At long last I have uploaded photos to Picasa. Click here,
http://picasaweb.google.co.uk/ralph.stone
or on the ‘pictures’ link to the right. Make sure you actually open the album (called Africa 2006); the front picture of the girl is only the album cover, the other pictures are inside. If you haven’t used Picasa before, clicking on any picture gives you a full sized version. The best view is probably using the slideshow button.
If anyone is considering an alternative to Christmas gifts, let me know (ralph DOT stone AT gmail DOT com). As in the previous post below, people ask for knowledge and not for money, even more reason to help the school. I know that often people would like to assist a good cause or charity, but it is too hard assessing the various organizations, and whether or not your money will actually end up in the right place. I would be happy to forward any contributions to Ikando for immediate use in the Carolyn Miller school at the refugee camp, and personally commit to seeing any gift through to delivery. Even small gifts are important. For example :
$2 buys 50 pencils, a class set
$5 adds a new reader to the library
$10 buys a uniform for a child
$20 buys a term’s worth of stationery for staff
$50 is a class set of maths or english workbooks
$100 would buy the school’s first printer
and so on. And any amount at all would be helpful assisting with the shipping costs. The school has no pens, pencils or paper, even for staff: it is BYO everything. So any contribution at all makes a real, tangible difference and $2 would make an entire class very happy.
I have wonderful children I am proud of. This came from my son Daniel, who lives in Helsinki:
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I’d rather not receive any presents for either Christmas or my birthday…I’d get a lot more satisfaction out of seeing what everyone would’ve spent on my Christmas and birthday combined into a much more meaningful contribution to Challenge, CCC, any of the sans Frontières foundations, like Médecins — although that gets almost all the donations, so I’d prefer if anything went to Reporters, Ecoles, or Engineers sans Frontières — Ikando also sounds good, and Amnesty. But I think Ecoles is the most important, and gets the least attention, and Engineers is obviously close to my heart.
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My oldest daughter Jannah sponsors children through World Vision and has similar thoughts about gifts. I will follow their lead myself this year and get some books happening for the school. Rather than receive gifts myself I would really like a contribution to the school instead. But still get me dark chocolate as well if you like; let’s not go crazy here. Especially that jamaican one that makes you go, ‘Ooh baby’ when you first taste it, and you just completely yield. But I digress…
If anyone has childrens books, primary readers, or any childrens or adult texts they would like to donate, I have worked out the logistics of how to ship things over, anything gratefully received. They will be thrilled with both the books and the thought that someone cares.
I just received this. This is how it is over there; they need time, energy and knowledge more than anything. So many people asked : please don’t give me money. Teach me about IT, hardware, software, projects, schedules, anything you recommend! We are hungry.
December 12,2006
Dear Mr. Ralph Stone,
Greetings in Jesus’ name. How are you and your family
coming on? It is my prayer that is fine in Jesus’
name.
I am Joe E. Greene, one of you IT students from the
Carolyn Miller Community Schoo, Buduburam Refugee
Camp, Ghana. I just want to say a big thank you for
the time spent with us here in Africa. Your time spent
teaching us was very rewarding and interesting and I
just want to say thank you again and we appreciate the
knowledge that you imparted into us. This will never
be forgotten in our lives, we will always remember you
wherever we go.
As we told you before you left, we are not interested
in money and we don’t want money from anyone because
money won’t really help us now; what we need most now
is knowledge. So please try your best to find us
sponsors who will help to support us in school and God
will bless you alll in Jesus’ name.
I hope to hear from you as soon as possible. Extend my
greetings to your beloved wife and daughter, tell them
that I love them all with the love of God.
Sincerely yours,
Joe. E. Greene
Laura (Ikando) said something that I found memorable. There are refugees from Senegal trying to flee to Europe (Spain and the Canary Islands) in small boats. However the EU has adopted a ‘Fortress Europe’ policy and has turned back many boats. A lot of them never survive the voyage. Many are fishing families fleeing dire poverty. They can’t compete with the huge european trawlers that fish right on their shoreline. It’s estimated that 200 to 600 immigrants set sail for the Canaries every day from along Africa’s west coast.
From http://www.tve.org/earthreport/archive/doc.cfm?aid=799
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On a beach in the West African State of Senegal, a traditional fishing canoe is dwarfed by the rusting hulk of a giant European trawler. It’s a stark image which sums up the unequal battle that Senegal’s fishing communities face - against the elements, against the big industrial fishing vessels, against the might of the European Union and against dwindling fish stocks. Senegalese waters are at the centre of a bitter fight over fishing rights. For more than twenty years foreign fleets have been given licences to fish here on a huge scale.
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In an attempt to address desperate poverty Senegal signed away fishing rights, in an unequal contest of economic strength. Now their waters are fished out, and the fishing families are desperate enough to make the perilous journey to Europe. But they are turned back.
Laura quoted a Senegal man as saying : ‘You have taken all our fish. You should take our people too.’
I have really appreciated the power of the simple gift of our time. Before I came over here, while emailing logistics back and forth, I shared with Laura at Ikando my main fear : that I would not add value but actually be a net liability. I thought that when I first arrived, people would need to take time off to orient me; then I would teach for just a few weeks before disappearing again, probably disrupting the curriculum. My teaching style might not be a good fit. They may end up worse off than if I had stayed home and donated the equivalent of the air fare. Her response has stayed with me : just knowing that someone has travelled across the world to spend time with them is really valuable in itself. It makes people feel valued and cared for.
So many times I experienced this directly. Spending an hour to sit with someone, talk to them, listen, teach, anything really; it communicates the powerful message ‘You are worth my taking time to be with.’ I know at home we often slot people into convenient managed time parcels, and try to minimize the disruption to our routines and comfort. This communicates an equally powerful message. Sometimes people just want to be with another, not necessarily talking or needing an agenda, just simply sitting or walking together, spending time, saying : you are worth this.
I realized this is something I needed to learn too. Considering I came over to teach, I am definitely taking more back than I left behind. Letting someone else know that they are worth your time and energy is a great gift.
This morning I finally packed my case and backpack, and checked out of The Golden Gate. The end of an era. Ikando had covered the accomodation so i just needed to sort out the tab I had accrued for those evening cokes and the odd bottle of water. I only have a backpack and a carry-on size case, so re-packing was quick. This means that I have found airport checkins very easy, and then I can just walk off a plane and leave. It also foils Alitalia’s attempts to redirect my luggage to the Falkland Islands. Erin also checked out and moved to the Holiday Feeling hotel; she offered to mind my case while I was off exploring. I took both bags from the hotel straight to my adult hardware class. After class, the students offered to carry the bags for me all the way up to Holiday Feeling on the main road. Erin took my carry-on case, and I was already organised with my backpack for a 2 night trip to Winneba. I wanted to see a little more of Ghana before I went home. I told the class that I would see them on Friday.I met up with School Laura and took a tro-tro on the road outside the camp to Winneba Junction, which was only about a 30 minute trip. Louise, who lives with Laura, was also on the way from a different direction. From the junction, you need to take a shared taxi to Winneba beach; we found a cruisy driver who told us on the way how Winneba was laid out, and that one of the universities there was devoted to musical studies. Winneba is a university town, with 2 large campuses and lots of students. It seemed to be much more layback than Accra and even Cape Coast. We arrived at Lagoon Lodge, which we had seen in the Bradts Guide and which Simon and Hannah had highly recommended. It was probably the prettiest place to stay that I had seen yet. The Ghanaean owner, Isaac, took my details then asked ‘You an Aussie?’ That made him the first to recognize the accent, so I said, yes, how did you know? - 20 years in Australia mate, I have an australian passport! That would explain the Ikea towels in the rooms. Isaac found it worked out better bringing gear over from Australia himself than trying to import things into Ghana.
We walked down to the beach from the lodge. The beach was one of those impossibly perfect postcard scenes; wide, white sand stretching as far as the eye could see in both directions, crashing waves, a row of palm trees lining the sand, an enormous red sun resting languidly on the horizon. We walked along the sand in the direction of town. I absolutely adore sea air and even find salt spray refreshing. For a few years i had lived inland and had always felt a landlocked sort of feeling, a restelssness when far from the sea. When a beach is within range I relax, and right on a beach I relax completely. I noticed that no one was swimming, and that the sand swept sharply uphill away from the incoming waves. I read this to mean there was a strong rip (undertow). Further on this was verified as we saw a concrete sea water pool, about the size of an indoor 25m pool, on the sand next to the water. There were several teenagers in there splashing about. This was the place for a swim. The locals had half a coconut and were playing a form of water coconut rugby that looked like great fun, although it seemed to be completely existential with the rules. We continued to walk into town, which got tricky when the goat tracks started to look more like bush tracks. In the diminishing light we resorted to navigating by following likely looking power lines into the town centre. We looked around at the ‘Old Port’; Winneba is an old fishing village, with loads of character. I like old fishing villages - so far Winneba and I are getting on just fine. With darkness now having fallen, we took a taxi back to the hotel.
The meals here were just superb. I had an octopus and salad for tea with a fruit juice made in one of those enormous stainless steel juicing machines. The hotel was newish and designed to maximize shade and air flow. It was pleasant just sitting in the central courtyard, reading in the shade and cool breeze. I think Isaac had introduced 20 years of western culinary skills to his staff with maybe just a touch of Jamie Oliver. Isaac is one cool hotelier.
The next morning, after breakfast in the dining room, we wandered along the beach to the old fishing village again. African fishing villages are much more lively than ones at home. For one thing, instead of seeing a few boats motor in to a pier, you see countless small, colourful boats wash ashore on the sand, one crashing wave at a time. As each boat arrives there is a clamour of women and children rushing over to help sort fish, before carrying them away in large bowls, on their heads. Minutes later they are being sold (the fish, not the women and children). It is fascinating watching nets being folded, boats being pulled in, shoals of fish being piled up on the sand. Throughout it all there is always music of some sort; drums, singing, a work song for heaving boats and ropes. Children make children noises and run around. Goats wander between the boats and chaos. The sun is low in the sky but already it is very hot; you adjust your walk and pace so that you start to work with the sun, not fighting it. With no effort at all I have picked up a new gait since arriving here, a walk that you just fall into with the extreme heat. Slower, loping, preserving energy, looking down. Thinking just about the next step. Then the next one. I can remember those early French Legionnaire films and can well imagine now what was in their minds when marching through a hot desert : nothing, just taking the next step. It’s obviously not as hot as the Sahara here, but 45 degrees is still enough for me to change pace.
It really strikes me for the first time that I will be flying out soon. I think that when the time comes, I will not so much be departing from Africa, as being torn away from it. I go to bed early and have trouble reconciling the still felt richness of all the sights, sounds and salt air with the reality that I will be in an Airbus in 48 hours.
The next morning I leave early so that I can be back at school by 10am. The principal, James, had asked me to confirm that I would be there on time for an important PTA meeting. 8 o’clock and we are rolling. Laura is coming back to school as well for the same meeting, and Louise is heading in the other direction for Cape Coast. One more day and one more night here to go.
I received an email from an incoming new volunteer who arrives in January. She will be working at the school in an orphange assistant’s position. Knowing what’s involved I admire her already. She asked some specific questions about school and life in the refugee camp. I prepared a document summarizing some practicals, based on my vast, um, 5 week experience. It may be useful to someone else.
Notes on Buduburam Refugee Camp
As usual it is highly subjective, biased, and hand crafted to lie just beyond legal challenge.
I have been amazed by the power of simple affirmations to the children here. As a parent I guess I naturally praise and affirm, and instinctively do the same in a classroom. However the effect here is about a hundred times what it is at home. Often I have said something simple like ‘Good girl!’, ‘Great job!’ or ‘You have done really well.’ The children then look delighted and stay that way for minutes after. When you say something personal and positive, a child locks eye contact with you for about 5 seconds, the eyes widen, the mouth breaks into one of those suppressed proud smiles, and they just stay that way.
When teaching we can teach maths, english, science, history…so many areas of skill and knowledge. But I really believe the most important lessons we need to teach a child are : you are special, you are loved, you are valuable. Because it seems that in a refugee camp, so many just don’t get to hear it. Their caregivers are probably working overtime to meet basic living needs, and there are so many orphans here. I can recommend this to anyone : find a child, give them a bit of attention and eye contact, and let them know they are wonderful in some way. The look you get in return will stay with you, I promise.
I will let this article speak for itself. I have heard so much about Firestone from the Liberian refugees. All I knew about them was that they made tyres. Now I know a lot about them. There are so many powerful companies in Africa behaving just like this, backed initially by the IMF, World Bank and WTO. There are so many reasons to be angry at companies like Firestone, but as usual, for me it is the way they affect their child labourers that stands out. And frustratingly, there are also reasons not to be angry at just them, outstanding example that they are. Because everyone is doing the same thing; they are not that unusual.
http://www.stopfirestone.org/issue.shtml
Tariff escalation is one of the ways in which western countries keep Africa poor. It works something like this.
Step 1 : the IMF and World Bank force a country such as Ghana to open up its markets to the west, and abolish or greaty lower their import tariffs. This means that the west can now buy their raw materials very cheaply. These same western countries keep their own import tariffs high, making it harder for the ‘assisted’ africans to export, and the IMF and World bank are ok with that.
Step 2: you don’t want the ‘assisted’ country to try to add value to the raw materials and sell them to the west for a profit. That’s our job. So the western countries themselves impose relatively low tariffs on incoming raw materials, but prohibitively higher tariffs on processed goods.
Cases in point from Friends of the Earth site (www.foei.org)
In 1995, the IMF forced Haiti to cut its tariff on rice from 35% to 5%. The result was that Haiti’s rice imports more than doubled in 1994-2000. Today, the country is flooded with cheap subsidies rice from the US. The largest beneficiary was Arkansas-based Riceland Flood, whose profits zoomed to $123 million (2002-03) with 50% of its exports to Cuba and Haiti.
Another example is Ghana which was self-sufficient in rice output till mid-1970s. The country had to open up with insistence from IMF and World Bank in return for assistance. The opening up resulted in flooding of cheap subsidised white rice from the US. A US rice farmer gets about $232 per hectare as subsidies. The Ghana government, however, made a vain attempt to raise its tariff on rice imports which was successfully aborted by IMF.
The trade in chocolate is also a good example of how industrialised countries continue to maintain favourable terms of trade for their own industries. The UK import tax on Cocoa beans is 3 per cent while the import tax on chocolate is 16 per cent. This encourages cocoa bean producers like Ghana and Brazil to export the raw material rather than adding value to the product by manufacturing chocolate themselves. Such a system effectively condemns these countries to produce lower value products while industrialised country manufacturers make all the money through processing.
So although many of the countries in West Africa are incredibly wealthy in physical resources , tariff escalation is used to prevent any value adding. Ghana should be the world’s leading supplier of chocolate, which keeps rising in price. Instead, it ships only raw beans whose price has fallen from $3.60 per kilogramme to $1.50 per kilogramme. A cocoa grower in Ghana gets only 1.2% of the price for a bar of chocolate in the global market. Africans can sell cheap fruit to the west for processing, but they can’t sell fruit juice. Importers of fruit juice into the European Union have to pay a tariff of 37% compared to one of 21% – in itself bad enough – on fresh fruit.
If you are interested in finding out more about fair trade and the systems used to keep Africa at the bottom of the ladder, here is an article to start with:
http://www.foei.org/publications/pdfs/worldtradesystem.pdf
For all of the refugee camp, and also throughout most of Africa, home is not somewhere you want to be. Home is typically a small stucture the size of one or two western bedrooms. Tin roof, concrete walls, no insulation, no fans, no airflow. Over 40 degrees in the day, still sweltering at night. The sort of place you sleep in because you have no choice, and in which you store your few possessions; but not the sort of place you look forward to returning to and relaxing with the family. In fact, the more time you can spend outside your own walls, the better.
It is not as though people are going to work either. Refugees by definition are not allowed to work outside the camp; they pay no taxes and receive no services. You try to trade something during the day, or run a small stall. Executive burnout and overtime are not huge problems here. So you spend most of your time in the street just outside your house. Here, you cook, wash, make clothes and furniture, sit and talk. Hail the odd passing vendor for water or food. Every few minutes someone you know passes by: ‘Hello my friend, how are you today?’ You exchange the 3 way African handshake; first hooking thumbs with palms facing, fingers inclined upwards. Sliding down into a conventional western grip, brief squeeze. Then, continuing the slide, slowly pull your hand back towards yourself, with your thumb and middle finger on the way stroking each side of the other’s middle finger. Just as hands are about to part, click fingers, your finger snapping against his thumb, and his against yours. Click-click.
Sometimes it is your turn to walk. In the course of a single day you probably meet most of the people you know. The camp is roughly rectangular, 1km by 1.5km. Children are free to run, play and visit wherever they wish within the confines of the camp until just before dark. As school finishes just after 1pm, this means they have up to 4 hours free time. Those who have chores work, the rest run around chasing goats, climbing the few trees, playing coconut shell football. You can do so many things with a stick and a tin. Soccer is hugely popular; if you are lucky you get to kick a soccer ball on one of the 2 soccer fields, or just wherever. There are no visible toys to speak of, so games are usually noisy, creative, mad affairs. It is impossible to think of the camp for long without including at least some images of playing children. Girls spend hours braiding each other’s hair in those marvellous african plaits. Braiding each other’s hair is not only a sign of friendship and intimacy; it also signifies social status, and plays an important role in ceremonies such as marriages.
Despite the obvious stresses that everyone suffers : financial, housing, material, health, nutrition, general despair - they seem to have social stress mostly sorted out. There is a strong sense of the community, and camp life is a constant interaction with friends. The western diseases of isolation and loneliness seem to be missing. Culturally, the notion of privacy is not well understood here, leading to some misunderstandings with new volunteers who see their hotel room as a sanctuary (I am using the word ‘hotel’ loosely).
When Africans immigrate to a western country, a part of them already feels cut off and isolated from their homeland, regardless of the new opportunities which open up. Given the keys to a house, they are told by well meaning agencies, ‘This is your new home! You may go in now and close the door.’ That is almost the worst thing you can do to a person who has been brought up in an extended village environment for their whole lives. They hunger for the noise of a marketplace, the street where friends walk by, the sight and sound of children and domestic animals whirling around. They long for the warmth of social chaos, colourful clothing, and competing rhythms and music. So they find a vaguely familiar marketplace and go there. Not to shop, but to live.
There are so many types of wealth. They are clearly poor here if measured against economic, educational and health benchmarks. But when it comes to social wealth, they are doing very well thank you.
Still running a few days behind, but catching up. Bandwidth helps. There are still a few days left to go.
This photo was taken after the Saturday workshop I ran with the camp IT committee. I presented a little on how generic IT projects are run, and introduced ITIL. They are at the stage where they don’t want to just skill up technically, they want to know how to pull the skills together into something more. Two weeks earlier I gave another workshop at Busy Internet in Accra, which was much more software development focussed. I came over as a maths teacher but have been pretty happy that I have been able to use some other things I do as well.
Karrus is the man second from the right in the blue shirt. He was the founder of the school, and its visionary. One day he saw too many children sitting around the camp during the day, and wondered why they weren’t at school. Once he found out that either their parents couldn’t afford the fees, or that they were orphans, he decided to do whatever it took to get a free school running. And he did, with over 400 students from nursery to grade 6. How cool is that.
I admire Karrus. He has a lot of quiet strength, is humble, reflective, and kind. He is also my friend. We have some unfinished business in getting some programs running.
It is 45 degrees, there are 52 students in here (not all in shot), and the fan still doesn’t work. Note there are often 3 to a double bench. We are soo-ferring. (The fan: I am onto it). The miracle is that even in the heat, they are so hungry to learn, you can’t walk past a row of desks at any time without several students asking : ‘Show me ! Please show me !’ The topic is place value and addition.
When a student doesn’t understand something, they make a fist and point their thumb down, and adopt the saddest expression known to man. So if you explain something to the class and ask ‘Who gets it?’, if the majority point thumbs down and look sad, it makes you a bit sad too. You can’t help it, surrounded by a sea of unhappy faces. They are not really sad, it is just how they communicate the feedback. But the best thing in the entire world is when someone gets it. It all happens in slow motion. First, look of puzzlement, then concentration. Followed by surprise, gasp. Then, slow smile. Then, huge smile. Stand bolt upright, tell everyone. I GET IT ! Point thumb up, grin from ear to ear. Mr Stoh-ann, Sez Laura, I get it ! Then tell your friend next door all about it - I GET IT !
That just completely makes my day, and on a good day, it happens a lot. For any teachers out there, you will appreciate that it doesn’t get any better than this.
I am sorting photos now : here’s one of my favourites, the girl I mentioned in a previous post. I found out later many children have never seen their image. They have been born on the camp, there is almost no glass anywhere, and most homes have no mirrors.
You can see from the background that the school computer room was still being built. It ended up as a real room with benches, voltage regulators, working pc’s, switches and cabling. I got more personal satisfaction out of building this small room than I got out of managing a multi million dollar Data Centre back home.
The picture is an earlier one of (in order): Laura from school, Erin, Simon, Hannah and Louise, taken at Big Millie’s, the night we went to Kokobrite Beach.
Tonight, Simon, Hannah, Erin and I all met at the camp ‘bus’ station, where taxis and tro-tro’s tout loudly and enthusiastically for business. Simon knows of a place up the road called JD Fast Food, which apparently has western style cheeseburgers. Accustomed as we have been this afternoon to the finer things of life, a cheeseburger seems most appropriate. And we are all now highly aware of my imminent departure. Friday sounds like it will be fun, but busy. So tonight will be a special farewell, just us. Tro-tro ? Simon rises to the occasion. I think not! A shared taxi, man, and hang the expense. Ok, 50 cents each it will be, but it still feels as though we are being a bit wild and reckless. We are having fun and I am really enjoying the company of these great young friends.
We arrive at JD, on the opposite side of the road, after the conventional ‘drive on the wrong side of the divided road when you can see it’ approach. Mental note : I hope air traffic controllers at Accra airport are trained overseas. We each order cheeseburgers. The service is exceptional tonight; all smiles, double checking our orders, apologies for a small delay. It’s a dead giveaway that the real Ghanean staff have been tied up and we are being served by bandits, but I don’t care. We sit outside and chat for a while. On the way home, we can’t hail a taxi, so grab the first tro-tro going west and are home by 9.
This will be the last night at the Golden Gate. I will be spending the next two nights at Wineba Beach. And Ikando has secured Erin a room at the Holiday Feeling, where it is always busy.
What a strange day. I have been here now for exactly 4 weeks, and have not even once had anything remotely resembling an ordinary day.
Erin had been assisting with creating the tickets for the Miss Liberia (in Ghana) Beauty Pageant, and in locating a suitable printshop with Adobe Photoshop, Microsoft Access and a decent printer, had been introduced to Kobby : a wealthy young Ghanaean who had apparently built a luxury hotel in the middle of the camp. I met Kobby last week when I went in with Erin, and we walked to his admin complex just off the camp. It comprised a modern western style office, truck depots, a new open air pink bar and an adjoining hotel in the process of completion. We then learnt that Kobby had built yet another hotel in the centre of the camp, to luxury 5 star standards. It sounded unlikely but then so do most things here the first time you hear them.
It turns out that Kobby had always owned the large block of land where the new hotel stands. It is completely surrounded by a huge concrete wall around 4 metres high. The hotel complex started off as his own luxury home. He then watched the refugee camp growing, encroaching on the land around him, slowly engulfing his property. He had already built several hotels around Ghana; it occurred to him that he could stake first claim in what he foresaw to be a major new satellite town. He may be right. I have seen photos of early Victorian towns such as Bendigo and Ballarat, which initially were ratty tent cities with goat tracks, hastily erected during the chaos of a gold rush. The tents became rude huts, the huts in turn became small buildings of wattle, daub and wood. The tracks firmed with use and roads with names were born. At some point someone took a risk and built a serious structure. Here, today, that would be Kobby. Strategically, Buduburam is in between 2 major towns each 10km away, and supports a refugee community of 40-50,000 and a local community of maybe 10,000 in the catchment radius. It could well be a new town.
The UN has told the refugees that after June 2007, they would be receiving no further support. The UN considers Liberia to be stable following recent elections, and has been encouraging them to repatriate home. Buses and incentives are being offered. However, the Liberians here are not convinced. The capital city, Monrovia, still has no ‘current’ and there are stories of raids by armed bands in the pitch black of the city. The entire urban infrastructure was destroyed during the awful civil war. The AFL, the official armed forces, has no arms. Peacekeepers remain. And apart from that, there is a strong community here, safety , routines. Water, occasional electricity, the inspirational Dr Daniel. Markets and an economy. Friends. No one wants to get on a bus and start again somewhere dark and lonely.
So no one knows what June will bring. What appears certain, however, is that there will still be 40,000 plus people living here. One way or another, whether people return or not, this camp appears destined to become a town.
Now it turns out that the new hotel is about 200m from the very school I teach in, just a little further down the main road (or creek bed, depending on your viewpoint). I did not believe this when first told. it would be impossible to miss. As it was. When I first looked in the described direction, I saw a high wall, a watch tower, the upper level of a 2-3 storey complex. Tinted glass windows (glass! no one here has glass), new external air conditioners in neat rows, structured cabling, satellite dishes. I walked back into school and asked (School) Laura about the hotel. She also expressed disbelief. I said : ‘Come with me…’, took her arm, marched her to the school gate. One small step outside, turn right. Look ! And there it is, in plain view.
There is a story about early Pacific natives being unable to see tall ships headed for their shores. Only the tribe’s medicine man could see the shapes approaching, and warned the others. When sailors did indeed land on shore they thought he had had visions. With no context or framework to support sailing ships, they were simply invisible. Maybe that’s how I missed the hotel. Or maybe when you first arrive here, everything is so alien and unfamiliar, that you completely suspend judgement and just observe, setting aside things that don’t fit for processing on another day. If I noticed it at all it may have been quickly labelled ‘potential UN administration compound behind big wall’ or similar, and then forgotten.
Just before my hardware class, Simon and Hannah pass by, on the way to the hotel ‘for a swim.’ Kobby has invited us to be the first to try out the new pool. The hotel is to open soon. I promise to join them later, after my class, and after first fetching my shorts and towel from my room.
As I approach the watch tower side of the complex, I notice an entrance with double gates, the sort of thing you would expect to see in an embassy. Everything is shut tight. When I am only a few metres away, the gate swings open : You are welcome, i am told. I pass through the airlock style double entrance. The next scene is completely surreal. Salvador Dali meets Picasso meets Conrad Hilton. I navigate around a driveway and take a few short steps to the pool area. It is a very large, very modern, very clean, clear blue chlorinated swimming pool. At least 30m by 10, kidney shaped, with a smaller circular shallow pool fitting the interior curve. There are lawns, conifers, watering systems and fountains. Beautiful tiles everywhere, real slate and marble; all imported Italian, we find out later. Erin, Simon and Hannah are lounging on deck chairs in a state of absolute abandon. Everything is very new and very expensive. They read my expression and we all laugh out loud. Words fail. I try to say a few things, stumble, try again. I just shake my head. We all laugh again at the incongruity of it all.
I turn around to look at the hotel. From the outside at least, the same surreal opulence in every detail. I walk around taking it all in. There is no view of anything beyond the hotel walls; this is a private oasis of western luxury that all along, has been a few hundred metres from my class of 52 students in the hot, airless, grade 4 classroom. I sit, we have a few cold drinks. I change into swimming gear in the new change rooms, cool off under one of the outside showers (new eurpopean fittings), then take the plunge. I have no idea whether I should feel the guilt of privilege or not, but it feels cool and heavenly all the same. Not for the first time, I decide to suspend judgement until later. After a swim, I retire to the deck chairs. I am watching Simon and Hannah swimming; they look like any other happy young couple frolicking in a friend’s pool back home, playing, laughing, splashing and taking turns to fall off the floating dolphin. It is good to see them having so much fun; they have been here for months, gone through a lot, and are enjoying their time out. They deserve it.
Kobby arrives. The man is a multi-tasking entrepreneurial machine. He appears very young, under 30, fit, shaved head, intense. After talking to him for a while you realize that he is simultaneously running numerous enterprises : building, trucking, cement, hotels, importing. That’s the few I know of. Erin tells me that Kobby has offered to let us stay in one of his hotel rooms, a 3 bedroom shared area, on Friday night. Are we interested ? There is a little nervousness about the tariffs, as everyone is on a tight budget. I volunteer to field the commercials. Kobby shows me through the room. It is not completely finished : the TV is not installed, and there are only 3 air conditioners, not 4. I figure, Let’s rough it. There are 3 large bedrooms meeting a common lounge area, all the beds are brand new. Mattresses, satin sheets, pillows and blankets still wrapped in plastic. The bathroom has new Italian everything. There is real hot water. Kobby and I negotiate: it is simple, we are straight with each other, and are both happy. Done. As we return outside, I let the others know we have commercial agreement and we will be here Friday.
We realize two things : Friday will be my last night here. And Friday this very same hotel will be hosting the Beauty Pageant. Kobby has offered his pool area as the venue seating up to 400 guests. As the first guests in the new hotel, we will have front row seats. We step outside onto the dust, the gates close behind us, and we are suddenly immersed again into a world of chickens, goats, charcoal burners, tin huts and refugees. African children run over to touch our hands. I turn around, look again at the gates which conceal another world, light years away, and we agree to meet later at the tro-tro station. Simon has a special idea for tea and we are on a roll.
Liberian : Mr Stohann ! I am soo-ferring !
Australian : I find that your policy : ‘Only one girl can go to the toilet at a time during class’ is challenging.
Liberian : Ooooh ! Mr Stohann ! (jig, jig, bob). Ooooh !
Australian : Very challenging.
Liberian : Yoor-nate
Australian : May I please go to the rest room for a short time ?
Liberian : Deff-cate
Australian : Maybe a while longer
There is no self-consciousness with human needs. It took me a while to learn that euphemisms are completely lost. Where is the bathroom ? Huh ? Rest room ? Huh ? Boys room ? Huh ? Wash my hands ? It doesn’t work. You simply need to say ‘Urinate’, which is not just fine, but the only way to say it, in mixed company. It is said with the middle ‘i’ skipped, more like a high speed ‘unit’.
One of the female volunteers in Accra related that she was walking with a group of local women along a road when she felt caught short. Following protocol, she told them ‘I need to urinate’. As in, can we find a place. Good idea, they agreed, and all squatted together there and then. It wasn’t exactly crowded but it wasn’t exactly deserted either. However, the need was there, and when in Rome…
Liberian : Tea
Australian : Any hot drink. If you want coffee, say ‘Nescafe’.
Liberian : I will be there at 4 o’clock
Australian : No idea. I still haven’t worked this one out at all.
I arrived back just in time for the hardware class at 1.30. Now the previous friday, I had taken a few extra classes and was a little hoarse. So i excused myself from the class to get a drink for my raspy throat. I came back with a bottle of coke (a small glass one) and drank it while lecturing. Today, one of the adult class members disappeared after I started teaching. He returned with a bottle of coke and a borrowed can opener, and opened the bottle for me there and then. The rest of the class erupted in laughter and applause, recognizing the extent of the gesture. Now I know that a coke is about 3000 cedis; not much for me, but for these guys, equivalent to buying someone a bottle of whisky while you are unemployed. In a refugee camp you see some of the negative extremes of conditions, but you also see some of the positive extremes of human traits such as warmth, generosity and kindness.
I went on to teach them about software drivers and their relationship to hardware, how to install, update and verify, what is included on XP disks. At the end of the class they knew more about drivers than before, and I knew more about kindness.
At 7am I met Laura for breakfast in the hotel dining room. I ordered oats and orange juice. The plan this morning was to visit Cape Coast Castle, which along with Elmina down the road, is the most famous of the slave forts. I thought it opened at 8am but when we arrived, we were told it opened at 9. So we wandered back to the Oasis on the beach. Right in front of us, 20 men were sitting on the sand pulling in a huge fishing net, 10 on each side. The end of the net was marked by a buoy, easily 100 metres out; the width of the net between the 2 teams pulling the ropes was about 30 metres. The waves were crashing in, lifting the net up high and pulling it back and forth. They were working in time to a rhythmic call made by one of them, a simple 8 beat ‘Ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho, ho… HO!!!’ with a huge pull on the 8th call only. The caller appeared to be working with the waves. Each pull brought the rope in by only about 30cm, so it took about 40 minutes altogether to pull it in. From the length of the ropes behind them, they may well have been there for some time already. I ordered a hot chocolate, just sat, and took it in. When the net finally arrived, we saw an enormous catch of fish thrashing around at the very end, silver flashes, glinting in the sun. Suddenly from nowhere a noisy crowd of women and children arrived with buckets and large stainless steel bowls. Minutes later, the fish were sorted into rough piles on the sand, some type of transactions took place, and women and children dispersed again, laden with fish, bound for the market stalls near the castle. The men started the huge task of cleaning and folding the nets and ropes. As they were doing this, a few fishing boats started coming into shore, all man powered or with very simple small sails. Along the shore we had already seen countless ships in the process of being built. Straight logs around 15m long and 1 metre in diameter are laid on the sand, and hollowed out by hand using a small tool like an adze (a small hand mattock). The sides are also shaped into a rough ‘V’. You can see many of these that seem to have just been started, and others that are nearly finished. It is a continuous process.
Now I must warn you to skip this next section if you may be disturbed; I detail some of the day to day runnings of a slave fort. It really is horrible. If in doubt, skip.
We went to the Castle, again securing a student rate after a short explanation. We entered. The Castle visit was one of those things that changes you. I have never been to Auschwitz but I assume it is also one of those places that would change anyone. Firstly, we were shown the history of the slave trade in a museum visit with videos, pictures and exhibits. This gave some context to the following tour.
A guide showed us the huge cannons, both short and long range, and the hundreds of rusting cannon balls still arranged in several pyramids 1 metre tall. The long range cannons had a range of 4km, and there were about 20 of them lined up on the wall. The shorter range ones were ‘only’ 2km range. We then descended into the dungeons. Light globes had been strung up for our benefit. The guide explained that in these dark underground caverns, shaped like wine cellars with arched rooves about 10 metres high, 200 slaves at a time would be crammed. I could not picture 200 people fitting in the rooms at all. There were several such dungeons. All pitch black with the exception of a tiny missing brick just below roof level on the side facing the sea. Original signage existed : ‘Male Slave Dungeon’ and ‘Female Slave Dungeon’. No sanitation except for an open culvert about the width of a brick wide and deep. The castle was neglected until the 1990’s, when a combined British and UN effort saw to its restoration. An archeology team went in first and the project was stalled for a good year; evidence of the lack of sanitation remained, and archeologists found that the floor was actually a foot lower than originally thought. An ancient layer of excrement covered the stone floors. The mind boggles. It took a year or two before the site was cleaned enough for the restorers to move in. Unbelievably, at the height of the slave trade, the British built a lovely chapel directly above.
Another room was marked ‘Condemned Room’. Here, incalcitrants were placed. The procedure was simple. Put people in until there are exactly 60. Then wait until they are all dead. No food, water or light. Wait until the very last one has died before sending in a team to remove them all, and repeat for the next 60. The guide pointed out the frequent clawmarks in the stonework.
We were then shown a door marked ‘Door of No Return.’ This is where the surviving slaves were walked to waiting boats. This door opened to the outside directly on the beach. Slaves were bathed in the water (we now know why) and placed in longboats to be rowed to slave ships. The ships themselves were awful places with only half surviving the voyage. The Door of No Return has had a powerful effect on the African psyche. Africans are much more family and community oriented than westerners. The idea of brothers and sisters being shipped and exiled far from home is almost as horrifying as the extreme physical harshness. Africans still proudly follow the fortunes of Jamaicans and Brasilians (ex african slaves) and also sucecssful american black leaders and musicians. They still have a home to come back to. So a few years ago, descendants of slaves from overseas, who had never been to Africa, returned to Cape Castle. They walked up the beach to the other side of the Door of No Return. This time, a sign had been placed above the door on the outside. Same lettering and style, but this one reading ‘Door of Return’. The door was opened from the inside, and they walked through. After a hundred and fifty years the chain was broken, the door lost its power, and healing took place.
Side note : Australia is one of the very few countries which can appreciate the slave trade from experience. While Britain was plying the Atlantic Trade Route with shackled african slaves, they were also shipping shackled convicts to permanent exile in the new colony of Australia to work for settlers. Africans who know a little about Australia know about this history and talk about Africans and Australians having a similar heart, knowing suffering. When I told people that I have ancestors each side of my family who arrived as exiled convicts, an immediate bond formed and there was a lot of interest in the details. That may be why we are such a popular destination here for immigration.
After the tour, the guide gave us a short but moving sermon on lessons we all can learn. The subtext : white brothers and sisters, please go home and influence others, may this never happen again. People here are fascinated that it is our western culture, in other ways so enlightened, which has taken humanity where no one else was willing to go.
We left about 11am, just in time for me to get back to camp for an afternoon class, with a lot to reflect upon on the 2 hour journey back.
As we walked through the gates to the Hans Cottage Botel Crocodile Farm, we were met by an elderly, grey haired guard at the gate, who hastily straps on an authentic, battered old police helmet, british bobby, numbered badge and all. ‘Restaurant or Hotel?’ he enquires. Restaurant. He gestures up the driveway: ‘You are welcome.’
Immediately on my right is the edge of a large lake, which is unfenced and simply meets the road. This is true for the entire lake shore; no sign of fencing or anything else to deter a wandering crocodile. I shift track to the centre of the road. Laura has never seen a crocodile; given the lack of visible wildlife at Kakum, she is anxious to sight one. We cross a walkway over the lake to reach the restaurant. The complex is one of the most relaxing places I have been to since arriving here. It is a large, thatched roof structure, built on stilts in the centre of the lake. There are several such buildings connected by walkways. We see a few russian and french tourists; the local staff speak French primarily but also English.
French is (literally and figuratively) the lingua franca for the whole of West Africa. Only Liberia and Ghana are English speaking; French is universal everywhere else. Even the school I am teaching in has mandatory French classes for refugee Liberian children. So if there is ever a language barrier, people shift naturally to French.
We take a table by a waist high wall overlooking the lake. I order a local dish, ‘Red Red’, which is a meal of beans and plantein. Laura orders a chicken salad. I immediately see a crocodile in a small patch of water lilies. With just the snout and eyes barely visible, it takes a little to convince Laura that this is indeed her first sighting and not just a stick. She wonders how large it is. I explain that you can tell the size of a crocodile from estimating the distance between the eyes and snout. Less than a handspan is probably 2m tops and unlikely to attack you, a handspan means 3m plus and a real threat, a handspan and a half or more is a serious beast. She had never heard of a ‘crocodile roll’. Being australian and having global educational responsibilities, I say that they are most likely to attack near the shore or in water so that they can drag you down and roll you around. They are not given to leaving the water, walking along tracks, entering bars with open doorways, and snapping at diners. Really. Despite this, I am surprised that it is such a short path from the crocodiles’ main feeding area to the first building, maybe 10m. No barriers anywhere.
A woman appears with a short switch stick and a bucket of meat. She taps the side of a small wooden stairway which runs into the water and makes a whistling sound. We have a ringside seat: all this is just metres from our table. Four snouts glide through the water, triggering great excitement. Two small french children are especially captivated and watch from inside the wall near our table. Two of the smaller crocs climb the bank and walk slowly towards the woman. She reaches into the bucket, balances some white meat on the end of the switch, and holds it just above the croc’s snout. It reaches up and snaps (Oh la la ! Maman !) and is soon joined by the second smaller one. The other two are much larger and just watch silently from the water’s edge at the bottom of the stairs.
The french enfants then wander to the small gate that the woman had gone through, and left ajar. Children gasp and make a move to follow her. Just then a croc slowly ambles towards the feeding woman. She gives a concerned glance and starts walking back towards the gate, just as children start to try to pass through. French mother calls out, woman backs in, gate closes. I think I must be adjusting to constant chaos, because I take another bite of Red Red and consider ordering an orange juice. Later on a 3m croc emerges. A male staff member steers its path by going around behind it and lifting its tail a little, then spinning it around into the desired direction. Is that how you usually handle them ? Laura asks. Well, no. But given the safety practices here it is hard to know where to start. I am thinking safety barriers and someone with a revolver would be handy, but that would take all the excitement out of it.
The french mother leaves with the number of children she came with, and we walk down the pathway again to take a tro-tro home. A very new, very large luxury 4WD starts to turn out of the driveway as we are standing there. A french-african woman, the passenger, opens the window and offers us a lift back to Cape Coast. We climb in; I can’t tell the model but there are only 2 seats in the back, wide bodied bucket seats, and if I stretch my legs out I can’t hit the front seats. It is air-conditioned; one is comfortable.
We arrive in Cape Coast and on the way see a huge soccer stadium. I see glimpses of the crowd through wire gates and estimate 15 to 20,000. This must be some match. What was most striking however was the top tiered seating. There were 3 grandstands, and we passed slowly behind 2 of them. From behind, if you looked straight up, you could see a whole row of people on the top tier sitting hanging over the edges of the grandstand, about 15 or 20 metres straight above the ground. Anyone leaning back or over-balancing would simply keep going.
We were dropped off at a road way that was closed due to a funeral: our hosts’ destination. I thought it must have been a wedding. There were seats arranged along the roadway, a marquee, people with drinks, huge speakers, a band, pictures of a young woman. Laura pointed out though that everyone was wearing black and white clothing, signifying a Ghanaian funeral. The atmosphere was that of a wake celebrating a life, and not a weeping and wailing regret.
In Africa, you always feel right in the middle of the rhythms and circles of life. Rise with the sun, walk among the chickens and goats, listen to the drums whose sound resonates somewhere deep inside you. Watch the children run around, the very few old people shuffle along. Walk with 2 funerals in consecutive days. Corn is ground at sunrise, baked into corn bread straight away. You don’t just have routines and live life, you feel very much that you are life, life is you, you seek water, shade, eat simply, follow the sun, sleep again till it rises. Walk, talk. There is an ancient deja vu, a familiarity. Africa arouses the part of you where instincts live.
Another short beach walk, cut a little short as crowds start arriving, well behaved but a little ratty. The soccer game has ended. I watch one huge man race up the beach in a t-shirt, black pants and black army style boots. He appears drunk and is blowing a whistle repeatedly. He falls in the sand, rolls around, unsuccessfully attempts handstands. Then I notice a policeman watching from the distance. Rather than having a word with him, the young policeman watches him unconcerned. Then I observe the officer a little more closely: same black pants, same black boots. I make a wild guess that the beach ambience has probably peaked for the evening, so we head back to the hotel. I lie awake for a while reading and then fall into another deep, deep sleep.
On Sunday morning I took breakfast at the hotel around 7am. Fruit salad, fresh juice, doxycyclin. Laura appeared and we walked down to the main tro-tro station for a day trip to Kakum National Park, about 30km to the north. Stock up on water for the drive. We find the right tro-tro and get as far as the first road block.
It is perfectly normal here to hit a police road block once or twice a trip. Whenever we are waved over, the mate, following protocol, gives the driver what could be bank notes wrapped in white paper. For all I know, it could be 7,000 cedis, what do I know. But its probably not money because what’s the point of carrying money wrapped in white paper during a license and roadworthy check. So the driver hops out with his driver’s license and the white paper, I have no idea what’s in it, it could be anything, and talks to the police officer. Traditionally at this stage all are usually happy; unless the van actually explodes into a ball of fire at the road block, the roadworthy requirements are always met and we move on. Today, however, there is a sergeant sitting under some shade directing events. It seems that the driver has misjudged the seniority and got the commercials wrong. So we sit for 10 minutes, watch the awkward displays of body language and lecturing, and listen to passengers argue about the scene in native Twi. Driver returns, exchanges look with the mate, mutter mutter, and we are away again.
Kakum is a great national park. I negotiate paying the Ghanaian student price instead of the full adult price of 90,000 cedis each. Volunteers are usually offered discounted rates if issued with an ID card, but we are not carrying one. A short quiz to verify we are indeed maths teachers, and we pass.
Kakum is not quite a rainforest, but is technically a tropical forest. That means rainforest-ish, with a brief dry season. The highlight is a canopy walk 30 metres above the ground. A swaying suspension bridge built of aluminium ladders for a walkway, suspended by ropes and a side net attached to steel cables strung between trees. The walkway is in several segments and is about 350m long. It is just spectacular.
http://www.ghanatourism.gov.gh/regions/highlight_detail.asp?id=1&rdid=65
There are 6 in our party accompanied by a local guide, Stephen. There are monkeys, elephants and leopards in the park, but it is unusual to see any during the day because they avoid this end of the park when people are around. After enjoying the canopy views and listening to the sounds of countless birds, Stephen then takes us for a 1 hour walk, showing us many local medicinal trees. The Offram tree, whose bark is a natural mosquito repellant. Locals burn small pieces of bark using them as natural mosquito coils. The Strangler Fig, which envelopes giant trees in snakelike tentacles and squeezes the life out of them. The Ya-Ya tree, a natural viagra. Pardon ? We think we all heard it wrong. But no. Note that I am the only man in the group, among 5 women. With no hint of self-consciousness, Stephen helpfully explains the concept for those who may be unclear. Terms like performance, stamina, endurance are used. There are discrete gestures and hand signals. References to the need for harmonious domestic life. A man has certain responsibilities. The girls are amused and innocently ask a few questions as well to help the discussion along. The name of the tree? That would come from the women of the village - ‘ya-ya!’ Time to move on I guess? Not yet. Is anyone in the group interested in following it up, sampling the bark ? All attention turns to the men in the party; well that would be me. I’m good, I say bravely, no thank you. Ok Stephen, it really must be time to move on…but no! Now Stephen is a fit and healthy man of around 30. ‘I myself…’ he begins. I am shouting desperate telepathic messages, ‘Stephen ! No!!! Don’t go there !!!’ But he does go there; our guide is here to help. Every 2 weeks he takes a small piece of bark and chews it. What difference does it make, you are probably wondering. He tells us. The girls think this is great stuff.
On safer ground, the next trees were ebony and mahogany. I had never seen an ebony tree before; apparently they are quite rare and obviously very valuable. It takes 200 years to reach a good size and the park is filled with them. Laura is keen to see an elephant. I enquire at the desk, but the man explains that logistically they could not guarantee a sighting. The park is 360 sq km and they may all be at the other end. Monkeys ? Not today.
We leave the park. We had noticed a place called ‘Hans Cottages Boton’ on the way, which is described as a crocodile park. To compensate for the lack of wildlife, we start to walk down the road towards the farm, neither of us remembering how far down it was. It is a nice quiet walk. Since arriving in Africa I have been pretty well surrounded by noise 24 hours a day. But here I can only hear birds singing, the wind swishing through branches, and our footsteps. It is a great contrast and I am in the zone. We pass several small villages over about 3km.
Now all children in Africa from a very young age learn to wield a panga, a full sized, wicked looking machete. It is used for everything : stripping bamboo, slicing fruit and pineapples, firewood, grass cutting, woodwork, chickens and goats. I now no longer look twice if I see a four year old on camp swinging a blade in rapid arcs, close to fingers and bare toes. Seeing a group of unattended 4-10 year olds walking towards us all wielding pangas, though, is not something I see every day. The children are delighted to see us. They raise their pangas, wave them cheerily, beaming and singing. ‘Oberoni, oberoni ! How are you !’ I give my most disarming smile and we wave back.
We ask several people on the way how far the crocodile farm is. The responses are, in order : a long walk, a short walk, too far to walk, 1 km and 13 miles. We decide to flag the next passing tro-tro and jump on. To the crocodile farm, please. I am behind the driver and glance at the odometer. It was precisely another 11km, but we arrive.
I met School Laura at Kasoa, and we hopped on a tro-tro bound for Cape Coast. It rained heavily during the trip to the point where the drive looked dangerous. If you have ever been on a normal tro-tro drive, you would know that singling one out as dangerous is saying something. I doubt I could use a seat belt again without being shown how. Apparently it does usually rain in Ghana during November. I have heard rain a couple of times overnight, and seen the odd brief sprinkle during the day from a classroom, but this is the first serious rain I have seen. It lasts for about 30 minutes, and is over by the time we arrive. The drive is also delayed due to roadworks. To increase the interest level, signs and police occasionally direct traffic into oncoming traffic lanes.
There is one thing I have noticed. Divided roads are a new concept here. The road between Accra and Cape Coast has new divided lanes in several sections. But there has been no guidance for drivers in how to use them. So if you are driving along and there is a place on the other side of the road you want to get to, one option would be to pass the place you want, and do a u-turn at the next break. Let’s call this ‘the sensible option’. The other option is to take the break before your destination, then drive on the wrong side of the road into oncoming traffic until you get there. Let’s call this ‘the preferred option’. Seriously. Everyone does it : buses, trucks, police, tro-tro’s, cars. On a divided road you still expect oncoming traffic.
Arrived safely and surprisingly around 3pm. Cape Coast is the site of the original european forts and also the huge slave fort. The area has a fascinating history. It became a Portugese trading port in the 1400’s. Then the Dutch took it over. Then the Danes. Then the Swedes. (The Belgians were not here, but were next door in the Congo.) Even the Ghanaians wanted some action in running the place. Then finally Britain. It changed hands several times, usually after the arrival of naval vessels and cannons. There was a scramble in those days to secure trade in West Africa. Ghana, which was called The Gold Coast until independence in 1957, was seen as a key strategic position. The coast is lined with forts and colonial buildings, some dating back to the 1500’s, many to the 16-1700’s. By the way, next year is going to be huge in Ghana; the 50th anniversary of independence. Ghana was the first country here to achieve independence and has had stable government since.
Trade originally comprised genuine trade and relationships between the colonial powers, and the african chiefs. However, England changed things somewhat by developing the Atlantic Trade Circle. This meant shipping guns from England to West Africa, trading them for slaves, gold and diamonds, taking them to America, then picking up there goods to take back to England. Then around again, every trip a profit making venture. People have been bringing guns and weapons to Africa ever since. It is hard to have minor border skirmishes when the country is flooded with AK-47’s, which can be easily bought at black markets for US $6 each, almost anywhere in the continent. Not to mention rocket launchers. If there are any arms dealers reading, could you please cut it out ? And yes, I am talking to you, England, Germany, France, USA, Russia and China in particular. These countries earn more in arms trading than they give in total aid.
http://www.controlarms.org/the_issues/movers_shakers.htm
http://www.irinnews.org/webspecials/small-arms/default.asp
To its credit England broke the cycle when the anti-slavery movement gained momentum in the 1800’s, stopping and searching vessels leaving the african coast. Still shipped guns though. This exact town was the centre of the universe for slavery and arms trade.
Cape Coast is a nice town, quieter and less manic than Accra. Being right on the coast means there is a beach (yay) and a sea breeze (yay yay). After getting rooms at a hotel that Erin had stayed at and recommended, ‘Mighty Victory’, we explored town a bit and had a light meal right on the beach. A place called ‘The Oasis’ had a few chairs and thatched umbrellas right on the sand. I watched the waves rolling in, the approaching sunset, the fishing boats coming to shore, and the wild foraging pigs. Although I am all for wild pigs, they were not helping the relaxing beach ambience. Then a couple of dogs arrived and chased the smaller pigs around while I sipped a fresh orange juice. A man, possibly a swineherd, ran up, arms waving frantically, to chase the dogs away. He was not quick enough and dogs did big circles on the sand, chasing pigs again each full circle. It all seemed to make perfect sense at the time.
Around 7, feeling tired, I went back to the hotel and read for a bit, before noticing the tv. I watched a little Dawson’s Creek, then Angel, before drifting off around 8.30. The hotel room was very comfortable and I slept right through.
Saturday morning I slept in a little. I wake early every morning and know to within 10 minutes what time it is. From the early grey of the morning sky, it was 5:45. After my late social night I have slept in and missed the drums.
I am now completely used to cold showers. I have at least 2-3 a day. The water in shaded tanks here is as cold as an outdoor pool in Melbourne; I would say quite cold, but not chilling. It is stored in a huge polytank on the floor immediately above my bed where they are still building. There are no cement mixers here - concrete is hand mixed. If I see a crack appear in the ceiling I have estimated that it will take 1.7 seconds to casually stretch and rise from bed, unlock the door, and leap into the corridor from a standing start. The tank is about 2m diameter, and between 2-3m high, so I guess a 10,000 litre tank. 10 cubic metres of water weighing 10 tonnes, when the tank is filled by the water trucks. And the trucks come frequently now, after we raised the issue of water running out, and Ikando who are paying the bill escalated it with the hotel. In Africa, the Sword of Damocles is a black polytank. Mix concrete like the wind, my building friend ! And don’t spare the reo.
While having breakfast at the Brotherhood, we saw a funeral procession coming up the main track, ‘The 18′. I have seen a couple of these in the camp now. A noisy procession, beating drums, shuffling dance, everyone with their faces smeared with a blue-grey paint. Pictures of the deceased, a young man in his 20’s who died suddenly and unexpectedly after a brief illness. They stopped at each stall and showed us a picture of the man so that he would not be forgotten. One of the leaders asked me if I was comfortable having some of the war paint on my cheek. I agreed, there was a short 5 second ceremony, and I shifted from observer to participant. It was moving. Sudden deaths here are both tragic and routine. People around me were saying things like : ‘Another one! He’s the third this week!’ In a camp of 50,000, that would translate to a mortality rate of 1 in 50 p.a. or 20 per 1000 of population, I guess not unexpected given the circumstances and environment. Malaria, cholera and typhoid are commonplace as pretty well only volunteers are prperly vaccinated (due to the cost.) So I think it is not so much the rate, as the average young age, that is more tragic. As in, ‘Another one, only 24 years old !’
At 9am I gave a workshop to a representative group of IT professionals at the camp. There are quite a few technical qualifications around, even Cisco and MSCE. I gave an all purpose project management presentation which seemed to be relevant. Covered in the soft chalk dust, with adults sitting in the school double benched desks. There are people here who have some great ideas, but never schedules, dates, or names of real people doing things. Resources don’t get pulled together, budgets are a surprise on the day causing a frantic search for a sponsor at the last minute, and it just doesn’t happen. I have an idea that teaching key people here how to plan a simple project might be the best thing I can do in the short time left. At first they found it a bit abstract. So I asked them, ‘I am going to Accra on a tro-tro at 7:45 tomorrow morning. This other guy is going to Accra sometime next week. Which one of us will definitely get there ? Why ?’ Ah-ah ! More solid examples please.
So we talked through how to build an internet cafe in Liberia, with today as day one of the project. I know that this is an actual stalled thought. When do we want it to open ? Shall we say, September 1 2007 ? What happened the day before to make it real ? Oh, so who ordered the truck ? What was the name of the man who organized transport, you ? Who signed the lease? When did he go over to check out properties ? 3 months earlier ? On a bus ? Who designed the network, you ? Who then ? How many PC’s ? etc etc. Working from the final goal backwards, rather than the vague idea forwards. All basic stuff for our PM readers but I think it was the right message on the right day. So many ideas here are in a holding pattern, and people sort of wait for the next step, then the next; things may proceed slowly and sequentially, or stall altogether.
The workshop finished very positively and we did the group photos thing in front of the blackboard. I grabbed my backpack, raced to the tro-tro’s, and caught one bound for Cape Coast where I planned to stay the rest of the weekend.
On Friday I decided to visit St Gregory’s Catholic Clinic for a consultation. Nothing dramatic. Before arriving in Ghana I had been enjoying the full benefits of a high fibre diet, and had a convenient daily routine. But now that it had been a full week between drinks, so to speak, I thought it prudent to seek advice. Anything unusual is worth following up, I had been advised. Even nicks and cuts here can be fatal if neglected. I was told to see the french ‘Dr Daniel’ if at all possible. I arrived at the clinic at 7.30am, registered, and paid a nominal 2000 cedis fee. Already I was ticket #22.The waiting area was full. It was a familiar hospital waiting room atmosphere, a little downmarket compared to the west perhaps. But like airports around the world, hospital waiting rooms have a universal feel to them. After 2 hours I was weighed and had my blood pressure taken, and was then directed to the consultation waiting area. Dr Daniel was still on ward rounds, so I joined the 21 people in front of me and waited.
Karrus knew I was there, and came over to verify that I was fine. After a few sms’s flew around between Karrus and the powers that be, Dr Daniel came over, introduced himself, and ushered me in first. I felt guilty at queue jumping, for about 3 microseconds. Now I had already pictured exactly what Dr Daniel would look like : 50′ish, full grey hair, kindly smile, spectacles, french accent. The real Dr Daniel, however, was young and boyish. He could have been anywhere between 20-28 years of age, with a tight mass of curls, perfect english. The end result of the consultation was advice on where to find fruit and vegetables, and an instruction to call him if there was no change by day 10, or the world record, whichever came first. He also invited me to dine with him and his french colleagues that night.
At 7pm I wandered down to where his house lay on the extreme northern edge of camp. I had never been that far before. It was past Koby’s 5 star hotel (really ! more later) and down a very dark track. The Catholic Church has a french mission there called ‘SMA’ which sponsors his team with moral support. The rest of the sponsorship, including supplies and financials, comes from the UN.
The house was wonderful in a french colonial way. Not what you would call western-modern, but colonial-modern, with high ceilings, huge rooms, very clean everywhere, modern wiring, fridge, freezer, huge cool dining room with real dining table. I was introduced to Elise, a physiotherapist, her husband Sebastian, the hospital administrator, and a french guest with his african son : Patrice and Thomas. Dinner was very civilized and enjoyable; the french really know how to make even a simple meal into something special. An entree salad of tomato, cucumber and vinaigrette, a main of beans and an onion and lettuce salad with herbs, fresh banana for dessert, and a mango fruit juice made in a blender with ice. They were great company and very welcoming. Daniel has been there for two and a half years already and is tenured until 2008. Elise and her husband had been there for 9 months, also with 2 more years to go. Amazingly, Daniel has been home only once, and had planned to return for this Christmas, but instead elected to defer until September next year. He is simply an incredibly dedicated and caring young doctor. Having seen first hand the conditions they work under and the resources available, I was full of admiration. At least in the evening they can create a french home environment, dine and chat. Ten o’clock : way past my bedtime again ! So I thanked them for their wonderful hospitality, and we said farewell. I was asked if I would be coming back to the camp in the future, after returning to Australia. Maybe in a year or two, I said. We’ll still be here ! Do drop in.
Merci beaucoup mes amis ! and bon nuit.
