To The North: Dry, Red & Awestruck

Shannon arrived (without her bags) on March 1st to find an over-worked and under-vacationed Emily. She said, “This is no good. We’re in Ghana. Let’s go exploring! (Once I have clean underwear.)” Joanne and Josée (a Crossroader who was working in Togo) headed north while we waited for Shannon’s luggage. 16 hours of liquorice, over-air conditioning, plantain pit stops, and Nigerian movies later we joined them in Tamale.

Joanne and Josée spent their extra day figuring out the best way to get to Mole National Park. It’s not far from Tamale but the road is bad and so are the vehicles that frequent it. They obviously did a good job because we were at the Mole Motel by 9am without sore bums. We missed the morning hike (it left at 6:30, people start early in Ghana) but were happy to overlook elephants bathing at a watering hole from the hotel patio. In our excitement we almost missed the ones having their lunch right beside some of the hotel rooms. Lucky for us some drivers pointed in the right direction and warned us to keep our distance. My guess is they had experience with Westerns who have only seen large animals in zoos. If I wanted to I could have clambered onto one’s back. I don’t think I’ve had enough practice on mechanical bulls to chance a wild forest elephant. Once the elephants departed for their mid-morning nap, Shannon and I rented some amazingly retro bicycles and set out on the roads south of the park. We were having a gay old time with the absurdity of it all when two elephants meandered across our path. It was quite humbling to be stuck in the middle of Ghana with nothing around but dead trees, burnt grass, and elephants. Needless to say we walked home very slowly.



On the evening hike we saw more elephants bathing and showering themselves in dust (homemade sunscreen). Apparently we were lucky to spot a few waterbucks majestically prancing around. The baboons, monkeys, and warthogs are plenty everywhere in the park. Our guide said there are many other animals in the undeveloped part of the park but we don’t want to see anyway because they’ll eat us. I trust him; he had a riffle.

By 4 o’clock the next morning we were crammed into a bus back to Tamale. And by noon we were in Bolgatanga (commonly called Bolga) near the Burkina Faso border. The town was a great spot to soak up Northern culture, travel to a diverse selection of towns, and celebrate Ghana’s 50th Anniversary of Freedom. The northern part of Ghana is very dry, quite understandable given the 40 degree high everyday and complete lack of rain for six months of the year. It’s so hot the sweat doesn’t even have a chance to form on your body before it evaporates. I can see why access to water is such a problem (enter Shannon to save the poor African villagers). The landscape is red/brown, prickly, and littered with donkeys and bikes. I am pretty confident it’s the only place in Africa you’ll find bike lanes (of course, still no sidewalks).

From Bolga we explored a pottery cooperative and some strangers’ houses in Sirigu. The traditional painting is quite unique in its geometric patterns and red, black, and white colours. The houses are skilfully designed for people, animals, and grain. It’s quite amazing what they can do with red clay to create a cool, safe, dry place to live. We went out to the town fairly late in the day since a variety of people told us we could “by all means” get back to Bolga that night. As we were traveling out scepticism set in when we didn’t see a single vehicle traveling in the opposite direction. We took solace in the fact that people are so nice that they’d probably gives us their beds if we were stuck. Luckily we found the last shared taxi going back to Bolga, but it definitely took the scenic route. I was sitting by the window and was completely orange by the time we got to our hotel. I think my lungs still hate me for that.



On Independence Day Shannon and I went to the one Christian town in the north. On the outskirts of town there is a massive tomb, museum, old church, even bigger new church, monastery, and who knows what else devoted to God. Apparently some Canadian missionary named Oscar did his job well. We tried to join the jubilee events but either couldn’t find them or didn’t want to use our white privilege to get to the front. The best part was seeing everyone decked out in red, gold, and green and feeling proud of their country. It reminded me a little of pride; using the time to party for past accomplishments and put off worrying about the future.

Sucking on Plastic

Perhaps I should have spent more time talking about everyday life when I first gone here and everything was novel. Better late than never, right?

The Market
It’s interesting going back to places that we visited in our first few days in Ghana. I was totally overwhelmed by the amount of people, smells, harassment, and noises that manifest in the market. Just when I thought we had made it through and could call it a day, we would turn the corner into the next section. Now it is fun to wander around and explore the area, it seems to span all of downtown. Let me try to draw a picture for you. Start with a mall, Pacific Mall for anyone from the GTA. Make the stores four feet wide and eight feet deep. Keep the same amount of staff and add all their children. Every inch of space is used to display the wears; minimalism definitely hasn’t caught on. Shrink the corridors to five feet, take off the roof, and put a shallow gutter down the middle. Replace those pesky security vehicles and electric wheelchairs with guys carrying 50 pound bags of clothing on their heads. Now imagine everyone is working on commission like at Future Shop. The particularly eager ones walk around shoving their wares in your face, whether the item would fit or not. (It stretches seems to be a favourite excuse.) Some stalls are more permanent than others. This weekend I found a very nice shop with glass cabinets full of Western beauty products (too bad Santa already helped me restock). I also discovered an amazing selection of Miss Sixty clothes in a stall constructed with six two-by-fours and three wavy pieces of tin. It definitely helps to bring someone who knows the ins and outs. In one of the Harry Potter movies (maybe the first one) they find a witchcraft shopping lair through a secret doorway. Switch London to Accra and witchery to beauty products and I swear the same thing happened to me. We were navigating the sidewalk of some quite broad roads around a big square when my guide ducted into what I thought was a shop. Once my eyes adjusted to the light I realized there was nail polish as far as the eye could see. Continuing on we found more than ten Shoppers Drug Marts full of products. The shopping style is also quite different. You ask anyone where they go shopping for pretty much anything and they say, “The market”. People have a purpose fulfill and timeframe between washing (laundry), sweeping, cooking, and pounding fufu or banku. When I stop for a moment in front of someone’s shop they ask, “What do you want?”

The recent efforts to “Green Ghana” have decreased the congestion slightly. The government is attempting to tear down informal (aka illegal) structures and prevent hawking in the central business district. I have since discovered sidewalks I didn’t know existed and the roads seem wider. I wonder how long they can keep the people away when petty trading is the only way they have to survive. I thought shipping away homeless people was bad.



The Plastic
I suck on plastic everyday, as do most Ghanaians. Pretty much everything that is somewhat liquid is sold in a clear plastic bag (water, porridge, ice cream). Anything else you buy goes into a black plastic bag (called rubbers … I was a little confused at first). Probably 95% of these bags end up in the gutter and catch in the dead grass on the side of the road. Garbage cans are few and far between, the ones you do find are often poorly located. Every house I’ve been in uses a plastic bag to seal the lid when cooking rice. Mmmmm cooked plastic. Even the popular dishes and containers are plastic, although thicker. It makes me particularly sad then there is no recycling and the favourite form of garbage disposal is fire. Sometimes I wish I were working for a NGO that focuses on environmental protection and education.

The Roads
I believe I’ve already shared some experiences on roads outside of Accra. In the city most roads are constantly choked with vehicles and when they aren’t, drivers take advantage. (Running red lights is a privilege of the night.) The paved roads are pocketed because, I’m told, the government takes half the money for their pocket and half for the construction. Rough dirt roads like the one on my walk to work are common. Sidewalks, however, are not. The existing ones are often just covered gutters (better than an open one and no sidewalk, I guess). Most volunteers are more scared of the main thoroughfares than the street food.

The Clothes
Oh the colours and the patterns! I am a little worried about buy clothing for myself now. I fear than my sense of what I would wear at home is waning. It is common for women to wear a top, long skirt, headscarf, and extra piece over one shoulder or around their waist all in the same bright, lively pattern. And they look amazing. Good thing this white skin of mine has so many other advantages or I’d be bitter. The men essentially wrap a big piece of fabric under their right arm and over their left which is used to hold everything in place. Any event (wedding, church, luncheon) warrants the full formal wear. For lesser occasions (like African wear day – Friday) men wear dress pants and tunic-like shirts made from the same material as the women’s dress. Major institutions have their own fabric printed and made into matching uniforms for low level staff. Strangely enough most workplaces require full-out corporate wear. I think I get away with a lot of being a foreigner.
When people just let loose they really seem to enjoy throwback t-shirts, even if they don’t realize how hip they are. You could easily play spot-the-state/province (you know, that car game) but on t-shirts instead of license plates. I see this one guy in my neighbourhood who loves his logarithmic equation shirt. He reminds me of my OAC finite teacher, minus the pale skin and red hair.

Day Trippin’

I did really well at exploring this country over the Christmas holiday and I was determined not to lose the momentum. So far I think I’m doing well. I have gone to the Eastern Region to visit Boti Falls and other natural wonders. I saw the crazy coffins in a suburb of Accra then soaked up some sun at a nearby resort. This last weekend I went to a bead factory and market in the Volta Region on Saturday and attempted to watch a live football match on Sunday. And it’s still January. Some trips were more random than others, in the true spirit of Ghana, but all highly enjoyable and topped with good company.



Jessica and I took a series of uncomfortable tro tros to the town of Boti where we saw the falls (or trickles), caves, umbrella rock, and a palm tree with three trunks. We were told that a guide was necessary since we couldn’t find our way on our own. After a moment’s hesitation (half fear, half scepticism) we departed with our not-so-informative new friend. We got to the caves after a slightly scary descent. The caves were less climbing through narrow spaces than I expected and more rock worn away on the mountainside. We got the dwarf story again, surprisingly with most of the same details (see Mommy in Ghana post). Trying to be quiet so we didn’t get eaten, we scaled the other side of the valley to the umbrella rock. Another reminder of how out of shape I am (which I’m trying to do something about now, but I don’t want to jinx it … too late?). Personally, I think it was more of a mushroom rock, but what do I know. We weren’t adventurous enough to climb the makeshift ladder to the top for a small fee. The spot provided more views that would be more impressive if it weren’t for the Harmattan. The palm tree looked like a pitchfork with another sketchy ladder for picture opps. Back across the field, down & up the valley, through the town, and down 250 steps (yeah stairs!) we made it to the falls. The dry season stole most of the water, leaving two trickles (one male, one female because every pair must be a heterosexual couple) and a stagnant pool. It allowed us to get really close to the impressive drop and climb around. We opted to head straight back to Accra since a car was about to leave. Later we learned that we missed a NPP (opposition party) rally and big football match. Sigh, another time.

You’re probably all wondering about the crazy coffins by now. In this one neighbourhood wood carvers make coffins into pretty much any shape requested. I believe the tradition came from the animists (but don’t quote me on that, please). There are about five shops where they do the custom designs with a showroom on the top floor. Most pieces seemed oddly small; when I enquired a grumpy man told me they were for exhibition only. Apparently they make full-sized coffins for orders (we saw a recreation of Elmina castle, a village hut, a fishing boat) and smaller ones for display (pineapple, crab, sankofa, and my personal favourites an Air Canada plane and a cigarette). Seems morbid, I know, but there were no dead bodies and an afternoon at the beach easily ridded my mind of anything bad.

On Saturday Joanne, Jessica, and I traveled towards Akosombo to an area that is know for its beads. Our first stop was the very impressive Cedi Bead Factory. The grounds were clean with shelters for each of the activities and nicely painted buildings. One of the workers gave us a detailed explanation of how the beads were made. He even had props to demonstrate the different techniques. It was a great tour and we (and the staff) were happy with our purchases. Many women buy the imperfect bead and sell them at a nearby market. It was great to walk around and see even more variety of beads, material, food stuffs (not so enjoyable when we got stuck in the dried fish section), and pottery.



On Sunday Jessica and I headed to Tema, a neighbouring industrial town, to watch a football match. The website, newspaper, and several people we asked said that two Ghana Football League teams were playing so we arrived early to get good spots. Turns out, they played yesterday or will next weekend, or something, so we settled in to see the Ho Home Stars versus a team that looked like they worked at Footlocker. The whole thing was rather comical. We were two of about 15 people there and definitely the only females, white people, and ones sitting in plastic chairs that were brought to us. The stadium had surprisingly green grass with a metal fence a few metres off the field and a cement wall protecting it from the outside world. The spectators get the joy standing between the two fences. I think I understand how hundreds got tramples when fans were locked in at a popular game. The Home Stars had cheerleaders that seemed like a cultural performance (costumes, drums, rattles, singing). Even I could tell the teams weren’t too great. Every few minutes a player would fall to the ground, grabbing his foot/knee/face. If he stayed down for more than 15 seconds, three guys would come running out with a stretcher. If he got up they would veer back with the same little trot that they started out with. It reminded me of a clown routine. You know, all the clowns get out of the car and run around, then one slips and falls and the clown ambulance comes roaring out … anyone?

Under The Almond Tree

Since I’m halfway through my placement I figure it’s time to talk about work. My workplan is two-pronged: institute income-generating activities (IGA) for a group of patients from International Health Care Clinic (IHCC) and implement financial controls for West Africa AIDS Foundation. Partly by choice and partly by circumstance, Joanne and I have been focusing on the IGA project so far.

The group started years ago when a few people living with HIV/AIDS gathered under the shade of the almond tree in the front yard of IHCC. They came together to find support emotionally and financially, away from a world engulfed by stigma and discrimination. Most of them lost their jobs and the support of their families and communities due to their status. With the help of several volunteers, the group learned how to make jewellery from traditional glass beads. The group was able to make enough casual sales to help pay for their antiretrovirals, burdening food needs, children’s school fees, and rent. Just before I arrived the group had lost its impetus but gained funds to run three activities. In addition to the jewellery, a bakery will be created for bread production. Other participants will sew clothing and accessories from batik and tie & dye, a Ghanaian decorative fabric. We now have fifteen members, five for each activity, who are learning essential skills under the name The Almond Tree. They believe that with solidarity, equality, mutual support and economic independence they will reclaim freedom and have control over their destiny.

The beading and sewing have been in production since the beginning of December. The remaining seven participants are being trained in bread-making or batik and tie & dye. Our goal is to have a bakery, dying facilities, workroom, and showroom by March. Each group member will be trained in their activity as well as marketing, record-keeping, customer service, inventory, quality control, and project management.

This project has huge potential. We would like all participants to become proficient in all three skills. In an effort to support more of the community, we would like to expand the group and hold workshops to enhance their daily quality of life. As the group is trained, they will take over all related tasks. IHCC hopes to implement a micro-credit structure that enables the groups to truly own their projects. Unfortunately the project not only needs a dedicated group of individuals, it needs sales to become a true success. This is the part where you expect me to tell you how you can help. But most of you have already helped by contributing to my fundraising in October. However, if you live in the London, ON area look for a Valentine’s Day campaign from the AIDS Committee of London featuring our products. Or let me know if you know any organizations or retails who might be interested in selling one-of-a-kind Ghanaian jewellery, clothing, and accessories.

I admire the strength of each and every one of our group members. Nothing about their lives is easy. Just having a place to go in the morning where they belong gives them purpose. I am honoured that they have trusted me with their stories and their project.

No Law & Order

Ghana has four TV channels, but only three seem to come through in my part of Accra. The programming that I witness (mostly weeknights) consists of news, soap operas, and African movies. Shows often start and stop at random times partway through the program. There are probably 10 commercials on rotation, many with a homemade look or offering products to cure all your problems. The sound levels change randomly with no explanation. All of this would be more than tolerable if it weren’t for the content.

Soap Operas. The local ones are the least extreme and probably least popular, except the one in Twi that incorporates native doctors, chiefs, blackmail, and polygamy. There are various imported shows dubbed just for Ghanaians. Think of the most stereotypical, overly dramatic soap operas you’ve ever seen (silicone, dramatic pauses with zoom-ins, forbidden love, long lost relatives) and multiply by ten. I’ve seen 5 year olds who could write and act more convincingly. When I first saw them I snickered and looked around for someone to laugh with … nothing. Everyone takes them seriously, even if they don’t enjoy the spectacular. I have lived very happily without TV in Canada for months on end, but I must say I miss our shows.

Nigerian movies are the most popular with Ghanaian. I think they are worse than the soap operas. The plot is usually centred on true love causing cheating, revenge, and malicious words and actions. I usually sit in the living room while all this is going on with my book or laptop. It’s often too horrific to look away. I must admit I have caught myself getting involved a few times. I am definitely more verbal with my reactions, to the TV and in general.

The news. All I watch is news. We start with TV3 at 6:30 then switch to GTV between 7 and 7:30. Sometime around 9 when we get tired of surfing we watch Metro News. Then the late edition on the first two channels starts at 10:30 but I’m normally headed to bed by that time (have I mentioned how I’m turning into a morning person?). The newscasters read from paper on the table in front of them and seem to recap stories more than anything. I have never heard the words “capacity building” so frequently on television. Initiative for farmers, fishing villages, hawkers, the stigmatized are well explained and touted. There is an amazing amount of coverage on local projects, challenges facing Ghanaians, crime, and travels of the president. I swear every night they show Kufour in three different places (sometimes countries). Talk of potential bills and debates is replaced with actions taken by local government and circles of people ranting in several languages. The footage of crimes committed is often shocking, if not for its graphic nature, then for its blatant assumption that the suspects are guilty. Technical errors are also abundant. Story footage often doesn’t come through, leaving the newscaster with a fake smile or airing unintended comments. My highlight of the business news is the stock market listing. The currency moves occasionally against the US dollar and Euro, but the equities are racing if they change one or two cedis (the cheapest thing I’ve bought was 300 cedis). The worst part is hearing from people working with Journalist Without Borders about “incentives” for networks attending press conferences.

One day Joanne and I went to a co-worker’s house for dinner and saw a program called Fun House. This show is straight out of the 80s but I have no recollection of it (probably due to my limited TV time as a child, thanks mom). Joanne was very nostalgic about it and tuned in again a few weeks later. It appears that the network shows a tape from 1988, complete with commercials. What about this is to anyone’s advantage? The tape would make a pretty penny on eBay.


Totally unrelated: check out my photos from last weekend's trip to Boti Falls.

Mommy in Ghana

My mom took the long journey to visit me over the Christmas holiday. She arrived on Boxing Day and we spent 4 days in the Central Region, 2 in Accra, and almost a day traveling. It was great to show her where I live & work, tour the city, explore the country’s history & parks, and introduce her to my Ghanaian family. She did very well with the heat, transportation, and communication barriers. I was especially impressed that she barely batted an eye when our bus broke down half an hour from Cape Coast and we had to pile into the next one to pass by. Nor did she say anything when her daughter failed to do her homework, leaving us with no other option than a glorified tro tro back to Accra on New Year’s Day.

We got to know Cape Coast (and one restaurant in particular) quite well. We even encountered the same lampshade (small yellow one with beaded decoration) on several occasion. First it was a hat, then a Frisbee, and finally a hot potato; I couldn’t believe it followed us all around town. The best part was that my mom and I both noticed it on our own (I guess that’s where I get my keen sense of observation from). The city was a great place to be situated with lots of vegetarian food and easy access to surrounding towns, Kakum National Park, and beach resorts.



We arrived at Kakum early in the morning in an attempt to see some wildlife. Quite quickly we learned why the animals stay away from the trafficked parts of the park. The canopy walk is scary and people vocalize their fear and excitement. I definitely thought I would be fine crossing a wood-and-rope bridge 40 metres in the air. I was convinced the walkway was lower with each person that stepped on behind me. It took me three before I worked up the courage to look down. I pretended to be strong to help my mom get across. She had enough after the first one. After recovering we went on a 2-hour “jungle hike”. Our guide was great at explaining all the bizarre trees (that started to all look the same) and their medicinal purposes. The highlight of our tour was a story about dwarfs that live in the wood wherever a certain tree grows. They cry out like babies in the night and have backwards feet. Apparently they turn to stone at night, which would explain why my guide had only heard the cries and stories of sightings. He was really convinced though.

Elmina was a very picturesque town, although probably the worst for child beggars. It holds a castle that was built by the Portuguese, added to by the Dutch, and used primary for slave trading by the British. There is also an impressive fort (built on the hill inland by the Dutch because they wanted to avoid being capture in the same way they got the spot) and several stone houses (built by soldiers and priest who marries local women). These buildings are in stark contrast to the colours and activity of the fishing harbour. We got some great views from the castle, but felt a little like my shameful ancestors. The locals seemed to have returned to their roots in spite of the atrocity around them. We learned the captives were essentially tested for fitness by living with little food, ventilation, water, and facilities. The most appalling parts of our tour were the dungeons and female slave yards. Let’s just say that anyone who misbehaved didn’t last and there are many mulattos in the area. I did appreciate (not to be mistaken with condoning) that the tour guide mentioned the involvement of the chiefs and other African middlemen. We were also told that a study determined Africans were harder workers than Native Americans, thus causing the mass trade of Africans. I couldn’t help but think that maybe the Natives were just smarter and acted lazy.



Cape Coast Castle had many of the same undertones, the big difference being that it was built specifically for slave trade. The living quarters were much deeper, darker, and danker. The Door of No Return/Door of Return was a big door (the Elmina one was made about the size of me when they went from trading goods to people) that opened onto the fishing harbour. It was quite bizarre to see such regular activity on the other side the dark caverns of the castle. My comedic relief came in the form of a Scandinavian man that looked and dressed just like my mom. On several occasions I mistakenly made a comment to him and people in his party did the same to my mom. I seriously regret not getting a picture.

It was easy to notice that people in Ghana have more respect for elders. Everyone addressed my mom as “Mommy” (which my mom even liked … I tried not to get jealous) and she got “Grandma” once. Even teenage boys talked to her before looking at me. I appreciated having her aura of reverance around me for a little while.

Ode to my (Canadian) Grandma

The Akan people of Ghana use the sankofa symbol to express a philosophy central to their lives and to ours: "We must retrieve our past In order to move forward."

Mary Evelyn Beam passed away at the age of 93 in the wee hours of Christmas Day 2006. She died in peace of heart failure at the Orangeville Hospital. She lived a full life; leaving her memory behind with 5 children, 15 grandchildren, 19 (I think) great-grandchildren and many other loved ones.

I will remember her amazing memory for people she knew. It seemed as though she had a filing cabinet in her head full of people’s stories and how they’re all related to each other. She always did her best to keep everyone happy. Managing a family with as much variety as mine (her children are a farmer, high-powered business woman, Jehovah Witness, minister, pagan lesbian) couldn’t have been easy. She did her best to keep us all up-to-date.

I have many fond memories of staying with her and Grandpa in their house in Grand Valley, ON. There was always a tin full of red & white mints, a basement full of memories to root through, a Shreddies and Ginger Ale float before bed, a pitiful pine tree at Christmas time and lots of quilts.

About five years ago she decided to carry a cabinet to the basement and took a spill (no one could ever call her undetermined). Since then she’s been living at the Lord Dufferin Centre in Orangeville. She made many friends, even with her poor hearing and eyesight. Her room had a steady rotation of visitors. From the beginning she was determined to keep her figure. She didn’t want to lose her Bathing Beauty title from a bus tour a few years earlier.

Grandma always said that life begins at 60. The 24 years I had the pleasure of witnessing were very well-lived. I can only hope that I am as fortunate as she.