The Journey of the White Woman

I live with a host family in the neighbourhood that looks like Dzorwulu, but sounds like Jolu to my Canadian ears. Every morning and most nights I walk between my house and my work in the next neighbourhood (it’s called Roman Ridge … boring). Both are upper-middle class residential areas that are much more interesting than those in Toronto or Vancouver. I travel down my street, over the river/giant gutter, through the Presbyterian school’s yard, over the train tracks, past some small vegetable plots, cower away from the barbed wire fences, monitor the progress on numerous partially-completed mansions, wave to some coworkers’ houses, cheer on the football teams, and finally pass through the big blue gates to work. All of this must be done while navigating eroded dirt roads, gutters, honking vehicles, livestock, children, and interested bystanders.


Work ---------------------------------------------------> Home

I have now adopted the approach of walking on the worst part of the road since the cars are more likely to avoid potholes than me. Every taxi honks, although never at night when I want one. Most private cars either ask or wonder why the white girl is walking. The school kids are always cute in their uniforms with their shy “obruni” calls. I turn a blind eye and sing happy songs to myself when I pass at line-up time and the teachers have their canes out. It is encouraging that people can get farmland in the city and provide for themselves and the local economy. That is until you think about the water supply and soil contamination. I also come across goats scavenging in garbage, chickens playing in the gutter, and one giant turkey that will probably eat me for Christmas dinner. Good thing I’m a vegetarian and Ghanaians cook the heck out of their vegetables.

The houses going up, probably owned by foreigners, are massive by Ghanaian standards and seriously fenced. Each house in Accra has a cement fence painted white (side note: the bottom three feet of most trees is painted white to fit in) with protection varying from security guards to broken bottles to high-voltage wires. I often see men I think are soldiers with prisoners knocking on doors and doing tasks outside of the inhabited, modest houses. I’ve asked friends in the neighbourhood; I’ll let you know if I ever get a clear explanation. And men urinate everywhere – in the gutters, on fences, into bushes. Whenever the urge strikes they unzip their flies or lift their short legs (that was a new one on me).



The streets are lined with container shops. The most common offerings are candies and drinks, prepared food, telephone units, telephone usage, sewing services, and hair styling. As a result everyone here is well-fed, well-dressed, well-groomed, and in touch … except me. Yet I still make all sorts of people to talk to on my journey. Many people are interested in what I am doing in their country and their neighbourhood. Some want me to go to events (ie. a child’s birthday party) because lots of money was required to get me here. One guy walked right up to me and asked if I was Canadian. This was particularly surprising since most people here guess 10 countries before the give up and I tell them. He works at one of the libraries started by Hamiltonian Kathy Knowles that now spread throughout Accra. Most are male and want to be my friend. This neither flatters nor scares me. The requests are innocent and the neighbourhood is like one big family. Plus I am constantly sweaty and dirty so the interest comes from my skin colour only.