takes a couple of minutes for him to understand exactly where I am but eventually he figures it out. He assures me he’ll send Ekow and call the mechanic and that he’s on his way.

The guys who pushed me are still hanging around, and I know they’re waiting for a tip or something. But the fact is I am flat broke. I’ve got a single cedi to my name, plus half a kilo of mystery meat and 4 melting fruit juice bars. I doubt that that is going to go over big. Instead, I get out and offer firm handshakes and giant thank yous all around and that, fortunately, suffices. They all scatter to the four winds.

Did I mention that Alex was low at this point? We had tested her blood sugar only minutes before, and fortunately, there are a couple of juice bars turning into a puddle, so she’s at least got sustenance. But her diabetes and sugar levels are just another complication to add to my increasing stress level.

Ten minutes later, Ekow pulls up and runs back to the car, heading toward the driver’s side. I guess Sly neglected to tell him about the broken shaft. When he sees that, his eyes roll back into his head and he realizes that the car ain’t going anywhere. A minute later, the mechanic pulls up. He sees it’s the shaft and he’s not happy. You see, that shaft was just put into the car – by him – less than 2 weeks ago. So what happened?

We’re only 10 minutes away from the house (on foot) and Alex has now got a juice bar and a juice box in her system – definitely more than enough sugar – so we leave the driver and mechanic and head home.

Alex, who is definitely wiser than her 8 years, says to me, “It could have been worse.” Yes, it really could have. I could have been on the Motorway doing 65 mph when the shaft broke. Or I could have made that left hand turn in front of the 18 wheeler and stopped dead right in front of him. Or or or or or… there’s a lot of ors to this one.

This intersection appears to have it in for me. It’s the same one we were at when the taxi we were riding in broke down last year. Apparently, though, my guardian angel was with me, yet again. Thank God.

Stuck, then Star Struck, in Ghana

2009-05-07T06:55:00.000-07:00

I’m a huge fan of X-Men. The movies, I mean, not the comic books. Yes, they’ve all got a great plot, neat-o special effects and terrific actors. But Hugh Jackman just makes my blood run hot. Dang, that man is all of that! You better believe that when I saw that X-Men Origins: Wolverine was listed as playing at the Silverbird Theatre in the Accra Mall (the only real movie theatre in all of Ghana, by the way), I was going to be there! And let me tell you how exciting it is to have actual first run movies playing here in Ghana! Oh yes, we can get DVDs of new movies only days after they’re released elsewhere in the world, but they’ve all got Chinese subtitles and the audio never quite meshes with the video. It’s really not the same.

So, the plan was, me and the kiddies would go on Monday to the 10:25 a.m. showing, because it’s least crowded and then afterward we could cruise around the mall a bit. Early (6:45) that morning, hubby called Ekow, our taxi driver, and gave him instructions to pick us up at the house by 9:00 a.m. sharp. A tad on the early side, I know, but you have to give Ghanaian taxi drivers some leeway, because no matter what time you tell them you need them by, they are going to be late.

By 9:00 a.m., we were all packed and ready and my kids were getting antsy. (They love a good movie, too.) Then at 9:15 (note the time well, please) my cell phone rang.

Me: Hello

Ekow: Madam, it’s Ekow. I’m going to be late.

Me: "You're already late" and "What else is new?" were the two responses that immediately came to mind, but I held back. Ekow, where are you now?

Ekow: Well, I had to take a passenger to Legon, so I’m on the Motorway now. I’m about 15 minutes from you.

Me: Where exactly on the Motorway are you?

Ekow: Well, I’m near the roundabout.

Me: Which roundabout?

Ekow: The Tetteh Quarshie roundabout. (Which is the other side of the Motorway, and I’m asking him this because the Accra Mall – which is where we’re headed – is about 200 yards from the Tetteh Quarshie roundabout.)

Me: So have you paid the toll yet?

Ekow: Well, I’m not exactly on the Motorway yet. I’m in Legon on the road to the Motorway.

Me: Oh.

Ekow: There’s a lot of traffic. (Again, so what else is new?) But I’ll be there in 15 minutes. (Only if he's got a helicopter. Legon is about 35 minutes away from us in zero traffic, so I don’t think so.)

Me: Ekow, forget about picking us up. We had a specific time that we had to be at the Accra Mall and you will not be able to get here in time. Just pull into the mall parking lot and wait for us.

======================

Yeah, I know, I could have waited for him, and we could have gone to a later showing, but really, I am so sick and tired of disappointing the kids because of someone else's indifference. So, we rushed out of the house and flagged down a taxi. Of course, that wasn’t difficult because as soon as we stepped through the gate, taxi drivers started honking their horn (“Oh look, a rich obroni! Beep! Beep! Beep!”). The lucky taxi driver tells me it will be GHC 12 to take us to the mall. I counter with GHC 10, since I had just asked Ekow this question before we hung up. Grumbling, lucky driver accepts GHC 10. Good, because I’m sure there’s some other taxi driver understudy waiting in the wings.

Lucky taxi driver gets us to the mall by 10:00 a.m., so we’ve got a little time to kill before we go up to the movie theatre. Our intent is to not buy at the theatre concession stand, because just like in America, it’s a freaking rip-off. We head over to Shop Rite and buy nice cold sodas that I carry (hide) in my purse. I always travel with a pretty big bag, so at least I don’t look conspicuous.

Up we go to the theatre and pay our GHC 31 – American movie, American prices, my friends. GHC 10 for me and GHC 7 for each of the kids. No bargain matinee deal at all. We’re ready, except for one thing: Popcorn! The machine is being repaired. This is a problem. My kids enjoy the popcorn equally as much as the movie, and without it, it’s just like, well, like staying home! I’m assured by the Ghanaian manager of the concession stand that the popcorn machine will be working any minute now. Oh, boy. I don’t even want to try to interpret “any minute now” for my kids.

We head on up to our seats (popcorn-less) and find that it’s just the four of us in the whole theatre. A few minutes pass and three girls come in (and it turns out that they’re from the same school as my kids – small world, huh?!) Then an older obroni gentleman takes a seat. The 10:25 a.m. showing of Wolverine Origins had all of eight people in it.

We’re sitting there pulling out our (illicit, non-theatre-purchased) sodas when all of a sudden – LIGHTS OUT!! The theatre went pitch black. No lights on the floor to lead us out, no emergency lighting system activated, no nothing. Pitch.Black. After a few minutes, a lantern is brought in and placed on the bottom step. Yeah, that helps. Not.

Alex and I make our way down to the lobby to check on the popcorn progress. Nothing. Because the popcorn machine runs on electric and there’s LIGHTS OUT! Back up into the heat and gloom to our seats. Finally, after about ten minutes, the lights come back on, the air conditioner cranks up and the previews start to roll.

Now, if we’d been in America we would have been treated to at least half a dozen previews, and then, maybe then, the popcorn would be ready before the movie started. As it is, we get only two previews, and then the movie begins. And just as the music starts, the popcorn smell wafts up from the lobby. And the kids start the litany, “Mom, we want our popcorn.” And lucky mom gets to miss the whole first seven minutes of Wolverine's origin while buying 4 little (expensive) bags of popcorn. Oh well, I guess I’ll watch for the pirated DVD version on the streets. Heck, it’ll be cheaper than buying another movie ticket!

On second thought, Hugh Jackman on the big screen, in all his glory (and yes, it was all pretty glorious, especially the waterfall scene)… hmmm… maybe GHC 10 isn’t so much money after all. (Note to self: Next time, remember to bring binoculars for said waterfall scene.) And maybe I’ll still buy the DVD… for the kids.

Mangiare! Dede! Eat!

2009-04-28T00:32:00.000-07:00

My kids and I love pizza. When we were back in the States it wasn’t unusual to order a couple of cheese pizzas every week. It was lovely not to have to cook, and to actually have someone bring something hot and gooey and cheesy right to our front door.

Alas, fast forward 5+ years, and pizza delivery is no more. Ghana has pizza, if that’s what you want to call it, but it’s not the same as a good ol’ Jersey pie – or even a Maryland pie for that matter. One place that we've gone to -- Rendezvous in Tema -- has something that they call pizza and my kids (okay, not Sean, who knows better) will eat it if we order it, but I absolutely refuse to order their pepperoni pizza. A sliced up hot dog (from a can, mind you) is absolutely not a suitable substitute for pepperoni to this Jersey girl.

So, in the interest of gastric satisfaction, I had no choice but to learn to make pizza myself. It has been a lot of trial and error, because while you can get the mozzarella cheese here (at the whopping price of GHC 7 or about $7 for a less than ½ lb. wedge), the sauce has either got to be homemade or a little jar of Ragu sauce (equivalent $3.50) from the local (rip-off) supermarket, Evergreen. Generally, its cheaper for me to make homemade sauce, fresh tomatoes being relatively inexpensive, but some days I just don't have hours to spare and when its like that, I fork over the GHC 3.50 and suppress the guilt over the astronomical expense.

But, as every pizza connoisseur knows, it’s the crust that makes or breaks a pizza. No, we don’t have Boboli here, or any of these ready-made pizza kits that you can buy during fund raisers (what I wouldn’t give for the convenience of one of those, though). You can buy some kind of doughy thing that is supposed to turn into a pizza crust, but in my experience (and my oven), it hasn’t yet become something edible.

So, off I went to the world of recipes in search of a good one for pizza dough. And where should I find one, but in this odd little recipe book from the United Kingdom entitled Great Chicken Dishes! Now, my kids are not much for smoked chicken anything, so the recipe for Smoked Chicken, Yellow Pepper & Sun-dried Tomato Pizzettte wasn't going to go down (figuratively or literally) with them. But the pizzette dough recipe sounded doable and I had all of the ingredients already -- flour, salt, yeast, olive oil and lukewarm water (well, yesterday, at least, we had water). With some modifications – addition of oregano, pepper flakes and garlic powder – it was pretty easy and ultimately delish, if I do say so myself. Throw some sliced pepperoni on top (real pepperoni, not canned hot dogs), and it actually looks like a pizza!

Just wait till I open up my own restaurant here, starring homemade pizza! I’ll have ‘em (the obronis, that is) beating down my door. In the meantime – for those of you in Ghana looking for the “real” deal (as opposed to Pizza Inn), you’ll just have to come on over to my house. You're invited!

We're official! We're on Google Earth.

2009-03-23T03:05:00.000-07:00

Courtesy Google Earth, taken some time in 2008.

Well, we made it onto Google Earth. Or should I say our Dawhenya house has made it onto Google Earth. Finally.

Dawhenya house, from the front, taken March 22, 2009.

As some of you may know, while we’re living here in Ghana, we’re building our “dream villa” – a 14 room home located in the Tema suburb of Dawhenya or Dawenya, depending on which signpost you're passing. In any event, its a part of the Prampram tribal area. When we first bought the property, oh about 15 years ago or so, we bought each plot for the equivalent of $50. Each plot measures 100 x 80 and we bought 8 plots. Combined, the lot is just shy of an acre of land. About 5 years ago, a developer bought a boat load of land nearby and began readying the property for housing. They started selling the individual plots – land only, no improvements – for $15,000 a plot. That was priced in USD, by the way. You do the math.

So, we’ve been diligently working on our property, but the truth is it’s a very slow process. We do what we can when we have the money to do it. Just recently, we finished putting terrazzo down in the entire house. We figured it was a lot cheaper than trying to tile the property, and it looks pretty nice. It took forever. And it cost about $3,000 (personally, I think the terrazzo guy underestimated his labor costs, but that’s not really my problem).

What will be the front porch, floor unpolished.

What will be the dining room, unpolished floor.

What will be the dining room, floor finished.

What will be the living room, unpolished floor.

What will be the kitchen, unpolished floor.

What will be the kitchen, floor finished.

Our bedroom balcony.

View from our bedroom balcony. This used to be entirely farm land.

In those pictures, some of the floors weren't yet polished, but that was finished just this past week. You'll have to use your imagination to envision how it might look, but you should be able to see from the size of the rooms, that the house is pretty big. Big enough to play soccer in -- for now anyway, but if Sean tries that when its done, he's gonna be sorry.

And I know, its a sad commentary that the windows are barred like that, but no matter what security precautions you have in place, there will always be armed robbery in Ghana. Beside the "burglar proof" we'll have barbed wire on top of the walls (Sly originally wanted an electrical fence -- kikiriki as they call it here -- but that idea fortunately dissipated) but we'll put up bougainvillea to beautify it, at least.

All told, we’ve probably sunk somewhere between $300,000 and $400,000 into the house. That’s in cash. We don’t have any loans or liens on the house. The mortgage loan or home improvement loan sector of this country has never developed to the extent that it has in the United States. And I’m pretty sure that that’s not a bad thing, given the crap going on in the rest of the world. But even if we did want to get a loan, the interest rates here are closer to unsecured credit card rates rather than a secured loan; we’re talking like 25%.

Picture of the back of the house, taken April 12, 2006

Picture of the back of the Dawhenya House, taken May 26, 2007.

Picture of the back of the Dawenya house, taken March 22, 2009.

So, where we are with the work on the Dawhenya house is windows in, floors finished, roof on, burglar proof up, electricity working, water running. Next stop door frames and doors (we used to have door frames, but decided we didn't like the quality of the wood so we pulled 'em all out, that's why the entrance ways look so raggedy), ceiling, plumbing, electrical fixtures. And then we're in. And I'm so ready.

The road in front of our house is a main inter-country highway; it’s supposed to, some day in the future, connect North Africa with South Africa. But it was a red dirt road for the longest time and only in the past 3 years did it finally get tarred. Up until a few months ago, Google Earth still showed a dirt road, and our house was just a vacant lot.

But now, at least you can see the whole lot, house and all, courtesy of our friends at Google and Nasa. And that’s really good news, because I think a lot of my family thought this house was merely a figment of our imaginations.

Courtesy Google Earth. Finally.

Larceny: Petty and Otherwise

2009-02-22T02:58:00.000-08:00

Larceny, or simple thievery, is a sad fact of life here in Ghana. I am sure that it’s not particular to this part of the world, and that any and every developing county has its clear division of the Haves and Have-Nots. My husband and I, apparently to the minds of some quasi-socialist-leaning/Robin-Hood-Wannabee Ghanaians, clearly fall into the former category. In my opinion, we’re fast on our way to becoming a Have-Not.

On our very first trip to Ghana, back in the winter of 1990, I recall the first incident when we were “ripped-off,” to put it, if not politely, at least succinctly. I had with me a very nice Sony Walkman (which I had found on a park bench in New York City) to play the dozen cassette tapes I had brought along to pass the time. Remember, this is 1990 and there was only one television station which broadcast only in the evening. I left the Walkman in a drawer in my bedroom. Unfortunately, my (at that time) 13 year old step-son was playing with it and forgot to put it back where he had found it (and what he was doing inside my drawer, I will never know). He left it in plain sight on top of the dresser, or so he said. Later that day, after an electrician had come to the house to repair our ceiling fan, we noticed its disappearance. Easy come, easy go, right?

Sly had forewarned me that theft was very common, and I should always keep my stuff locked up. He told me a very entertaining story of an electrician who was fixing a light switch in his mother’s room who, with one foot wedging the door closed, was able to reach into the dresser and paw through her valuables. This was seen through her bedroom window by her daughter, by the way, so he didn’t get away with the theft. You know, in retrospect, it’s not so funny.

But, alas, that first incident of theft that touched us was not to be the last. There have been many (way too many) cases of pilfering in between then and now. I wish I could say that the thefts were all perpetrated by strangers. I want to say that. But I’m really not sure that would be the truth.

In some incidences, the theft occurred in the house we were staying at. When we moved to Ghana, we shipped all of our worldly possessions here. From the first house (my sister-in-law’s) in Mataheko then to the next house (another sister-in-law’s) to still another (my brother-in-law’s), those boxes have moved around a lot. Now, during each move, I was pretty vigilant about watching for someone rooting through my stuff, so I don’t believe a mover took anything. But I do recall that some things that were packed away – deep inside these big boxes – are the only things that are missing. Who’d have had the time to dig? Was it family, friends of my nephews or the house boy or house girl? All I know is that some things are missing. Actually, a whole lot of things.

The ones that sadden me the most with their loss are the things with sentimental value like the Hallmark Christmas decorations that I had collected when my children were babies – you know, Baby’s First Christmas 1995. Or the electric saw, drill and handmade tool box that my Dad gave me before he died; he said every home needed basic tools and these were his that he wanted to pass down to me. They may have seemed like trinkets and junk, but they were precious to me.

I really don’t know the full extent of the things that were stolen, and that’s because almost all of our stuff is still packed away in boxes. Eventually, when our Dawhenya house is finally finished, I’ll have to dig it all out and put it away and then I’ll have a clearer inventory of what we’ve got left. It doesn’t seem as much as when we first moved, though. Clearly, there’s been some attrition.

Some of the things that were stolen just had me shaking my head. Food from our pantry stock or freezer was always going missing – even food that we’d cooked and left on the stove to reheat later would mysteriously be depleted. We never could pin the theft on anyone until the one time we left the house for a few hours. We were staying in Nungua, at my sister-in-law’s house, where Sly oversaw her pure water business. The live-in “house girl” was a middle-aged woman named Mawuse, who was the sole financial support for her unemployed (and unfortunately, often drunk) husband and three daughters.

We had a large upright freezer in the kitchen, and when we got home from wherever it was we had gone to, I noticed that the freezer had started to thaw, and all of the food inside was defrosting. Then I noticed that Mawuse was sitting in her kitchen (which is a room adjacent to our kitchen), and that along side her was a large bucket of water inside which were several ice blocks – our ice blocks. When she helped herself to them, she failed to notice that our toaster’s electrical cord dropped down, and prevented the freezer door from closing fully.

Now, I know what you’re thinking, “That’s kind of petty,” so why am I nitpicking? Well, it’s the principle of the thing! If Mawuse had asked if she could have some ice blocks, I’d have handed them over. No biggie. I’m really not cheap. I and Sly would often offer her or her kids food that we’d cooked. If we sent her or the girls to the store it was always with a “Thanks, and keep the change.” I also quite often gave her dresses and sandals for her teenage girls that I didn’t wear/need/like. And these weren’t hand-me-downs, because there was nothing wrong with them, just that they weren’t me. But, that! The ice blocks… I just didn’t get that.

After that, we put a lock on the kitchen door, and she didn’t have any access. All of the kitchen cleaning, cooking and dishes were done by me anyway, so it was no great loss.

Speaking of great losses, here’s a list (not all inclusive) of what has (so far) gone missing.

Sony Walkman
Hallmark Christmas decorations
Bed sheets – Sponge Bob (2 fitted)
Craftsman circular saw
Craftsman electric drill
Hand made tool box and miter box
Fisher Price power wheels ride on kids’ car
HP Photo printer, brand new in box, ran on 110 voltage – hope the thief paid a fortune for a transformer!
Electrical outlet boxes and switches (new, never used – $600 worth – from our as of yet unfinished house)
Various car parts – stolen from inside the car and from the garage
Plants in different growth stages, which we were nursing
Clothes – right off the clothes line
Television/VCR combo
Wooden doors and door frames (from our as of yet unfinished house)
Bags of cement and loose gravel
VHS tapes
Dozens of music CDs that Sly burned from friends’ collections
Cell phone – this was taken from Sly’s car while he was driving it
Gameboy Advance plus miscellaneous GBA games – recovered, because we knew the suspect and confronted him at his school with the evidence

And last (on this particular list), but not least (yet probably the funniest): Diet Pepsi.

The Diet Pepsi Saga: We had all gone to Dawhenya for the morning so that the kids could play soccer in the dirt or ride their bikes, which we had brought along with us. We also took a cooler bag with juices, bottled water, beer and a couple of diet sodas. There wasn’t any flowing water on the property yet, but we captured rain water that sluiced off the roof in large oil drums. We allowed the (then) caretaker (see above) to have his workers collect water for their work (block making factory), which was right outside of the property wall. Well, this one worker comes in and he’s pushing a wheelbarrow with a couple of empty buckets in it. I can see him pretty well, as I’m on the upper floor watching the kids play. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and flip flops; on his head is a home-made hat, fashioned out of a cement bag. I don’t want to discuss the health implications of this right now (or ever, for that matter). Anyway, heading toward the house, the hat stayed on his head perfectly well. But as he’s leaving the house, I happened to notice that he’s clutching the hat with one hand, as if to hold it on his head from a strong wind gust and was struggling to push the wheelbarrow with his other hand. Not an easy task, I’m afraid. I really didn’t think anything of it… until we were on our way home. I went into the cooler bag to get my Diet Pepsi from it, and its missing. I ask Sly and the kids if they drank it. Negative, all around. I know no one else was on the property with us. The light bulb blinks on – that worker with the cement hat. That’s why he was holding onto the hat! He had a can of soda hidden under there! I’m prepared to let it go and chalk it up to experience. But not Sly. Sly drops us off at home and goes back and confronts the guy. First the guy denies it. Then, the other workers come out of the woodwork to point the finger at him. Then he admits it, and begs for mercy. This should be straight out of the stupid crooks handbook.

We’ve also been the victim of monetary theft, though not in the “gimme all your money at gun point” sense. Sly is as generous a man as you could ever meet. If he has the money and you need it, he will give it to you. There are several examples of this, where he’s been asked for a loan – 500 Ghana cedis here, a few hundred cedis there and 50 cedi loans more times than I care to remember. The vast majority of the people he’s loaned money to come up with excuses or evasions, but no money. I doubt we’ll see it.

Just some more examples of the Ghanaian socialistic realignment of assets, I guess. I wish it weren’t so. I want to say that you get used to the stealing, but I never do. Should I? Should I have to?

If it ain’t one thing, then it’s another

2009-02-20T06:23:00.000-08:00

This past week has been hell here in Tema. On Sunday, near about lunch time, the electricity went out. We have a name for it here in Ghana; it’s called “Lights Off.” During the daytime, it’s annoying, but you can live/deal with it. You can leave the house if it gets too hot, or have a shower to cool you down. At night time, it’s infinitely worse. There’s no ceiling fan or air conditioning, and there’s little or no breeze blowing in. You can only be “comfortable” if you sleep in the absolute barest minimum of clothes, i.e. your tighty whities. Even a lightweight sheet is too hot, and will soon be sweated through. As you’re lying in bed, awake because it’s too hot to sleep, you hear the droning and buzzing of mosquitoes near your head. All thoughts of possible sleep are dismissed. You’re not only hot, but you’re going to wind up with malaria.

We have a portable generator, so we had no intention of suffering with night time Lights Off. Well, that’s what we thought, anyway. Once a few hours had passed, we expected that this problem might be of longer duration than originally anticipated, so we went out and bought gasoline to power up the generator. Except that the battery wouldn’t turn over. No biggie. We jump started it and got it going. Except that the toggle switch wouldn’t work. Yeah, our generator could roar, but only with impotent rage.

So, Monday comes, and the kids trot off to school in wrinkled school uniforms, and Sly and I throw on whatever is not too wrinkled and race out the door soon afterward. No sense staying indoors when there’s no electricity. We head over to Prampram Beach and enjoy the cool ocean breezes (not to mention a couple of bottles of Star beer).

When we get home, we find that the situation has not improved. In fact, it’s worsened; now, not only no electricity, but no water. What that means is that we simply have to bucket bathe and for that we’ve got a barrel of water outside the house. Except that someone forgot to fill it the last time and it’s only half full. That means, absolutely only essential flushing, and no dish washing or clothes washing or non-essential (i.e. cooling off shower as opposed to a get rid of this stench shower) bathing.

Monday afternoon, finally around 3:30 pm, the lights come back on. Thank God for small favors. We can at least watch television and iron our clothes, and I can stop panicking about Alex’s insulin. Water is still off, but I’ve got a ton of clean dishes and we can just all have a quick single bucket bath before bedtime.

Tuesday morning and the water is finally turned back on. Yippee!! I’m up at 5:00 and doing dishes that have piled up in every nook and cranny (it’s amazing how much mess 5 people can make!) and even inside the oven. Meanwhile, I’ve got Sly standing outside in the dark refilling the barrel and a load of laundry running in the machine (school uniforms, natch). I really don’t trust the water company.

Later on, I learn that my distrust in Ghana Water Company is not misplaced. Sure enough, by noon, the water is turned back off. I have got a pile of dirty laundry that is taller than Mike. Around 3:00 pm, the electricity goes off. Again.

One thing that I really hate is not knowing why. I’d still be annoyed, but at least my anger would have a direction and not be so generalized. Sly tells me that he heard that a transformer blew out somewhere in Tema, and that all of Tema on this side of the main road has a problem. I’m not exactly comforted by that knowledge.

Tuesday evening as dusk falls, I figure we’re in for another night of lights off. We tried to reach an electrician to come and fix our generator except that his phone is shut off. We sit outside for a breeze, and watch as a storm comes in from the west which never reaches us. Just before we go to sleep, the lights come back on. Still no water, though, but at least our barrel is mostly full.

And that’s how it’s been all week long. Bouts of lights off, then water off, sometimes both off together – it’s scary if we can have a few hours where both are actually on. Even as I sit here now, Friday afternoon waiting for the kids to come home, the water has been turned off yet again.

As Rosanna Rosannadanna used to say on Saturday Night Live, “If it ain’t one thing it’s another.”

The SOS School Sponsored Walk

2009-02-04T06:27:00.000-08:00

This past Saturday morning, the kids’ school held a sponsored walk/fund raiser in celebration of the school’s 30th anniversary. Over the past month of so, we’ve been systematically hounded in turn by each child to have the sponsor card filled out. The promise and lure of great big prizes to the kid who brought in the most sponsors was no doubt the reason behind it. Either that, or their fear (truly, more like scared-to-death abject terror) of “Heady” as the kids “fondly” call the headmaster, Mr. Yemoah (behind his back, of course).

But their protestations and begging fell on very deaf (and somewhat poor) ears, so we ignored them until almost the very last minute. Then we quickly added a couple of names to the card just to look like we tried. Of course, we added ourselves in first position for a donation of GHC 10 each. My friend Leslie agreed to sponsor GHC 5 for each, and our other friends, Herbie and Eric, and Sly’s brother Julius agreed (though they didn’t know it yet) to sponsor the kids for GHC 2 each.

Well, that was the original plan. Unfortunately, besides our “donation” we were required to purchase specially made tee shirts and hats for each of the kids, for an additional GHC 9.50 each. Grand total for all 3 kids GHC 57.50. Money being a bit on the tight side, we told the kids to forget the new 30th anniversary tee shirts, and wear their other SOS tee shirts. “No,” they all cried, “it’s compulsory.” Headyphobia.

New plan: Scratch out donation of GHC 10 and bring that down to GHC 2, then we can afford the tee shirts and hats. Hmmm. Now we look like schlemiels, because here these are our kids and someone else is donating more money. I don’t think so. Scratch Leslie and change her to GHC 2 each. She’ll thank me for it, I’m sure.

There. That’s better. Now every kid has the nice round figure of a GHC 10 donation and they can buy the tee shirt and hat. Believe it or not, all of the kids are happy about this plan. Go figure.

So 6:30 a.m. comes for the morning of the walk, and I hustle the kids out the door. Sly opts to stay home, despite all of my pleading. Sean is dressed in his “cool” attire meaning new SOS tee shirt and big black canvas pants worn as Otto Pfisterish as I’ll allow (i.e. below his butt, gangsta style), Mike wears his tee shirt with khaki shorts and Alex wears her tee with a pair of jeans – high water jeans, I’d like to point out (this kid is growing like a weed) that she refused to change – even though I told her it would be hot. Another example of Headyphobia – he (or should it be He?) told them all to wear the tees and jeans.

I don’t have a sponsored walk tee shirt and Mike and Alex both warn me that I’m not going to be allowed to walk. Puhleeeze. I’m not afraid of Heady. Okay, I’m not that afraid of Heady. But there is no way I’m not going, because someone has to be with Alex for entire walk.

Now, our “paper” said the walk was going to be between the school and the Evergreen Supermarket in Community 4. That’s not too bad. That’s really just a hop, skip and a jump, probably only about a mile. I’ve walked that before. And I’ve got my Keds on, so it won’t be too bad. I notice a lot of the other mommy have the same sneakers I’ve got, too. Good, I don’t look like too much of a doofus, then.

At 7:00 a.m. we’re all off on the walk. I’m not really good at guessing numbers, but I’m thinking there are at least 300 kids, teachers and parents. At the front of the “parade” is a flatbed truck from a local radio station which is very loudly playing music. Unfortunately, they’re moving at a snail’s pace and it’s not long before my long legs have carried us from the back of the line to the front of the line. I’m a Jersey girl; we walk fast in Jersey – there’s purpose, not meandering. I’ve got to shorten my stride and even shuffle along, just to stay within the pack.

Then something happens; the hop, skip and a jump walk I was expecting doesn’t materialize. This becomes evident when we all turn off the main road. I want to yell, “That way to Evergreen” and point straight ahead. But, okay, I’m game. As I said, I’ve got my Keds. Ahead of us is Heady, and he’s taking pictures of the walkers. He sees me and Alex and comes to shake my hand, then he bends down and asks Alex, “Where’s your daddy? Is he home sleeping?” Heady and Daddy went to high school together. "Something like that," I tell him and he laughs out loud. That is a first, by the way. Maybe even ever.

Staying at the rear of the pack becomes the norm after only a few minutes. Alex has not only got shorter legs than I do, but she’s incapacitated by a crazily fluctuating blood sugar. About ¾ of a mile into the walk, she’s thirsty. That’s diabetes-speak for my blood sugar is going low. So I hand her a small pineapple juice and a glucose tab. She’s back to normal now. Except she’s got a major league wedgy that needs to be fixed. So, we jump over the gutter and she goes a few steps into the brush to try to ease it out. She’s not hiding the fact that she’s picking her butt crack, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.

That holds her for about another ½ mile, and then she starts pooping out again so I give her another glucose tab. There’s a lady up ahead selling ice cream cones, and I hand Alex 20 pesawas so she buys two little ones and gobbles them down. That doesn’t seem to do anything at all, so I hand over the glucose gel that Alex has been craving now for a couple of months and she takes a hit.

She’s still kind of on the shaky side, so I check her sugar. She’s 3.6; she’s supposed to be at least 4.0. Oy, I don’t want to think what it was before the glucose gel and the tab she just ate. I’m pretty sure that the other stuff I just loaded her up with is going to boost her sugar level pretty soon, but just in case, I buy her another ice cream cone for 50 pesawas. Alex is loving this.

Ahead of us is the SOS bus, and its picking up kids that are too pooped to continue. Alex is dying (figuratively, I think at this point) to get on it, but we’re sooo far back, there’s no way we can catch up to it (even if it is crawling at something like 3 miles per hour). So we keep trudging on (so much for my thinking this was a mile long walk) and we buy some crackers and bottled water for me.

We’re passing by a small shop that’s got a table in front of it, and the table is surrounded by about half a dozen of the SOS mothers who are pawing over something. I’m curious to see what’s being sold. Is it wax print cloth? Purses? Costume jewelry? Nope, none of the above. They’re selling chaliwotay, a.k.a. flip flops. I’m quietly chuckling to myself as I pass, but inwardly thinking, crap, I wish I’d worn mine ‘cause my beloved Keds are giving me a pair of twin blisters on the backs of my ankles.

Now, at this point, I think we’ve walked about 3 miles. I’m not that good a judge of distance, but I know we’re walking for well over an hour, even with all of our stops and starts. Alex now informs me she’s got to wee wee. Well, it’s not like there’s a McDonald’s or a Starbucks on every street corner so we’re out of luck in terms of finding a toilet. But there are trees and gutters and kiosks that we can duck behind, and that’s what we do. I knew the jeans ideas was a crappy one; a skirt would have been so much more practical. Anyway, she does what she’s got to do and I do my best to clean her hands that got dirty from steadying herself in the dirt (I know, EWWWW!) and we’re off again.

We’re getting close to Evergreen Supermarket. We’re at least in the same neighborhood. The bus is still in sight, but definitely not catchable (by us, anyway). I’m tempted to flag down a taxi especially since every single taxi driver in Tema has honked at me as it passed by… they just can’t resist an obroni, even one who is obviously walking in a sponsored walk.

We’re now only a few hundred yards from the supermarket and the bus is close enough that with a little effort we could get on it. Here’s the dilemma: Alex needs to change her pants, she’s very cranky from being tired and I’ve got to wee wee myself. Trees and gutters hold no appeal for me, and trust me on this -- no one wants to see my big fat white butt for any reason. I really don’t want to get on the bus.

That’s when Alex spots Michael riding on the bus. He’s halfway back in, sitting in a window seat, waving to us. Alex starts to cry. Mike, who was wearing a great big shit-eating nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah grin only seconds before, is clearly dismayed by the sight of Alex all teary. But certainly not enough for him to give up that cushy seat, and off he goes.

The allure of Evergreen is that they’ve got good soda choices, so we go in and buy a Fanta cream soda. When we get back out, we’re the last of the SOS people in the bunch, so we just hop in a taxi and head home. I alert Sly to expect us and ask the driver to wait. Within 5 minutes we’ve changed, washed up, emptied bladders, done what we need to do and off we go back to the school.

We beat the school bus. Michael will forever be chastised for riding that bus. Obolobo (Ghana-ese for chubby) Michael, who could probably stand to lose a couple of pounds, tells us that his legs were cramping up. Meanwhile, his younger diabetic sister and his old fart mom managed to walk all the way to Evergreen.

The next time there’s a sponsored walk, I’m gonna pull a Sly. He was the smart one.

Brrrrr! Cold, cold Ghana

2009-01-23T05:46:00.000-08:00

My kids are freezing. I blame it on Leslie. We picked her up from the airport on Sunday morning, and on the way back into Tema, she asked me how bad the Harmattan has been. I told her, truthfully, it’s been a non-event. In fact, it was one of the mildest Harmattan’s we’ve had in a long long time. Fast forward to Monday, the Harmattan hits Ghana with all its fury; not to mention dust.

The Harmattan, for those of you not familiar is, according to Wikipedia, http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Harmattan, dry and dusty West African trade winds. Believe it or not, the winds carry fine dust particles from the Sahara desert all the way to our shores. I’m not that good in geography, but I’m guessing it’s more than just a few hundred miles away.

Monday morning, we woke up and the Harmattan was waiting for us. It’s not as pretty as a blanket of snow, and you can’t make snow men or snow angels. The dust coats everything – the cars, the windows, the desktops – it’s a constant effort to keep everything clean. The window screens catch the silt, and then when the wind blows hard enough, it blows straight on through.

It’s most noticeable at dawn and dusk, but even during the day it still looks as though you’re moving through a light fog. Cars have their headlights on in the day time – which is actually pretty amazing since the majority of them don’t even switch them on at night!

You can feel the heaviness in the air. Your skin is dry and ashy, your lips are chapped from the constant licking, and your hair is filled with static electricity. Okay, probably only my hair gets this way, but trust me, I know static electricity and it knows me. I’ve been slicking it down with body moisturizer. Not exactly my best look. Now that I think of it, I really don’t have a best look. I have lots of worst looks, but let’s not go there, hmm?

Alex has been complaining of a sore throat since Tuesday, and her eyes have been itching her like mad. She’s also got the snuffles. All likely Harmattan related. I’m waiting for it to clog up my sinuses as it usually does, but since I’m taking allergy pills maybe I’ll be immune.

One thing I’m hoping not to see is what I call “Harmattan eye.” A couple of years ago, I woke up with Harmattan eye; it was all gooked up and puffy and I could hardly open it. Sand must have irritated the inside of my eyelid and I probably rubbed it a lot in my sleep. It didn’t hurt, but it looked horrible. “Oh, Sister Barbara, what happened to your eye?” I heard that one a lot the first two days or so, before the swelling finally went down. Thinking I might never get an opportunity like this again, I quickly put the blame on my husband. If Sly were nearby, I’d jerk my chin in his direction and say sweetly, “Ask him.” I’m lucky “him” didn’t lock me in the house till I was “normal.”

The wind is what really gets you. You can actually hear it, whistling through the alley ways and stirring dried leaves into a frenzy. But the wind is what the old people hate. My 87-year old mother-in-law is probably wrapped up in two cloths. It’s a “cold” wind, alright. I heard a news broadcaster on the television this morning talk about how cold this winter already is. Yes, they call it winter.

It seems we’ve become “real” Ghanaians; my kids are actually wearing long sleeves and jackets, just like the other kids, to school. For them, this is a treat. They long for long pants and shirts. Jeez, they’d be wearing mittens, if I had any.

I’d like to think Leslie jinxed us, but I know it’s just bad timing. Still, if anyone asks me when the Harmattan started, I’ll jerk my chin in her direction and say, “Ask her.”

A bit of home

2008-12-05T01:55:00.000-08:00

Yesterday, I picked up my American friend, Leslie, and we took off to the environs of Accra for the day. As a Fulbright exchange teacher, Leslie is a quasi-employee of the U.S. government, so she heads out to the U.S. Embassy located in Accra a few times a month to take care of business.

Despite the fact that I and my family have been living here for almost five years now, I’ve never been to the new U.S. Embassy, so I looked at it as an opportunity to check things out. The “old” U.S. Embassy was in a small, crowded dirty building, not easily accessible and certainly, in my opinion, not worth of an embassy, irrespective of which embassy it might be. The fact that it was my embassy only made it that much more disreputable.

First stop before the embassy though, was a detour to Bake Shop Classics, a bakery near the Ghana Trade Fair. Now, I’d never been there before, but I had “heard” that they made and sold “New York Style Bagels.” I haven’t had a bagel, New York, New Jersey or Maryland-style, in almost two years, and I have been dreaming of them. I can stop dreaming, I think. We went in and though they only had a small selection (by U.S. standards, of course) of baked goods, they did have bagels and cinnamon rolls and cheese and fruit danishes. Oh, joy. I have no idea how they will taste, but they sure look good. I buy eight bagels at 60 pesawas each and a cinnamon roll for GHC 1.50.

The morning after my purchase, I can truthfully say, not as good as a New York bagel, but pretty darn close. Add in some cream cheese – no, not Philadelphia but again, close – and it’s a taste of home. I’m wishing now that I had bought more than just eight bagels, since half are gone already. I may have to make a special trip, next week.

From there, we went straight to the Embassy. The Embassy compound is large, with a neatly manicured green grass lawn -- truly a rarity in Ghana. Two security guards stand in front but don’t try to stop us from entering into the visitor’s lounge. Once inside, Leslie puts her bag onto the x-ray machine conveyer belt which scans the contents; no one pays any attention, so no one notices that she carries two phones – mine and hers. I have to fill out a form and show my passport; it doesn’t even get cracked open. Could be my whiteness, my Jersey accent or my “Hi, how ya doing?” is the tip off that I’m an American. Or it could be my entrance with an employee, quasi or otherwise. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I actually wish they had looked at my passport a bit more thoroughly; security was just a bit too lax for me.

With a visitor badge strung around my neck and my handbag scanned (minus my cell phone, of course), we’re off to the main building, which belongs to U.S. AID. It’s like being back in any American government office building – open, airy, granite walls, heavy duty air conditioning, and the ubiquitous pictures of G.W., Dick and Condee. Leslie and I joke about how we can’t wait to come back after January 20^th and see Barack, Joe and Hillary up there instead. That alone will be worth the trip.

First things first, I have got to check out the Embassy bathroom. It’s just like back home. Doors that lock, toilets that automatically flush, and toilet paper on a roller – wish I had more to do in here, but my breakfast coffee is long gone.

Leslie conducts her business and shows me around a bit. We head to the Community Liaison Office or CLO for short. Inside are some pamphlets and brochures for local tourist sites and hotels. Nothing special, but what is special is a great big wall of books, all kinds of paperbacks and novels; adult books, kids books, every genre you can imagine. We meet a woman there who is the CLO liaison, Kristen from Annandale, VA. She says the books are loaners, “borrow what you want and return them when you can.” Oh, the honor system. I’m familiar with the concept, of course, but the truth is in Ghana it’s hardly ever put into practice. Finders keepers, is more what we’re used to here. Still, it looks promising.

Kristen tells us that they often have community programs and events, but this is the first I’m hearing of it. I’m kind of ticked off about it, if you want the truth. I’m part of the community, I live here and the Embassy knows I live here, since we’re registered. So, why can’t they send me a newsletter telling me about these events? I’d love for us to get out and meet other Americans. Leslie promises to send me the newsletter that she gets from them, as an employee. It shouldn’t really be this hard, should it? The Embassy does more for American tourists than Americans living here. Weird, huh?

The cafeteria is our next stop. And they’ve got specials, just like home – hamburger or hot dogs with fries, pizza, grilled cheese sandwich – I’m tempted, I’ve got to admit, but I make these things at home, I’d want something really different. What I’m really jazzed about is the cold case – there’s Fresca, Diet Pepsi and Diet Dr. Pepper. The doctor is calling my name. Um, not quite as good as I remember. Next time, I’ll try the Fresca.

Yeah, a Fresca, with a bagel and cream cheese, and it will be like home. If only it were that easy.

Robocall -- Ghana-style

2008-12-02T06:01:00.000-08:00

This is a shortie... the house phone just rang, and truthfully, I usually don't answer it. It's usually not for me -- Sly, Sean or Mike, but never me -- but I just figured since Sly is out of the house it might be him, even though he'd normally call my cell.

Me: Hello

"Hello, this is Nana Akufo Addo. I am running for president of Ghana. I urge you to vote for me on Sunday, 7th December. Tell all of your family and friends... Blah blah blah"

Hah! A robocall in Ghana. I thought that we'd be immune to that over here; we are, after all, registered Democrats.

Ghana! We are moving forward!

Thanksgiving in Ghana

2008-11-28T04:33:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-28T04:25:00.000-08:00

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

2008-11-01T00:55:00.000-07:00

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.