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16:40
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Holli's ramblings
I’m in an airport again. Ran around like an absolute mad woman at the office today, delusional in the belief I would get all the loose ends tied up and leave early. Got home the usual time, threw the last things into my bag (realized the humidity in Accra is rotting the zippers of the luggage), and had a shower. Then ran around the house trying to organise food for the boys at home for the week, and had about half an hour to unwind. Now I’m sitting in Accra’s International airport. It’s 33 celcius outside and it’s 9pm. The air-conditioners are not working in the airport today. Little tickly beads of sweat are gathering into fluid streams, and find their way down my temples, behind my ears, under my bra. I feel soggy.
An hour ago I was fresh and clean.
This scenario plays out about twice a month. I travel a lot for work. Every chance I get, I travel for pleasure as well. Sometimes I like to combine the two. I probably travel too much but who’s to say what’s too much. Last month it was Sierra Leone, now it is Canada, later this month it will be Lebanon and Jordan (but that one’s for pleasure!), and then the day we get back, we’re on a plane to Nigeria.
Whenever I am in transit I find myself considering my identity, my place, my cultural constructs of the world. Where do I belong?
I’m looking down at myself. My t-shirt was bought in Houston while at an Oil & Gas exhibition. My jeans were bought last year on the trip to the PDAC show in Toronto. My shoes were bought when down in South Africa last year for a wedding. We got my watch in Los Angeles on Rodeo Drive (which was a bit surreal). My laptop from a mall in Germany, my phone on a trip through Dubai.
Living in Ghana, where adventures with local salons have led to disaster*, I even have a hairdresser in Dubai! Go to her every time I’m passing through. I think that might be an indication that I travel too much.
This trip is taking me via Heathrow, back ‘home’ to Canada. The term ‘home’ doesn’t really fit into my reality. Though Toronto is my birthplace and I grew up in the surrounding suburbs, I have lived in a completely different world for close to 15 years. I’ve spent 14 of the 22 years of my adult life (that’s 63%), on another continent in a world so far away on so many levels. My concerns are not the concerns of anyone I know in Canada. My day to day reality, something so different, so removed. And now that has become the norm for me.
I think the day I first realized the extent of my alienation was when I arrived at Pearson International some years ago, carried along by the drowsy crowds of arriving passengers, and noticed acutely the accents of the immigration officers. I picked up the certain nuances that characterize a Canadian accent - something I didn’t realize existed before I left her shores.
In the expat world of Ghana, I spend time amongst Ghanaians, Nigerians, British, Germans, Jordanians, Polish, Lebanese, South Africans, Americans, Spanish, Italians, French - and the odd Canadian.
For now, that life is home. Our house, a 70’s monstrosity, was once the Libyan Embassy. With company furniture and a few local nick nacks, we have no sentimental connection. Our next home will be a boat, and we will take it where our whims carry us.
Over past few years, whenever I arrive back in Toronto I find that I’ve lost the connection to the city. It has become like so many others – arrive one week, notice the new buildings, smell the unfamiliar air, off to another destination the next week.
With an outsider’s eye, the city no longer feels comfortable. It has no spark, no recognizable beauty. It is a suburb. Life goes on here, mothers take their kids to school in their 4x4s, each neighborhood has it’s chain store mall, the sidewalks are straight and the grass is cut. There are laws and rules and things work. Elevators go up and down, water comes from the taps. In winter a grey hue descends and covers everything. It wills people to hibernate against it’s grizzly embrace. In summer it is peeled away and people live more each day for those few ‘thawed’ months, when the sun visits.
All of this is a foreign world to me. At ‘home’ in Accra I dodge potholes in the road, look away at traffic lights, as the beggars push their thin babies to the car window. I argue with the house cleaner/cook about putting mint instead of basil in the spaghetti sauce and for forgetting that bleach isn’t to be used on the coloured clothes… I worry about the generator not starting or the water supply being cut off for weeks. I worry about the malaria spreading mosquitos every night when we’re out past 6pm. I consider 26 degrees celcius a cold day and 38 degrees a hot day – and I can expect the average temperature all year to be 30 to 34…
11 hours have passed and I’m in another airport. I’m surrounded by a whirlwind of colour and sound – undecipherable chatter and coats and bags and parcels and the swoosh of late passengers dashing toward gates.
I sit quietly and am very aware of myself as one among the many. Just another passenger headed to another destination.
But my trip is not like any other. I happen to be heading to Toronto. Though I don’t live there anymore, it is my family that draws me back. I am lulled by their welcoming arms at the airport. The delight and excitement in my mother’s eyes when she first catches sight of me among the crowd. I am attracted to the nostalgia, to the din of the family’s chatter on a Sunday afternoon, while my sister cooks up a gourmet meal. There is a tenderness and a level of comfort that has no equal. When I am back in Ghana I keep the memories of these visits in a place deep within me. Mementos. They remind me what the term home actually means.
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22:00
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Holli's ramblings
Memorable moments from Makola market...
These days I’m quite careful about what comes with me on our indulgent Saturday market visits. After all, it is a crowded market in the 'developing world' and theoretically I and my friends would be walking targets... I usually wear a pair of multipocket pants that can house little wads of small bills. I don’t wear any jewellery and I leave my watch behind. Because of what we’re likely to step in, I wear the most basic chale-wotes (flip flops) that can be easily washed off, and most of all, I leave my iPhone behind.
This is all precautionary, since despite the swarms of people I find myself amongst, I’ve never had a thing snatched or stolen. In 13 years of Saturday market adventures.
This week’s visit started out more exciting than most. I drove into my trusted parking lot at the edge of the chaos that is Makola, lost in the stories of my market buddies T and J as we chatted in the cocooned world of my air-conditioned 4x4. Targets on wheels in this case...
As I came around the corner, a uniformed female police officer was in my path and made some motion to me. I assumed she was ‘asking’ if I was turning into the parking lot and I nodded and headed on in. I parked and we gathered ourselves, ready to head out into the heat and congestion, when at my passenger door there was the same police officer and her male colleague, faces pursed and annoyed. I knew immediately NOT to open or even unlock our doors, and feared we had a long tedious argument on our hands.
I rolled the window down half way. They immediately started with the verbal assault.
Female officer (indignant): “Madam, why?! I was arresting you, and then you kept driving! You didn’t mind me!”
Me: “Oh! Madam I didn’t realize! I was just parking. What did I do wrong?”
Male officer pushing forward with furrowed brow: “You are arrested for passing through the traffic light.”
Me and friends: “WHAT?!”
MO: “It was red!”
Me and friends: “No it was not!”
I knew this like I knew my own name. The truth is that though I have my Canadian driver’s license and I keep it valid, I haven’t updated my Ghanaian one since 2000. *Bows head and blushes*… Maybe I am lazy, or more likely it’s that I like living on the edge. Some bungee jump, I drive with a non-valid license… Anyway, for this reason, I make sure I do NOTHING wrong on the roads, lest I find myself in a situation such as this one!
For this reason I knew the officers had simply spotted a few obruni ladies and figured ‘easy target’ for a Saturday shake down… But we weren’t having it.
Just then, MO shoves his sweaty aggressive hand past my friend, indicating at me,
MO: “Where’s your license and registration? Give it!”
We ignore this demand the first time around, hoping the argument T has sparked with the FO about how she is sick of Ghanaian police taking advantage of obrunis, would sway his attention. But he asked again.
Me – really hesitantly: “Please I don’t have it with me”
MO – “Ah! Why?” deeply furrowed brow now… (I’ve given him some ammo!!! Oh no!)
Then the din of T’s indignant protest, assuring them we did nothing wrong and that they were unfairly targeting us, became quite loud. And a miracle happened. Their brows slackened and they backed down. No bribe, no demand that we be taken to the station for processing…
MO: “Do well and be honest. You passed through the red light, but I’m just warning you.”
Me: “I did not run the red officer, and thank you.”
And they skulked away, without a pesewa of bribe money. We felt proud and relieved and giddy. It’s not that often you get arrested and then let off with a warning!
And then we were free to start our market adventure. Phew! Ghana police 0, market mongers 1!
As we headed out of the parking lot on foot, J glanced to her side, to the mobile phone seller’s wooden hut a couple meters from us. She cringed and grabbed my arm.
J: “Oh my god! That was…oh… bad.”
T and I: “What? What was it?”
J: “The man in there that was petting a cat… he just squeezed it’s head and shoved it in a bag. Next came the hammer.”
Me: “Oh. I’m sure that was the meat for today’s soup. Sorry-o. They do eat cats here.”
J: “I know, just didn’t want to witness the slaughter…”
Ok, onto the street. Deep breaths. After all, this is adventure day!
And all around us life swirled and screamed and splattered itself across the pavement. Carried along with the tangible heat and jostled limbs.
We browsed the 'selection' clothes that the girls line the streets, selling by hand, and hid them when the AMA goons came by to whip them or steal their goods in a bogus attempt to 'clean the streets' of hawkers... I found a near exact replica of my favourite expensive perfume for GHC18 (about $12), down to the Made in France label. I opened it and tried it out... Exactly the same as the real one! Market bargain!! (That one made my day, really). I won't however, mention the little tied black plastic bag, literally full of shit, that T stepped in, since there was a trusty 'pure watah' seller on hand and a full on the spot wash of the chale-wotes was done...
I was struck by all the things around us that needed documenting! That needed to be photographed. But alas, in my caution of ‘traveling light’, I left the trusty iPhone at home. So it wasn’t to be.
I’ll have to leave to your imagination the transvestite in full yellow leotard in Rawlings Square, dancing for the huge crowds, his painted face melting through the streaks of sweat…
The huge bowl of dried, once alive, chameleons for sale, alongside buttons and brightly coloured cloth and Maggi cubes… just in case you need to cast a spell after cooking and sewing.
The triple F cup naked mannequin, proudly jutting out of the little shop selling cheap Chinese ladies clothes. She stood in front of two other less endowed mannequins, with a rack you’d find difficult to fit any shirt over… How, why?
The how and the why of the market are never answered, which is what gives it the intrigue and the charm. It leaves us all covered in dust and sweat and with fresh coconut juice pouring down our faces, slurped and gulped straight out of the coconut, sliced open for the parched, by a machete wielding seller. It leaves us with the deep desire to come back again the next available Saturday.
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15:19
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Holli's ramblings
Village goat 1, Toyota 0...
Early last year we picked up our brand new shiny white Toyota Fortuner from the dealership in Accra. Buying a car new and from the dealer is at once a luxury as well as a necessity if you want a reliable car in Ghana. There are a lot of what is called ‘home used’ cars on the market- that have been used abroad and sent to Ghana in various stages of disrepair, with no guarantees of any sort.
So it was great to pull off the lot in the new smelling 4x4, once we’d convinced them to remove the plastic wrappers from all the seats (apparently in Ghana many new car buyers like to keep it on as a status thing…) ANYWAY – it was certainly a step down from the shiny new model Land Cruisers bought in bulk by the NGOs in town, but it was a Toyota – a brand I’ve always trusted.
My very first car as an independent woman was a modest little gold painted, Toyota Corolla. It was used and unassuming, but it represented an important phase in my life – my first days as a newly single mother and business owner, and that little car was so reliable! I washed it every weekend myself in the summer and treated it to car washes in the winter. It carried my most important human cargo every day – my little boy – and it served me without a hitch for years. Since then I’ve always had the naïve appreciation and trust in Toyota as a company. Made in Japan meant quality, reliability, longevity…
But something has changed with Toyota. Something dangerous and far reaching. It threatens to damage a solid reputation.
Back in Ghana, on the road, the first hour out of the dealership we were on the pseudo-highway, headed down the coast. As soon as we hit 95km, the car made a strange noise. JW, unlike me, is quite in tune with cars. He knew immediately something was wrong. This problem persisted and a vibration happened any time we went above this speed.
It had to be sent back for wheel realignment. It never got better.
Then one day, on a Sunday drive to the beach, a car in front of us lost it’s bumper at full speed – it just fell/flew off and it was up to JW to react fast, which he did. But our Fortuner had it’s own ideas. As soon as he swerved, the car felt unsteady, unbalanced and as if it would tip right over. It was quite scary.
Another Sunday soon after, a goat wandered into the road, as they are apt to do – in fact on the roads of Ghana, one must be ready for random animals, children and stray car parts to float into your path without warning, oblivious to your presence or speed. JW swerved again and the car wobbled precariously, seeming for that split second that it would overturn, before righting itself. It was frightening.
We did some research and found out these models are assembled in South Africa. They have been banned in many Western countries for being too top heavy, too dangerous.
SO – it seems Toyota have been trying to send the junk models into Africa.
We gave the car into the work pool and bought a Mitsubishi…
With all the recent recalls of Toyota cars in the west, I now believe they have cut corners in all their markets. The president of the company, (Mr. Toyota!) actually made a public statement last week that the company had grown too fast and priorities had become confused.
Once a company with a long held reputation for quality starts endangering people’s lives around the world to save a few pennies and sell bulk vehicles, it’s time to lose the loyalty. Time to turn somewhere else. I think our next car will be a German one…
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15:19
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Holli's ramblings
Village goat 1, Toyota 0...br /br /Early last year we picked up our brand new shiny white Toyota Fortuner from the dealership in Accra. Buying a car new and from the dealer is at once a luxury as well as a necessity if you want a reliable car in Ghana. There are a lot of what is called ‘home used’ cars on the market- that have been used abroad and sent to Ghana in various stages of disrepair, with no guarantees of any sort.br /br /So it was great to pull off the lot in the new smelling 4x4, once we’d convinced them to remove the plastic wrappers from all the seats (apparently in Ghana many new car buyers like to keep it on as a status thing…) ANYWAY – it was certainly a step down from the shiny new model Land Cruisers bought in bulk by the NGOs in town, but it was a Toyota – a brand I’ve always trusted.br /br /My very first car as an independent woman was a modest little gold painted, Toyota Corolla. It was used and unassuming, but it represented an important phase in my life – my first days as a newly single mother and business owner, and that little car was so reliable! I washed it every weekend myself in the summer and treated it to car washes in the winter. It carried my most important human cargo every day – my little boy – and it served me without a hitch for years. Since then I’ve always had the naïve appreciation and trust in Toyota as a company. Made in Japan meant quality, reliability, longevity…br /br /But something has changed with Toyota. Something dangerous and far reaching. It threatens to damage a solid reputation.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/S4fonq0AQXI/AAAAAAAABe8/LrPGwOl2Au8/s1600-h/29289117_1.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 220px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/S4fonq0AQXI/AAAAAAAABe8/LrPGwOl2Au8/s400/29289117_1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442574442905485682" //abr /br /Back in Ghana, on the road, the first hour out of the dealership we were on the pseudo-highway, headed down the coast. As soon as we hit 95km, the car made a strange noise. JW, unlike me, is quite in tune with cars. He knew immediately something was wrong. This problem persisted and a vibration happened any time we went above this speed.br /br /It had to be sent back for wheel realignment. It never got better.br /br /Then one day, on a Sunday drive to the beach, a car in front of us lost it’s bumper at full speed – it just fell/flew off and it was up to JW to react fast, which he did. But our Fortuner had it’s own ideas. As soon as he swerved, the car felt unsteady, unbalanced and as if it would tip right over. It was quite scary.br /br /Another Sunday soon after, a goat wandered into the road, as they are apt to do – in fact on the roads of Ghana, one must be ready for random animals, children and stray car parts to float into your path without warning, oblivious to your presence or speed. JW swerved again and the car wobbled precariously, seeming for that split second that it would overturn, before righting itself. It was frightening.br /br /We did some research and found out these models are assembled in South Africa. They have been banned in many Western countries for being too top heavy, too dangerous.br /br /SO – it seems Toyota have been trying to send the junk models into Africa.br /br /We gave the car into the work pool and bought a Mitsubishi…br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/S4fuCpi-DXI/AAAAAAAABfE/YYuDXiKvTuY/s1600-h/2029-toyoda.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 217px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/S4fuCpi-DXI/AAAAAAAABfE/YYuDXiKvTuY/s320/2029-toyoda.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5442580403980209522" //abr /br /With all the recent recalls of Toyota cars in the west, I now believe they have cut corners in all their markets. The president of the company, (Mr. Toyota!) actually made a public statement last week that the company had grown too fast and priorities had become confused. br /br /Once a company with a long held reputation for quality starts endangering people’s lives around the world to save a few pennies and sell bulk vehicles, it’s time to lose the loyalty. Time to turn somewhere else. I think our next car will be a German one…div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-738524234235248757?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:09
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Holli's ramblings
The streets of Freetown...
Welcome sign at Lungi International Airport. Apparently Sierra Leone has a Secretariat dedicated to 'attitudinal and behavioral change'...
A custom designed gate on the streets of Freetown.
Typical 'sidewalks' crumbling - people are quite adept at dodging the cement chunks and gutter openings...
The royal statue at the gates of my hotel, the Kimbima... (one of the newer and better hotels that touts itself as a 5 star)
Piled and rotting rubbish and the threat painted on the wall, warning people not to piss here...
More rubbish and graffiti.
A teddy bear sale above the gutter on a main street sidewalk. So cute! Just wondering who in Freetown has the funds, time or energy to buy used plush toys from the roadside...
A typical glimpse of a family house compound. I love all the colours. Laundry, buckets, pots, cups, people, all parts of the busy whole.
Avocado seller.
Childhood in many parts of Africa is about hard work and co-parenting can start by age 5. Here a big sister carries her sibling on the long walk to school.
The mobile phone companies signs provide decoration across the country in many villages. Fresh coats of pain are offered to poor and dilapitated buildings, at the cost of free advertising for the Cellco...
Love the name of this business...
Waterloo Street.
A bunch of guys ... lots of waiting around.
More 'free' paint jobs for tired walls...
Lots of corrugated tin structures...
Amerikin Enterprises...
Growth, Togetherness, Happiness. The promises of yet another mobile phone operator.
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21:06
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Holli's ramblings
I've been gone so long. I feel as if I'm sheepishly crawling back into this space to see if I'm still welcome. If someone will throw tomatoes or old shoes at me... I'm ducking.
Waiting...
Phew! Ok I see I'm safe. Well my excuse is that life has been happening in a big way. Some experiences that are beyond the world of blogging and far closer to the world of book/screenplay that have come my way...
But also I have traveled and though I had no Internet connection, I did write about the experience and I share it here:
Notes from a business trip in Sierra Leone…
A simple three day business trip to Sierra Leone is basically anything but that. The 2 hour flight becomes an 8 hour journey, since once you arrive in the country, you discover the airport is across a large body of water from the capital city…
My last visit involved boarding an ancient Russian helicopter to get the last leg across. Back then, the helicopter was run by a shady little company called Paramount Airlines. The beast was at least 40 years old, struggled to move, and held it’s passengers like captives, with all the luggage in the middle and rough benches around the perimeter. There were tiny round windows with no glass, which was a good thing because the heat inside was literally unbearable. The few wafts of breeze through the windows kept us going… All said, the journey from the airport to Freetown was about 10 minutes, but those were terrifying… Two years ago they crashed for the final time and that very day, the pilots and all staff closed up the offices and left the country. Their signboards still line the streets to Freetown…
I was pleasantly surprised this time though, climbing aboard the helicopter at Lungi airport. It was obviously bought over from the UN when they evacuated a few years ago, and was a significant step up from the ancient beast.
There are two other methods of reaching the mainland from the airport but the chances of all options being operational at the same time are slim to none. The hovercraft takes about 45minutes, the ferry can take 5 hours, the speed boats only 25 minutes, but they bash along on the waves, and have been known to run out of gas half way…
So I braved the helicopter, which is now only a 7 minute journey on a professional looking craft, with airline seats, luggage compartment in the back, and headsets to block out the noise. Luxury!
But the improvements in Sierra Leone since my last visit seem to have ended there. On arrival.
There was some sort of a commotion in the lobby as I arrived. My attention was quickly pulled from the rusting airconditioners outside, and the dark wood paneling that choked the small lobby, by the reactions of the staff. Having seemingly woken from their working trance, they all gathered around the tiny elevator at the far end of the room.
In their signature broken English, I pieced together that all the back and forth was about the elevator being stuck and some poor sod being stuck inside.
The men in the lobby, some cleaners, some guards and various other hangers-on, all gathered around the old metal door with some large object and began to pry it open. There was a lot of noise, rough banging and eventually the door was sufficiently damaged, and pulled aside on an unnatural angel. Inside, a white man’s chubby, hairy calves were revealed, along with a tote bag hanging down with the words “London Museum” visible. The floor of the elevator car had jammed half way between the two floors.
One man ran for a chair from behind the reception desk and was met with hesitation and resistance by the lady who had no interest in having her seat be used in a rescue effort. She was supposed to be checking me in, but apparently had no interest in that either.
Eventually the man was pulled, twisted and finally’ born’ like a red pudgy newborn, feet first out the bottom of the elevator door, a bit shaken but still with a witty comment for the staff, “I’ll be taking the stairs from now on!”.
This is the type of scene that plays in my head at every African hotel I’ve been to. This is the worst nightmare that has had me climbing 14 stories continually up and down to my room in Nairobi, Kenya on a 4 day trip – getting exercise by sheer circumstance… There are the persistent power outages and the general African lack of maintenance that render elevators a no-go area for me.
My colleague had brought me supposedly to ‘one of the new hotels’ but NOT the one that I’d been booked into, that actually had it’s own website and had been reviewed on Tripadvisor. That was too good to be true. Turns out there are a myriad of NGO and church conferences going on in town this week – surprise, surprise… and hence the lack of rooms.
So, for $130 a night, I got the Kimbima Hotel, a building overlooking the ocean, which claims to be a 5 star hotel but still manages to look like a dismal depressing dungeon…
The place literally looks as if it were built without an architect, by 10 rival groups of 7 year olds, each group trying their best to mismatch what had been done by the group before. No door closes properly, many staircases lead to nowhere, windows lead onto walls, and columns, trellises, tiles and all are installed on angles. Electricity sockets are not straight, doors are not straight, stairs are nor straight nor are each the same height. Uniformity and straight lines are not concepts in building here. There are cement, wood and tile surfaces with various patterns, paneling and interlocking bricks and all can be found in one room or one area.
There is mold in the hallways, in the rooms, in the chairs. I hope it’s not in the sheets.
This morning I came out of my room and met the cleaning crew. They’d swept up all the creatures of the night and managed to tip hundreds of wellfed cockroaches onto their backs. As I descended the 7 stories down to the breakfast room, I passed many twitching roaches, each having lost this one little battle, surrounded by yesterdays’ dust and crumbs…
On the beach though - you can’t help but have positive thoughts. The promise if each new wave as it laps the shore is infinite. I took a long walk down the beach, after learning the president had announced a new holiday, one day in advance, in the middle of my 3 day trip…
In Ghana, though we live in a coastal town, there is no serene beach, no long luxurious stretch of mother nature’s cool white sand to play in. All the patches of sandy coastline are divided up between hotels and various communities that would rather use it as a toilet than construct latrines…
So I love this about Freetown. There is a gorgeous stretch of beach, just a walk from the hotels. It’s just beyond the huge UN Peace Keepers compound that was a hive of activity only a few years ago. It stands empty now. I hear they left everything in tact when they moved out. Every airconditioner, TV set, fridge. A local guy is now renovating it, apparently with the aim of converting it into a hotel. I can only imagine what changes will be made…
Walking along, as I dig my toes in the sand, I pass the remnants of cafés that boomed with music, patrons, cocktails… dotting the boardwalk along the beach in the UN days. Even the American movie Blood Diamond alluded to the hedonistic bar scene that existed.
Now, there are only crumbling reminders. The bleached wood chairs and tables, in varying stages of disrepair, with rust stains, like blood pouring from their wounds, these are the carcasses of the false economy that ran Freetown. When the UN left, the bar scene died. The prostitutes now circle at night, their eyes are wild and desperate. I watch them, younger and younger, circling the fewer prey…
I come to a dilapidated gazebo on the beach. On the sides are painted warnings, “No Weapons Allowed” with rudimentary drawings of rifles with big red X’s over them. This was a disarmament stand during the war. It’s a reminder that this beach held much more than waves and cocktails and party goers, not so long ago.
I’ve been told they’ve sent many of the ex-child soldiers off to Afghanistan and Iraq to do menial labour jobs. This is considered good as they will return with some money in their pockets. I’m not sure how true this is, but what about the legacy in their minds? In their violent and vacant hearts?
Back at the hotel, as I climb the dusty path to the long winding road along the bay, I can’t help notice the hundreds of dogs I pass. All are sleeping, spread carelessly across the dusty rocky ground. They lie in the paths of cars and pedestrians, a symbol of the despair around them. Each house along my path leads down to the water. They should be prime real estate! Instead, they are unpainted, half built or half torn down structures, with squatters sitting in the exposed rooms, washing their few tattered clothes and stringing them across the unkempt yards, blowing in the breeze like captive birds…
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11:30
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Holli's ramblings
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11:14
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Holli's ramblings
In the hours where night blurs the lines of day, and the laws of physics and form are soft and pliable, I often float to you.
I call out and find you, elusive and ageless. The energy of your smile dazzles and carries me into a new place where you comfort me with your presence. You take the form I know, the soft downy boy’s body I crave and adore, you come back to spend some time with me and fill my heart with just enough, so I can keep going in the day, when you’ve gone.
This is my secret – our night meetings where I give you your favourite biscuits and watch the crumbs on your tiny lips. Where your laughter is pure sunshine and your voice is an angel’s. My angel.
Last night you were three. All the memories of you then, so little, came flooding back...
And though it was such a short visit, and you slept in another room, I needed you and you came. I held your tiny warm hand. I draw around your fingernails with my mind. The rough skin at the edge of each round nail, the soft pad of your palms. I breathed you in and held my breath. Though I dreamt a regular dream, somehow we both knew that you had come to help. That I needed your eyes, your skin, your little soul.
And days that hold a silence and a dull gray emptiness, I find myself alone in the car, your song will tease me from the radio, “I will go down with this ship, and I won’t put my hands up and surrendah” I hear your proud little voice singing along. But it is only a memory and the reality of day pierces my senses. Tears roll down my helpless face.
It is only our secret nights where ‘real’ is weak and love is stronger, that I am strengthened. Your power my boy, is bigger than I and this shallow world that you have left.
I love you like my baby and respect you far beyond. At once you are gone and yet you haven’t left me.
When my brave face laughs and I feel the happiness of love, the joy of good friends and good food and the tickle of a gentle breeze, you are the one I cling to inside.
I know in a way that only mystery can answer, that we have traded places. I took care of you here, I wiped your tears away and cuddled you at night, and now you take care of me – soothing my fears and cuddling me in that special place where night blurs the lines of day.
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14:23
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Holli's ramblings
So the milestone has been reached and surpassed. People actually stop by here and read the Ramblings! I'm honoured :)
Follower number 250, a blogger buddy - is Heather. She is no ordinary blogger though.
I'll give you all a little taste of the wild madness that is waiting over at Heather's corner of the cyberworld...
Heather's blog is called
Notes from Lapland (which for those of you like me who didn't know where Lapland was, shame! It's in northern Finland!!!) Can you say exotic?
Heather's from the UK and:
Has flown a helicopter!
Stolen a box of paperclips
Ran away from home at 15 to work in a seedy nightclub!!! (I added the seedy for effect)
She doesn't write erotic stories for seedy magazines in her spare time - but that's only because she has no spare time!!! She's a mom of two little ones, ya know!
And Heather once got arrested! For what, you ask? Well it was either:
a. fighting
b. stealing a helicopter
c. stealing an F1 race car
BUT you'll have to head on over to the
Notes from Lapland to find out which!! Oh, and mind your step once you get there, there's reindeer droppings all over the place!!!
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15:19
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Holli's ramblings
Who will be my two hundred and fiftieth follower?! Surely that can be a milestone of some description!
I think that person will deserve a big shout-out and a feature here on the Ramblings!
Any takers? :)
I'd also like to take this opportunity to thank all those who signed up, signed on, pushed that follow button, and now has their mug up on my site...
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21:23
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Holli's ramblings
Haiti remains at the centre of the global media frenzy – what with the aftershocks and the dismally slow rollout of the aid distribution plan.
The
celebrity pop show of who's giving and playing benefit concerts is growing and spreading like a hollywood rumour.
Even Ghana is hosting an aid concert for Haiti this weekend.
Well meaning individuals across the world, on blogs and Twitter and every social media imaginable are spreading the word to donate.
But sadly, despite the many millions who have actually reached out financially, aid is just not getting to the places it needs to be. Not fast enough. Not fairly or equitably. The port is demolished, the roads have crumbled, the airport is a crippled fortress. The security forces guard the wares..
CNN explains today that, "International aid contributions have totaled hundreds of millions of dollars, but relief agencies working in Haiti say transportation bottlenecks have slowed the delivery of food, water and medicine to survivors".
The longer the aid supplies remain in warehouses, undistributed, the more
violence will erupt and a very ugly side of Haiti will peer it's ugly head through the tragedy. Rule of law, which balanced so precariously before the earthquake is now hanging by a thread.
Looting is rampant. An estimated 3000 dangerous criminals have escaped the defunct Port au Prince prison...
In 2008 Haiti was rocked by
deadly food riots when the price of food had risen exponentially.
Rioters shot UN peace keepers and looted shops…
Fast forward to January 2010 in the aftermath of the devastating earthquake. UN and US Military officials guard warehouses and truckloads of aid. They are afraid to enter certain areas. They fear for their lives.
The predictable is happening.
Sky News reporter in Port Au Prince explained yesterday that:
“ The distribution of their food away from the depot remains piecemeal, dangerous and chaotic.
I travelled to the Port-au-Prince slum of Solidad, following a single aid truck packed with plastic bags of essentials. The slum hard men rode on the roof and side-runners of our car - without their agreement we would have found it hard to get in; we would not have got out with our car, gear or wallets.
Even as they tried to deliver the food, hundreds swarmed around the truck, forcing the doors open and stealing the aid. Punches and shouting and chaos. They abandoned the plan. Speeding away with Sky cameraman Adam Murch still on the roof. They decided to go back in darkness and try again. They told me not to come."
Violence, like a rabid cancer is bubbling and threatening to overflow into the desperate streets. The line will be blurred between the helpers and those with plenty. The aid workers may be seen as the enemy in a situation where there is no visible enemy, but the victims are plentiful.
Meanwhile, the shameless
scam artists out of Nigeria and around the world have been quick to seize the opportunity to take advantage of those who would give. There are countless scams on the Internet, sprung up in the aftermath of the quake, with fake charity organizations and impersonations of genuine agencies, asking people to use Western Union to send donations.
The pockets of the criminals are filling, while the terror of hunger and desperation threaten to throw Haiti even further into a hopeless abyss.
And all the while, the media has ensured that there will be video and stills of the carnage. And we can only sit behind our TV screens and watch.
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10:35
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Holli's ramblings
I've been a bad blogger. I've mentioned this before, but there's the latent guilt that plagues me. Every time I get a blog award I neglect to give credit and pass it on. Ok, there. I've said it. It's admitted and out in the open. Therapeutic.
But yesterday
Eternally Distracted, the talented and entertaining blogger that she is, got to me in a way no one had before. She admitted to the same sorts of crimes as me. She never passes along the blog tag baton. Well because there was no pressure and she asked us to tag ourselves, I did just that.
So in honour of ED, I am posting my 10 (extremely) random things. And I'd like any of my fellow bloggers that get inspired, to do the same! Consider it passed along...
1. I’ve only worn nylons once – for my highschool graduation night. They were shredded halfway through the night and I took them off. Never again. They give me the same sensation as nails on a chalkboard.
2. I have a thing for hands – I make sweeping judgments and categorize people by what their hands look like.
3. Pink and brown – are my absolute favourite colours, especially together!
4. I hate ice cream – except for lemon sorbet and mint chocolate chip.
5. I owned a gas station for three years once as a single mom many moons ago..
6. I owned a restaurant with my ex and an investment partner in my early twenties – it was one of the most fun and exciting times of my life! It ended badly…
7. I lived my first year in University as a lie. I impersonated a Cayman Islander, with full Caribbean accent. Made friends, and later regretted how far I’d taken the prank.
8. I lived in Botswana for a year as a volunteer at 19. I was given a local name “Sedikwakenjapedigasethata” – which is a proverb meaning ‘two heads are better than one’, but the literal translation is ‘It’s not difficult for two dogs to surround you and kill you’. The short form of the name is “Sedikwa” (pron. SED-EEK-WAH)
9. I don’t have a competitive bone in my body - until it comes to Scrabble!
10. I absolutely love the smell of greenhouses. As a toddler, my grandmother used to take me in my stroller to some greenhouses in our neighborhood and ever since, the smell is hypnotic and comforting - it lulls me…
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11:15
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Holli's ramblings
When there is a disaster, everyone jumps on the humanitarian bandwagon. The current aftermath of the earthquake in Haiti is a glaring case in point. Brangelina have held a news conference to pledge their support...
According to the
BBC, the relief efforts are more large scale than for any other disaster in history. The UN has asked for $562m in aid monies to help the country over the next 6 months.
People are desperate and dying. The media is assaulting the world with the gory images of bodies and mangled survivors.
What cold-hearted wretches would not see the humanitarian aspect of this disaster, and reach out in whatever way they could, to assist?
What the world neglects, because it’s too accusatory, is the reality of what led to a disaster of this scale. Accountability is thrown out the window with the first picture of an injured or orphaned child on the side of the road.
The fact that Haiti often
tops the list as the world’s most corrupt country has not been big news during this crisis. Of course it hasn’t – we are busy trying to save innocent lives, and get the basics of food and water to a desperate population.
But after the dust has settled, will the same people who are gathering the millions to pump into Haiti, be as concerned as to how it’s spent and where it goes?
Will they investigate the fact that,
according to seismologists, the death toll in the earthquake will reach figures of over 50,000, “in large part because of corruption and resulting shoddy construction practices in the poor Caribbean nation”. Port au Prince is possibly one of the worst constructed cities on earth. It has been called 'a disaster waiting to happen." And then it did. Who is surprised? Whose responsible?
The relief efforts are being hampered at every turn by the lack of resources, machinery, supplies in the country. People are dying!
When do those in power in a country like Haiti become accountable for the well-being of the people? How can the fact that buildings were put together under corrupt deals, with inferior materials and design, be overlooked?
Would the carnage have been so widespread if the city was properly planned and buildings complied with regulations? The answer is no…
If the same fate had befallen a city in the developed world, would there not be massive legal implications for the building companies, the government? We all know there would.
Why is it, that the world has no expectations from, or respect for the leaders of the developing world? Why is it that aid from outside must flow without reservation into countries where the governments are notorious for their extravagant wealth at the expense of the basic needs of their people?
This issue nags at me. In Africa I’m surrounded by emergencies. Disaster characterizes the daily lives of over half the people on this continent. The governments continue to syphon the lion’s share of the countries’ resources, while the masses live in squalor, without access to healthcare, education, roads, water and electricity.
Why are people looting and shooting and running wild? The people have been desperate and ignored for a long time before the earthquake hit.
An earthquake is only the icing on the crumbling cake of corruption that has ruined so many nations.
An earthquake brings the cameras and heart wrenching stories. It brings out the motherly instinct in all of us.
But it hides and therefore condones the shameful behavior of the people in charge, who, through every corrupt deal, have sealed the fate of so many of the innocents.
And in a few months time when the media has forgotten about Haiti and turned it’s sensationalist eye to another of the world’s new and exciting disaster zones, who will ask where the relief monies have gone? Who will be benefitting? How extravagantly will the presidential palace be rebuilt at the expense of new hospitals, schools and basic housing?
Why would it be handled any differently than it ever has before…
(Photo of Haiti BEFORE the earthquake)
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12:56
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Holli's ramblings
Thought I'd take things up a notch in terms of enthusiasm and fun. I've had this song running through my head since mid-December when I first heard it at a big Nigerian party in Accra. I especially love the little 'bomp ba domp' sound the singer makes, describing the ladies hips...
Apparently the name of this song means 'prostitute', which is not in itself a positive thing, but a friend led me to a write up recently that gave a much more interesting meaning (in a
book review about a very interesting topic!):
"Ashawo is a Yoruba word that has found its way into the languages of the region. It has connotations of sex for sale, but also of independence, freedom from traditional ties and family obedience. An ashawo woman is a woman alone; under her own control, not the control of a man."
The song has been played in excess at every party this holiday season in Ghana - and I wait for it every time, to get up and shake my thang.
Thought I'd share it widely. It's not deep, not a classic, not a particularly well made piece of music, but IT's FUN!!! And I just KNOW Shiloh would have loved it. We'd have been watching him in dark shades, making up a very slick dance routine to it right now!
"Sawa sawa babeee" (my made up spelling for the Yoruba lyrics...)
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14:44
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Holli's ramblings
...sequel to yesterday's post...
I had gathered all my things the afternoon before, and made the two minute walk (or waddle in my case at the time), down the road to the back entrance of the hospital. All the kids from the compound were in tow, each carrying something, quite proud and happy to be part of the event and journey. At the hospital gate the guard tried to shoo them all away, but a few were allowed to follow me inside.
After the formalities of paying for everything, from bed space to intravenous bags, my Canadian friend and confidante, T and I were led to a fairly clean, private room.
We sat on the bed and chatted. We imagined what the baby would be like, what the birth would be like. My nerves ebbed and flowed.
In the evening my husband brought Kobi (Q) down the road to be with me. We all sat, we chatted. I hugged my boy. The nurse came and told me visiting hours were over. This was it. I was to be alone until the next day, after by baby was born.
I felt instantly terrified and sentimental. I wanted my family back. Aunty Maude! My mom. I’m sure I curled as much as I could into a ball and cried myself to sleep, hugging my belly and gathering the strength and bond the two of us needed for the next day.
In the morning I was wheeled down to the surgery ward, past the busy lobby, through the morning prayer being observed by all, made the obligatory stop and then proceeded to a smaller quieter lobby with a few people lying and sitting somberly on the hard benches.
The waiting ensued. I was supposed to be scheduled for 9am surgery, but on GMT (Ghana Maybe Time), I knew this was to be far later.
I was uncharacteristically calm. Serene. Baby thumped now and then to say hello and comfort me, in light of the dangerous events that we were about to submit ourselves to.
There was gathering momentum around the surgery as the time got closer, with nurses and other uniformed strangers moved in and out of the worn swinging doors. I was acutely aware of the dusty floors and hand marks on the walls and doors. Would they use sterile equipment? Would they handle any crisis that might arise with level headed expertise? Would they treat my baby with love and care while I lay there in a drug induced sleep?
The time came, the big white hospital wall clock showed five past ten, and a nurse came to collect my receipts. She pointed to a rickety wheelchair. “Get in”. I obeyed.
The room was blindingly bright. The light drowned out the dirt in the corners, and reassured me. It looked like a real surgery room.
I was heaved up onto a cold table while people shuffled around me. Soon I was connected to an IV and I remember asking semi-frantic questions about how long the procedure would take, where I’d wake up, did they promise to take care of my baby. I was largely ignored.
I looked around for my doctor, who appeared seconds before they injected the sleeping serum. His smile gave me an instant sense of calm. He was cool and collected and had an air of much needed authority. The curdled nervous mess of my insides became a smooth silky pudding. I slipped away while staring right into his eyes. All a mother’s trust thrown across the cold room in a glance that faded away with me.
I woke up dazed, with a heavy thudding pain in my middle. My eyes seemed crusty and my mouth was a harsh unforgiving desert. As I became aware of my surroundings I realized I was in a hospital room. There were three other people to my left. One groaned loudly. This sound was probably what brought me around from the groggy underworld. I wondered in a panic whether I’d been in an accident, what was wrong, why was I here?
Then as my mind caught up with my panic, I remembered everything and it all came rushing to me and up through my throat and formed into a frog-like yelp, “My baby!”
I’d apparently disturbed my bed-mates. One turned to me and talked loudly, as if I were deaf or a small child,
“You are in a hospital. You are fine. People are sick here, please do not shout.”
“Someone call the nurse that the obruni (white person) has woken up.”
Me: “But where is my baby? Where is my baby? I want to see my baby!” I was quite emotional, demanding, frantic. I feared the worst. What if I’d made it and the baby hadn’t? Why was I in a room with sick people? Why not the maternity ward?!
A nurse eventually appeared in the doorway, slouching against the doorframe, she looked at me with heavy lidded eyes. “Madam, you have to stop shouting! You will pull your stitches.” Her voice came across flat, monotone, slightly annoyed.
I was incredulous that no one would respond to my question. I started to cry. No one reacted. One of the other patients made a point of loudly turning over to face away from me. I was sure the baby was gone and that this was the dawning of the worst day of my life.
The nurse left the room and walked slowly down the hallway, her slothly footsteps becoming quieter and quieter, until they were gone. I was so alone, so afraid, so helpless. I considered getting up to go and ask someone in charge. I tried to move but was instantly overcome by shooting pains as my body attempted to twist. That was not going to be possible. There was nothing I could do but wait.
I called through my tears to each person who passed the room. No one was willing to help. Maybe they thought I was crazy. Maybe I was. I began to wonder. Where was my husband and my Kobi? Why wouldn’t they visit me? I checked the clock and it was after 1pm.
This was easily the most lonely I’ve felt ever, and it was the deepest, despairing emptiness that I shudder to recall it at all.
Then an angel appeared. A Canadian friend called G. I heard her sharp accent in the hallway and my anticipation of her arrival at the door was palpable. She appeared in the doorway, her face alive and bright, a huge basket with balloons and gifts and sweets in her arms. She looked so out of place in this dismal ward.
Her expression turned instantly dark once she saw my tear stained face and looked around the room. Still she came to me, dumped the basket and hugged me. Despite the pain, I grabbed onto her and the warmth of her embrace filled me to the brim. Definitely one of the best hugs I’ve ever had. I drank her in. Then she got to business and I was beyond grateful.
“Where is the baby?!” “why are you in here?”
All I could do was shake my head as more tears welled up and spilled, hot and frustrated down my puffy cheeks.
She squeezed my hand and assured me she’d go sort out everything and she ran down the hall.
I could hear her firm and then raised voice as she questioned the lethargic nurses down the hall. She was demanding, shouting now. And then silence. I bit my lip and waited some more.
An indescribably long time after that, she reappeared. Still alone but with a smile that gave me hope for the first time since I’d awoken.
“Well my dear, you are the proud mother of a healthy baby boy!”
I could have kissed her face off. My eyes lit up, by heart soared.
Me: “Where is he?”
G: “The nurses are just washing him and will have him up here in just a couple minutes, or I’ll go straight back down there and get him myself”.
She then went to work to gather up the shattered pieces of my sanity and cleaned me up, in anticipation for the arrival of my little king, Shiloh.
Three nurses came padding much faster than usual up the passage way and I heaved myself up into sitting position. I was gripped with both childlike wonder and a violent maternal desire to protect her young. Bring me that baby!!
And there he was! Wrapped all tight in a soft cotton blanket. His chubby tan face shining out the top. My baby! I devoured him. Grabbed the bundle of him and smothered him with a thousand kisses.
I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news.
I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy had arrived!
They wheeled in a clear plastic bassinet for him to sleep beside me but I had no intention of letting him go again.
G had a mobile phone and we were able to call my mother. I barely said a word, and just managed to blurt out that the baby was a boy and that he was so sweet. I cried and smiled and blubbered. She did the same on the other end of the line…
I wanted to feed him right away but was informed by ‘nurse wretched’ that it wasn’t necessary as they’d given him a bottle of glucose syrup. I was furious. But at least he was with me.
Then G told me about her experience with the nurses downstairs. She had wandered around the surgeries and eventually found Shiloh, alone and unwashed, lying in a cold plastic bassinet. She was appalled and ran out calling wildly to the nurses. They were in a lunchroom, greedily pawing kenkey, fresh pepper and fish from a shared eating bowl. When she asked why the baby had not been cleaned and brought to his mother they casually explained it was lunchtime. I was beyond furious at the story, but at least he was with me.
I mentioned to G that I was sad and concerned my husband and Kobi had not come in yet to visit, she told me that they were refusing all visitors since it was not yet official visiting hours. I was furious, but at least Shi was with me.
Then G went to the nurses, now that she’d quickly developed a reputation as a no-nonsense obruni, and she demanded to know why I was placed in a room with sick patients. Apparently there was no room in the other ward. I couldn’t believe it! The man beside me had a rotting foot. My ailing roommates resented my eventual flow of visitors and Shiloh’s deep newborn cry. I was upset, but at least Shi was with me.
And when, in the night I had to call for the nurses help to use a bedpan, with the man beside me gawking, the nurse annoyed and unhelpful, my stitches pulling and stretching with excruciating pain, I was embarrassed and fuming inside, but at least I had my Shiloh with me.
Happy Birthday Shiloh. 11 years ago you arrived, causing me turmoil, crushing me with worry that I wouldn’t see you, and filling my life with more than a mother could ever ask, once you came. Beautiful, boisterous, ‘bad boy’. You charmed me from that first moment, and had me entranced every day thereafter. I only wish, more than a mother could imagine, that I had you here with me today.
>>>>>>>>>
Shiloh Devon Nii Kpakpo Mingle – January 9th, 1999 – June 22, 2005.
We miss you ‘like harmattan paw paw’. Every moment since you left us here without you.
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15:06
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Holli's ramblings
Eleven years ago on this day I was huge. My ankles resembled over stuffed sausages, my cheeks hid my eyes.
I sat on a wooden bench in the Trust Hospital of Accra, sandwiched between many others in my bloated condition. The front door of the lobby was ajar, the power was out and air-conditioning was a far off dream. I wore chaley-wote (flip flops) and a multicoloured boubou, a tent dress that held me and my little one in, barely containing us as the sweat trickled down my back, my arms, my rotund tummy.
The sounds of the busy street permeated the hot waiting room, honking of cars, shouts of street hawkers and clouds of gritty dust made their way in amongst us.
After the lobby-wide morning prayer where we were all asked to stand (health status permitting), each of us was sent from reception to another cash kiosk where your appointment must be paid for in cash before joining the queue. Once paid, with our receipts in hand, the hours passed while we waited, some in silence, some clicking their teeth in exasperation, some chatting quietly, brought together by their shared predicament. So many women, so few doctors.
I was a volunteer and the only non-Ghanaian, non-African, non black lady in the building, apart from a Russian nurse that I’d heard about and had only seen once in my numerous pre-natal check-ups. I was not anonymous. But I was used to it.
Nine months before that, I had come home from a typical day at work. For me it meant moving around within the bustling craft market, sitting and chatting with the wood carvers, the painters, the trinket pushers about their needs and opportunities.
I took a tro tro into Osu, and walked up from the main road to the compound I shared with my husband’s family and various tenants. 54 of us in all.
The ladies sat out front of the compound gate, by the small shop that had been set up by a tenant, selling cokes and sweets and tiny plastic wrapped portions of peanuts and sugar and laundry soap powder.
They watched me approach and called to me. When I reached the group they were debating and jostling and laughing and it seemed I had provided the subject of their conversation.
“Kobi mami, (the name given to me affectionately in Ghana, as the mother of Kobi)
“Your face is looking tired”
“Yes look at her eyes!”
“And the walk. It is true.”
Me, clueless: “Good afternoon. What is it?”
In unison after a few giggles, “You are pregnant!”
They were all convinced also, in that African way, that it was a boy.
It seemed absurd. The consensus out of nowhere, the thought, the idea. Despite not having felt very well over the past few weeks, I shrugged it off. Later in the evening, we sat in our ‘chamber-and-hall’, the two rooms we had in the compound, connected by a doorway with a curtain, the overhead fan incessantly whirring above us. I turned to my husband:
Me: “Can you imagine, Aunty Maude and Josephine were outside with the other ladies when I came home today. They all said I was pregnant!”
Husband: “Well I’m not surprised. You are. I can sense it. It is good news, no?”
Me, with my cultural baggage fully in hand, wondering a.) how the hell does everyone know but me, and b.) how can this be my husband’s reaction, if it is indeed true?!
I headed to the pharmacy the next morning for a test. They explained that if you bought the test, they would do the test right there, and off they sent me to the grimy little bathroom in the back hallway. They took my urine to another room and came back with the positive symbol on the little stick. And there it was. They told me in a matter of fact way.
“Please the test is positive.”
“You mean I’m really pregnant?!”
“Yes please. Do you need a receipt for the purchase?”
So I walked back out into the baking heat of the street, dodging between the open gutters underfoot and the hive of life around me. I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news. The truth that it took a test to convince me, but that my African in-laws had known by intuition.
I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy was on his way.
In the hospital on January 8th, 1999 I was very aware that my due date had passed and that there were dangers involved. My little kicking baby was in the breach position, and after giving my ribs a bashing for the past couple months, had not turned inside me.
My choice to stay in Ghana through the pregnancy haunted me on that hospital bench on that hot dusty day. What if I’ve compromised my baby’s chances? But he was a Ghanaian baby. His father wanted us to be here. His aunty, my angel Aunty Maude was a nurse and she wanted us there. She had always made me feel secure, calm. The hospital was a two minute walk from the compound, at the foot of our road, right on the main strip. It was a highly recommended hospital. But today there was a power outage. There were not enough doctors. The patients, like cattle, filled the hot pen. What was I doing?! Taking this whole African thing too far. I wanted to call my mom, so many worlds away. I had chosen a life that held no familiarity, no reference point for everyone I’d known back home.
So this was me, and I had shuffled up the benches over the hours, closer and closer to the door of the doctor’s office, until it was my turn.
I went in and was greeted with the doctor’s broad smile. He seemed tireless.
“Madam Holli”
“The boy is stubborn! I thought we’d have seen you in the delivery ward by now!”
He helped me up onto the rusty examination table and felt around with his warm hands.
“Ok, madam. He has not moved. The time is late. We will have to do Ceserean birth. You choose – tomorrow or the next day? I will make the booking.”
Oh my God. I had never envisaged a full operation in Ghana! The hospitals, the risks! The absurdity of choosing your child’s birthday?!
“Please, can my husband and aunty come in to the surgery? Will I be awake?”
“Sorry, no and no. This is a serious surgery and visitors cannot be permitted. They can visit you afterwards, during visiting hours.”
I knew right then this was not going to be like any of the C-section births I’d heard of in Canada. What happened to bringing your own music in, hubby with you, holding your hand, family in the waiting room to burst in a few minutes after the birth?!
My pulse pounded in my temples. There was no time, no other option in sight. I couldn’t run home to Canada. I’d have to trust this doctor and face this within the framework I found myself in. Baby nudged me back out of my paranoid frenzy, from within.
Me: “Tomorrow please. What time should I arrive?”
Doc: “You have to stay now, I will have them book you into the ward”.
I’d need to bring my own bed sheets, toilet paper, drinks, food, soap and towels, on top of all the normal things like newborn diapers and a carry home outfit for the baby….
My head was spinning. I told him my house was very close and I needed to go get my things.
So I walked back out into the baking heat of the street, dodging between the open gutters underfoot and the hive of life around me. I felt in a bubble. I could hear nothing. The world was just me and my news.
I was at once amazed, frightened, ecstatic and numb. My baby boy was on his way.
To be continued...
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21:25
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Holli's ramblings
So, I made the Christmas chocolate squares afterall - and managed to save them for our trip up the coast to the sailing club in Ada for Christmas. And they were excellent! Decadent. And I shared.
We had a second Christmas tree for our secret Santa out at the beach (the gifts included an Obama apron from classic Ghana cloth and some Kasapreko Alomo Bitters (a tonic to make men 'strong and virile')!
On the way out to the beach we had the pleasure of the Ghana Christmas traffic, and all it's sights:
Hemasie!!! (No clue whether this is spelled correctly) These are the traditional ghouls of the holiday season in Accra. They've been invading compounds and traffic lights since I can remember, scaring the children and extorting money, while entertaining all. The public seems to have a love hate relationship with them. As for me - I'm not a fan:
The hemasie outfits have always been pretty similar - bright clown type costumes, with creepy painted brown masks like this:
But it seems the modern world has infiltrated even this tradition in Ghana - since now they are using rubber Halloween masks instead. What a sight at your car window!
Then we saw a young girl, literally wobbling under the weight and mass of her wares:
And right after her, followed other members of the family:
In front of us at quite a few traffic lights was a pick-up truck (that's a bakkie to JW), full to capacity with bags and a bunch of young girls, excited and giggling. I used to love sitting in the back of a truck. But when they kept up along side us on the highway, I couldn't help think how dangerous it is... The funny thing is that the police have started to pull us over checking for seatbelts while trucks like this zoom past... sigh...
We came up beside a fancy Ghana hearse all decked out, and cracked up when some very alive inhabitants peered out and waved...
The long drives are just never boring. There was the bread seller:
and the tiger nut seller who was doing a booming trade with the tro-tros...
And the last minute gift idea - the massive clock!
We had some non-vehicular traffic to deal with along the way as well - a shepherd and his flock (and some resulting dust!)
Eventually we did arrive at the beach, and proceeded to vegitate. Amongst lots of eating, drinking and some sailing. At night, we shared our little rooms with a din of mosquitos, held back by our enveloping netting, the muggy heat, and the throbbing sounds from the nearby spot, who celebrated into the wee hours, with a 5 song repertoire...
On Christmas day, a sail up to the mouth of the river, opening into the ocean, we came across supper in the form of four massive fresh cassava fish, caught by a lovely couple in their canoe, and all for under $15.
Boxing Day's supper arrived at first as a visitor. A sheep who spent the night in our midst, bleating randomly, and found to be alert and pacing on my midnight trip to the loo... In the morning he watched the sun come up, but before 9am the deed was done. Soon he was marinating in garlic and spices, and then onto the coals of the barbeque... The executioner and his mates enjoyed the full head and various entrails, while a gang of other expats descended on the club and devoured the rest. A true feast was had by all.
We made it through a Christmas without snow, mistletoe, turkey or stuffing. Ghana gave us her best - sunshine, fresh fish, warm river water for swimming.
She offered up a sheep and entertained us through the night, whether it was wanted or not. Ghana gave us her sights and sounds and shared the holiday with us.
The police graced each roadblock with a smile and a hand reached out - it's Christmas oh!
Afehyia Paa everyone! Ghana-style.
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18:18
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Holli's ramblings
What does your Christmas tree say about you? Apparently it’s a tool for deep psychological analysis. I came across quite a few websites polarizing people based on the tree they choose. Here's some examples:
White Lights: You ask houseguests to remove their shoes.
Multicolored Lights: You're an extrovert.
Blinking Lights: You have attention deficit disorder.
Homemade Ornaments: You have lots of children.
Strung Popcorn: You have too much time on your hands.
Red balls only: You wish you lived in a department store.
Only none of these apply to me. What does my Christmas tree say about me?
Well, the fact that my boys, JW the ever non traditional and Q the teen boy, almost stopped me from putting it up altogether should say something.
We’re sort of ‘stuck’ in Ghana this year. This means we’ve all flown so much during the year that we couldn’t be bothered to plan and execute a family holiday half way across the world. So here we are.
We decided with friends to head down the coast for the few days over Christmas. No tradition, just beach, barbeques, vegging out.
BUT as the days grew closer I felt the inexplicable tug, that voice that says, ‘Put something up!”, “make it look a bit like Christmas around here!” So I voiced it. God forbid! I got attacked on two sides.
“Why? We won’t even BE here! We have no presents this year, remember we agreed!”
“You’ve become your mother.”
No offense Mom, but when it comes to Christmas you’re a hard act at follow. Ever since I can remember our house was decked out – from the designer wreath at the front door, to vines up the banister. Christmas scene in the living room bay window, candle clusters with holly, and a tree out of a designer mag for sure. Martha Stewart has nothing on my mom. One year, she saw a magnificent tree in a shop, decorated completely in white and gold. It was fully lit. People stopped to marvel at it. She then approached the store manager, made an offer, and ended up carting off the whole tree, wrapped in cellophane, fully decorated and lit. (No serious work THAT year!) And since this year my sister and her little family have taken over the family house, the tradition will carry on.
Then there’s me – the black sheep. Spent most Christmases over the past 13 years in Africa, or as a guest. Never made a Christmas turkey, never decked the halls, never had a designer tree.
This year takes the award for the least effort made in a Christmas tree erection.
I gave in though to the little voice, and dragged out the black wrought iron tree. It’s about 2 feet tall and has little spots for tea lights, but JW pointed out that it looks more like an orange seller’s stand in Ghana. It just might be the origin of our little tree, come to think of it!
I bought some hand casted Ghanaian glass stars at a sale and hung them with ribbon from our sad black tree. Added a few left over ornaments from unremembered Christmases past, and voila! My attempt at 2009 Christmas decorations.
Now what would the experts say about that? My tree isn’t real or fake. It’s metal! There are no white OR multicoloured lights. There just might be candles. There are no designer or homemade decorations, just a few Ghanaian made stars and some old leftovers.
But I’ve got my loved ones around me. And lots of vodka, wine and chocolate.
I might even make some Christmas chocolate squares… or I might drink more vodka and eat all the raw ingredients.
Merry Christmas Holli style ☺
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14:07
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Holli's ramblings
We have no little kids in the house anymore. This means there is no frantic pre-Christmas shopping, and no anticipation of the palpable excitement of Christmas morning. I miss that. I miss the plastic smells of new toys at Christmas, and I get to thinking about all the toys that marked each season in my own childhood and my kids too.
I always thought Sea Monkeys were creepy as a kid, but I was strangely drawn to them. I remember them big and bold, the whole family on display on the back page of the Betty and Veronica comic books. They looked like proper families – people’s torsos on mermaid bodies. I wanted them so badly but they were only available by mail order. I vaguely remember my whiny pleas and my parents insistence that they would buy no such thing and that I was wasting my breath.
Sigh. Sea Monkeys were marketed as real live pets, but people said they were just plastic. I so wanted to believe they were real. I imagined how I would have hours of fun watching the human-like family interacting in a fishbowl…
Over the years, many creepy toys have been marketed to our kids. From
Furbies ‘intelligent toys built to learn and grow each time you interacted with them’, to
My Twinn Doll, custom ordered to look exactly, eerily like each little girl. There is something very wrong about this.
Back in my day there were
Creepy Crawlers, home made gelatinous insects that we indulged with morbid curiousity, and
Teddy Ruxpin, the psycho looking bear with the blind stare and monotone voice.
There was Simon, the sci-fi looking console that made you feel like you were communicating with the Battleship enterprise, eminating creepy tones to lit up segments you bashed out in sequence…
There have been numerous anatomically correct peeing dolls, including Baby Wee Wee, that I’m sure I had… and recently there was the craze of the Tickle Me Elmo.
This year, there is really no imagination in the created hype over Chinese hamsters called
Zhu Zhu Pets. Big yawn. I hear that they’ve sold out, there have been reported riots in Walmart stores, and some evil grinchly entrepreneurs are extorting huge sums from brainwashed parents on ebay…
BUT what I happened upon today takes the cake for the creepiest toy ever. It gives me one of those, ‘what is the world coming to’ shudders.
It is a new toy that looks more like something in a sci-fi flick about a world where cloning and android beings have taken over fully.
But it is being marketed today. It’s called
Genpets TM, and the ‘catchy’ tag line is: “MASS PRODUCED, BIO ENGINEERED PETS, IMPLEMENTED TODAY”… WTF??!!
Reading their website, I don’t even know where to begin with the creepy factor.
You have to see this site to believe it. The RFQ say that these ‘pets’ (that look like badly designed plush toys) actually feel pain, have blood, muscle and tissue and bleed if cut. What?!
And eerily like the marketing of Sea Monkeys, the makers claim they have a special technology that keeps the lifeform in a state of limbo, like a coma until you take ownership and spark them to life.
Writing this inspired me to look into the whole Sea Monkey mystery, to cure that childhood curiousity once and for all. Thanks to the Internet and the
Sea Monkey’s official website, I now know that they are nothing more than a tiny species of brine shrimp. What a let down.
And the Genpet? I can only hope they are the hoax of the season.
_____________________________________________________________________
Update. My faith in humanity has been temporarily restored – the Genpet is indeed
an elaborate farce. A school project taken to the extreme. Taken to the Internet, for naïve surfers like me to happen upon and worry that the world has slipped into a sci-fi nightmare. I think I need to get outdoors more.
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21:58
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Holli's ramblings
Here's a funny but sad take, posted on
Graph Jam, on how the rest of the world sees Africa:
Below is a facts snapshot of
Africa, depicted as a map, posted by Chris Burns on World Famous Design Junkies - which I thought was excellent and thought provoking:
Both these maps were posted or pointed out by
Scarlet Lion - a great blogger in Liberia - check her out!!! She's a great photographer and commentator.
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13:00
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Holli's ramblings
Sandwiches are a very rare breed of food in Ghana. You’d think that it took an inordinate amount of talent to come up with the humble recipe of two slices of bread and some filling.
But truly. It is a feat in Ghana to find such an offering at a restaurant. In all my years here, all the restaurants (I’m sure I’ve been to most), … sandwiches are just not there on the featured list.
Which is why a quick business lunch in Accra is never just that. It either involves a trip to a local ‘spot’ with heavy fufu and soup, banku, oily sauces and stews and the inevitable mountain of rice… OR a lengthy visit to one of the city’s upscale restaurants, with their full dinner menu on offer. Who wants lamb tagine for lunch? A big bowl of spaghetti? Pepper steak with chips and hot veggies?
NO! Just a simple tuna sandwich please. Bread, can of tuna, mayo… should I come in the back and assist? No problem. And can we speed this experience up a bit?
Here might be the juncture to explain that there are literally no fast food chains in Ghana. Well, except for a few South African ones and the emphasis is NOT on fast.
So yesterday when we had a consultant in-house, and needed to pop out for a quick bite, it became all the more frustrating.
We have discovered ONE little place, Cuppa Cappuccino, that makes sandwiches in our area. The trouble is that, with the scarcity of sandwich shops, EVERYONE has found the same place. When we arrived it was like a convention of 4x4’s (the choice vehicle for the NGO’s and corporates here), and walking in was like a meet and greet the who’s who…
The waitresses struggle on a good day at this place, so they were basically swamped (though not in the slightest bit concerned), and there wasn’t a seat in sight. Many people mulled shoulder to shoulder around their cash out and serving station, making the whole place feel like a sardine tin from the inside.
It would be over an hour before we’d get a seat, order and be served. It just wouldn’t do.
We made one of those decisions (that you know are bad right away), to try the place we’d seen recently renovated just up the road and around the corner. Mabella’s Nest.
I now know why we stick to the devil we know. We arrived behind a huge delivery truck and navigated our way in (after having to inquire whether they were even open), over beer cases and boxes…
There wasn’t a soul inside. As a first impression, the dim green lighting, fans beating away like caged birds, with only a narrow passage way to sit in, only made us cringe further.
I knew we were in trouble. We should have just taken it as a sign we needed to diet, and headed back to the office hungry - but we had a guest in tow!
We sat. The place is basically a bar. A pool table fills out the place like a swimming pool, with a sliver of space for the tiny tables along the bar. Obviously the food aspect of this place was an afterthought. The cheap Chinese hollow silver chairs creaked and moaned under us.
Then the menus came. They had the usual dinner fare, but there were actually a few sandwich options – for GH10 – 12!! (At about USD $7 – 10, it was more than double the price of Cappuccinos).
The waitress, a pubescent and reluctant girl, with a syrupy slow manner jotted down our orders. Two clubs and a cheese sandwich.
Luckily we were busily chatting, because after 30 minutes a man appeared to tell us that the chef (chef?! in an empty bar, making sandwiches) noticed he was missing some vital ingredients. This is actually a very common Ghana restaurant problem. We said fine, please make due.
Another 30 or so minutes later (that adds up to an hour folks, for overpriced sandwiches!), we were brought the plates, one by one at 5 minute intervals, from the far away kitchen.
They looked like sandwiches, and sort of smelled like sandwiches. But upon touch, we knew there was something very wrong. They FELT like Styrofoam blocks. Rock hard and crumbly.
Now I don’t entirely blame them – here I blame the Brits. They imported some bread making recipe during colonial days that is missing something important, like perhaps eggs? The bread in Ghana (except for special browns) is pretty vile. Locals call it butter bread, but it’s like softer Styrofoam. (The French on the other hand brought the lovely baguette to the region).
Looks like Mabella took some stale butter bread and laid it out for an hour on a low broiler. It wasn’t toasty brown, but it was rock hard. Taking a bite caused a mass avalanche of bread chards and mystery food bits on the plates, our laps, and down my top!
We spent the mealtime apologizing for how messy the food was, as it was causing a diversion from our chit chat.
JW ordered the cheese on baguette and they had managed even to destroy that. Rock hard and gum damaging.
So in the end, I can’t blame the Brits. I had to blame Mabella. I hear the place is owned by an Aussie actually, so I definitely blame him!
Interestingly our guest told us that in the past he’d visited this place with an ex, and they’d left since it had a stripper’s pole in the corner. Well that’s gone now, but nothing and no one has replaced it.
Mabella’s Nest was a den of shame. A pathetic excuse for a restaurant that I can only hope does better as a bar. I'd rather have gone to the dentist than this place, and after the bread, I might have to! It was wrong from every angle and an experience I wouldn't wish on many...
If I had an inkling of 'restauranteur' in my blood, I’d open a place here that made sandwiches. Quickly, Efficiently. For a good price… but I don’t. And this is Ghana afterall. What would we complain about if everything worked perfectly?
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23:09
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Holli's ramblings
How was your day, son?
Something you want to tell us?
In these economic times...
Modern parenting - reversal of roles...
Thanks to
Toothpaste For Dinner for the funnies - one of my fav cartoonists.
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18:20
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Holli's ramblings
Today in the market, the omnipotent Sun God drove us out of the jostling chaos, down a tiny grey alley called Chicken and Rice, lined with bright yellow plastic chairs, Maggi promotional thick plastic table covers… around the covered corner, where the constructed cave came to a dead end and held it’s promise of food and drink and muted lull.
The children scrambled below our plastic bags of random purchases, our drenched gritty limbs. There were five of them. Tiny, timid, they approached the counter on tippy toes, dusty little feet poking out from under long Muslim cloth dresses, the rubber of the slippers ground to nothing under their tiny heels.
Little ladies with head scarves and kohl under their deep brown eyes. They giggled as they jostled and peeked back over their shoulders at the disheveled *Obrunis.
They held up their offering to the tall counter, one small coin, and asked in turn for a miracle.
They scrambled into the seats at the plastic table, helping the tinier ones to reach. They waited, and discussed in hushed tones, while we sipped luke warm Pepsis, complaining to ourselves about the lack of proper cold Coke when you want one…
And the old man emerged from the makeshift kitchen, shuffling on his own worn down slippers. He held only one plate that held a small scoop of rice with a matchbox sized piece of meat atop the meager pile. The children exchanged glances – the moment held their hunger, desperation, excitement and fear – fear that each would not be able to carry to their mouth with their tiny little scooped fist, enough of this food to stop the aches in their belly.
The air was tight, tense, with the look you find in children’s eyes on Christmas morning in front of the unopened presents at the base of the tree. But today, like all days for these little ones is no Christmas, it is a day where they need to eat.
There the two podgy obrunis that we were, immersed, we could not look away. We were at once elated by the beauty of their impossible innocence, and humbled by the shame of the haves among the have-nots.
We called the old man and offered up a Cedi (less than a dollar) to feed the children some more. He shuffled away dutifully. His own hunger following slowly behind.
He emerged with a gruff command – shouted at the children and pointed in our direction. His finger poked the air and insisted they file over to us and hang their heads in gratitude.
Like a spectacle, we insisted loudly, awkwardly that they sit and enjoy.
The next plate arrived, this time piled far higher than the first. And we looked away as the children glanced wary at us. We nodded sheepishly. They returned to their task with fervor.
Soon the second plate was clean. The children licked and popped tiny fingers in and out of their mouths and quietly they slipped from the chairs, turned to say Thank you! And they were gone. Back out into the mayhem of the bustling market street.
Back to a life of hungry tomorrows and rough lessons. To heartache and laughter and the mysteries that held them like a dream from us.
We picked up our things and left the troubled dream, enveloped once again by the inhuman sway of the market beast.
*Obruni - white person (or any foreigner) in the Twi language
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22:07
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Holli's ramblings
I love a feel good, help-the-world, tree-hugger type story. I love a good creamy, rich, sinfully sweet bar of chocolate too. So I should be impressed that Cadbury Canada partnered with Cadbury Ghana and the Bicycle factory, to
donate 5000 bicycles to needy children in Ghana.
The campaign ran through the summer this year in Canada. All you had to do was buy a Caramilk or Dairy Milk or Dentyne gum etc. and send in the UPC code. For every hundred codes, Cadbury donated one bicycle, until the number reached 5 thousand.
Here’s the feel-good commercial that accompanied the campaign.
Instead of feeling inspired though, I was disturbed by the following:
1. Can we assume Canadians had an altruistic motive in participating? Come on, they only had to buy a chocolate bar. Hardly seems like selfless sacrifice…
2. Cadbury’s (the confection division of Cadbury Schweppes)
revenue last year was over USD $5 Billion. I estimate the cost of this promotion for them to be about USD $225,000 or roughly twenty two thousand times less than their profits. Hardly seems like a HUGE sacrifice on their part either really.
3. Therefore this smells like a MASSIVE promotion for the Cadbury brand at little cost, and I’m not sure what impact.
4. My other concern is with the implications of the advert. They show the ‘African child’ using the bicycle as the following:
a. An ambulance – This is pathetic and sad but true. By showcasing this, Ghana is forced to admit that there is no healthcare in rural areas, and kids with bicycles will be expected to carry ill people to far off hospitals. The unimplied but more disturbing issue is the complete lack of facilities that will be awaiting them when they arrive.
b. A water truck – Hello! What happened to the millions and millions of wells donated and dug by the hundreds of NGOs over the years? Again, Ghana admits there is no safe drinking water for miles upon miles… and a kid on a bicycle is the answer????!!!!
c. A school bus – well as Canadians, the first thing that should strike us is the complete and utter lack of safety depicted here. The video shows 4 people on one bicycle – with a toddler sitting in the front basket, completely unharnessed. Over the untarred roads of rural Ghana. I guess it’s the assumption that if you can get 4 kids to school whatever way possible, then you’ve done your part – throw safety out the window, afterall they’re only African kids who would have had to walk anyway… There is no inference in this advert that of the small percentage of rural kids who actually go to school, most can expect to spend half their time labouring on their 'teachers' farms...
So thanks Canadians for eating more chocolate, making Cadbury richer and helping Africa by asking 5000 lucky juvenile recipients to solve Africa’s massive problems with bicycles!!!
Cadbury has
been under fire recently for exploitative fair trade marketing, so it’s no wonder they are aiming to boost their reputation as a caring community oriented company.
According to Toyin Agbetu, head of Education and Social policy at
Ligali, “Cadbury has a long history of exploitative behavior in Ghana. It was formed in England by the Quakers in 1900 and moved to what was then called the ‘Gold Coast’ in 1907. Its rampant abuse of the system of colonial enslavement in order to extract the best quality cocoa beans made the company the huge profits it enjoys today.”
What exactly constitutes fair trade status? In Cadbury’s case, they have agreed to pay $150 per tonn of cocoa above the minimum market price.
I posted a
recent advert Cadbury’s released, promoting their fair trade brand of chocolate from Ghanaian cocoa. Agbetu points out that the advert alone “is likely to have cost more to make than their ‘social premium’ (of $150 per tonn) could generate in usable revenue each year.”
Sorry Brett - I tried to get positive about this one. It's great the kids got some bikes, but if you ask me, Cadbury's got a whole lot more out of the deal. And Canadians got to feel good about splurging on chocolate. Hmmmm.
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21:25
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Holli's ramblings
Luckily Ghana has escaped the epidemic numbers of H1N1 cases so far. In fact most of Sub-Saharan Africa has very few cases (apart from South Africa). It’s just as well, with the lack of adequate healthcare and access to clinics, medication etc.
According to the
World Health Organization, Ghana has only 18 reported cases of confirmed swine flu.
ALL of these are from the International School that my son attends. He is one of the 18.
The Ghana Health Service took the whole thing quite seriously and closed the school down for over a week. They even made it front page news!
Meanwhile behind the scenes, in our case, the GHS didn’t bother to call us nor provide Tamiflu. Luckily, my son’s case was really mild. By the time we had the results of his tests back (2 days after the test), his symptoms were gone.
Also not so sure how contagious this virus is, since the rest of us in the house didn’t get a sniffle…
But I digress.
The fact that Ghana (except for a few privileged International students) has escaped the worst of the H1N1 strain, does not mean that Ghanaians are oblivious to the global hype.
In fact, the pork farmers and the roadside sellers here know all too well how rumours can
ruin an industry.
This weekend, while at a Christmas bazaar in the 35 degree heat of Accra, I happened upon THIS:
What cracked me up – besides EVERYTHING – was the way they chose to 'get the message across' – pork is safe (i.e. cool – notice the cartoon pig with black shades), in contrast with the whole dead, cooked pig, nose burnt to a charred crisp, with pineapples for eyes!!! Gotta love Ghana.
Also, I think we have a logo copyright issue – notice the sponsors listed in the lower right side of the banner…
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18:23
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Holli's ramblings
This morning while nursing my mini-hangover (the aftermath of Grey Goose on ice, lots of sushi, unknown quantities of red wine and Irish coffee to finish), I happened upon the bill from my birthday dinner.
It turns out that to feed a lovely crew of 12, along with our share of drinks and sweets, we spent the equivalent of 10 months salary of my gardener.
Wow, that really puts things in perspective. Filling the bellies of 12 people in one evening… added up to 10 months salary for an average Ghanaian?!
Besides feeling like a true Expat – in every spoiled sense of the word – it sparked my interested to take a look at the disparities that abound all around me.
Today I found out that the annual revenue for the entire country of
Sierra Leone (one of Ghana’s close neighbors on the West African coast) is USD $96million.
Oprah Winfrey alone made over two and a half times that… OF AN ENTIRE COUNTRY!!! According to
Forbes list she pulled in $275million over the same period.
Tiger Woods and Madonna also out-earned Sierra Leone, with over $100m each…
Here’s another eye opening fact. The
list below is the GDP per capita (ANNUAL take home pay) of the average person in these countries:
Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$)
1. Burundi ... $90
2. Ethiopia ... $110
3. Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110
4. Liberia ... $110
5. Malawi ... $160
6. Guinea-Bissau ... $160
7. Eritrea ... $190
8. Niger ... $210
9. Sierra Leone ... $210
10. Rwanda ... $210
All of these countries are in Africa, and each figure is less than I spend at the Supermarket (in Africa!) every Saturday. People are surviving (really?!) on $200 per year?!!!
I feel a gratitude list coming on, but also a reality check.
Oprah’s 55th birthday this year (celebrated with a Mediterranean cruise for 1700 of her closest friends), cost $10m.
Equivalent to the annual income of over 100,000 Burundians.
Now I don’t feel so bad.
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15:25
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sw6gQTAE-jI/AAAAAAAABR0/7sOgHuLPy7U/s1600/dangersign.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sw6gQTAE-jI/AAAAAAAABR0/7sOgHuLPy7U/s400/dangersign.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408436404357495346" //abr /I woke up this morning pretty much like any other. The alarm sounds, we hit snooze for 10 minutes, cherishing every last second of cuddliness before the second alarm, and then the forcing of the feet to hit the floor, stumbling crusty eyed into the washroom. Face wash, pee, brush teeth and so the day begins.br /br /Turning 40 is kind of like New Year’s Eve. It’s supposed to be a big deal of some sort, but when it finally comes and there are no miraculous, life changing events, you just feel disappointed.br /br /I’m not sure what I expected to happen today. I knew there’d be lots of facebook Happy Birthday messages and some face to face wishes. I knew I’d be looking forward to sushi and some great company at supper tonight, but on a deeper level I have been conditioned to believe something – bad or good – would happen.br /br /I’ve read a bunch of things about turning 40. They include predictions that your eyesight fails, memory falters, and that you become somehow more wise. For me, halfway through day one, I believe my eyesight is still 20/20, my memory has been crap for years so no change there, and I don’t seem to have acquired a new outlook or any profound wisdom. br /br /I have been trolling the Internet for interesting things, quotes, epiphanies on turning 40. Here’s an example of what I found:br /br /“The first forty years of life give us the text: the next thirty supply the commentary”br /br /“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.”br /br /“Mental powers peak at 22 and start to deteriorate at 27” (Depressing!)br /br /“Somebody told me the other day that "Life does Not begin at 40. Life begins when the last kid moves out and the dog dies." br /br /(Not sure how relevant this is, but I’ve got a year and a half till the last kid moves out and the last dog we had, found a new home years ago.)br /br /I then found a site with a woman’s list of “The 40 things every self respecting woman must have by the time she turns 40.”br /br /Thought I’d check out how I measure up:br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"THE TOP 40/spanbr /1.) span style="font-weight:bold;"Peace of mind (and a piece of property)/span – I hope a boat counts as a piece of property.br /br /2.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A will/span – does it have to be updated? I wrote one when I was 27…br /br /3.)span style="font-weight:bold;" Willpower/span – I hope dieting doesn’t count here, cuz if so, I’ve failed miserably and I don’t see any miracles happening this year…br /br /4.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A savings account in your own name/span – Got it! Had one of those since I was 14 though…br /br /5.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A mammogram/span – can I blame living in Ghana on NOT having this done? Wow – it’s my birthday and I feel guilty now… will add this to my TO DO list…br /br /6.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A manicure (not to mention a pedicure, a facial and a massage--all on the same day)/span – gonna book one of those! I have an excuse now ☺br /br /7.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A set of matching luggage/span – I paid an unfathomable amount for a set last year and never use them together…br /br /8.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A ticket to some exotic place to unpack it/span – Grenada – no ticket yet, but the boat is waiting… so I’m ok on this one.br /br /9.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A great hairdresser, gynecologist and stockbroker/span – NONE of these….br /br /10.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A passionate, fiery, unforgettable love affair/span – I’ve been living one of these for the past 8 years! br /br /11.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A little black dress that makes you look five pounds thinner /span– definitely need to go shopping. I’ve never had one of these. I might have had little black dresses over the years, but none made me look thinner.br /br /12.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A sense of humor, style and purpose/span – Humour sometimes, style.. um…., purpose – I purposefully live toward a life of freedom, adventure and relaxation.br /br /13.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A selfish streak/span – shopping must fit in here somewhere…br /br /14.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A spiritual foundation that gets you through a very bad night without going crazy/span – I struggle with this one, but I know my little boy shines through for me on those brutal nights.br /br /15.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A facial foundation that gets you through a very long day/span – living in Ghana this would backfire into a sweaty pool of peachy pudding on my collar!br /br /16.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A good bra/span - I’ve got a few – for every type of shirt (which is no easy thing, wearing a non-standard size you can’t find in any North American store! Thank the universe for British bra sizes!)br /br /17.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A good spa/span – well there is one I’ve been to in Accra, but the masseuses and pedicurists are known to cause damage at times…br /br /18.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A library card /span(used often) – this must be old. I’ve got the Internet!!!br /br /19.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A credit card/span (used sparingly) – Yes on both accounts. I don’t believe in debt.br /br /20.) span style="font-weight:bold;"At least one person in your life who says: "You call, I come”/span – got a few of those. Lucky me!!! You know who you are – and THANKS for being there!br /br /21.)span style="font-weight:bold;" Good body language (multilingual!)/span – I think I’m pretty good at this. I used to know how to flirt too, but that was long ago ☺br /br /22.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A broken heart and the knowledge you can survive it/span – been there, definitely survived and came out better the other side of it. br /br /23.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A cause celebre (domestic violence, infant mortality, save the whales--your choice)/span – I find myself getting worked up over gay marriage rights…does that count? br /br /24.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A personal relationship with a higher being/span – I believe it’s all inside, just not always easy to find!!!br /br /25.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A personal trainer/span – I wish!!! I always convince myself these are the reason Hollywood girls looks great, and I get wobblier…br /br /26.) span style="font-weight:bold;"Selective amnesia ("What Saturday morning meeting?")/span – I have this without trying.br /br /27.)span style="font-weight:bold;" Gall /span– Yup.br / br /28.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A good skin-care regimen /span– Lux soap and water? Maybe I should be doing more?br /br /29.)span style="font-weight:bold;" The ability to converse on any subject without benefit of concrete knowledge or access to facts/span – working with mostly men in the Telecomms industry has made me a pro in this area…br /br /30.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A shocking secret/span – I’m sure I’ve got a few, but with my failing memory, I’ve forgotten them!br /br /31.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A pair of silk pajamas /span– whoever wrote this does NOT live in the tropics. Birthday suit suits me fine.br /br /32.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A lifetime membership in at least one organization dedicated to uplifting women/span – I prefer to surround myself with women who I admire.br /br /33.) span style="font-weight:bold;"The phone number of someone who is good with their hands /span– I have one of these in-house!br /br /34.) span style="font-weight:bold;"At least one drop-dead, don't-speak-to-me-because-you-know-you-don't-know-me gorgeous photo of yourself/span – This is why I love photoshop! What wrinkles??br /br /35.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A friendship that has stood the test of time/span – if by the test of time you mean since we were 5, then yes!!!br /br /36.) span style="font-weight:bold;"One last chance to tell the guy you were crazy about in your 20s who treated you like cigarette ashes on the floor what you were too dumb to know when he walked out with your heart in his hands: "Thank you, thank you, thank you."/span – I’ve done this and man it felt good.br /br /37.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A soul mate/span – when I was 32 I found mine and never looked back.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sw6hyb0hjdI/AAAAAAAABR8/cbFz3sCcaTc/s1600/shiloh.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 222px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sw6hyb0hjdI/AAAAAAAABR8/cbFz3sCcaTc/s320/shiloh.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5408438090352135634" //abr /br /38.) span style="font-weight:bold;"Faith, hope and a good fantasy/span – these are always within reach.br /br /39.) span style="font-weight:bold;"A dream/span – definitely have one of those!br /br /40.)span style="font-weight:bold;" A plan to make it come true/span – Grenada, Shiloh, we’re coming!!!br /br /So, as I make my way through day one of the rest of my ‘over 40’ life, I reflect on the things I’ve done, those I’ve chosen not to do, and how I have faced the life that’s come my way.br /br /I’m happy and that has to count for a lot. br /br /I don’t feel so bad on this supposed milestone day. Afterall, most people I went to school with (not surprisingly) turned 40 this year, and they still seem normal! They are surviving, thriving and getting on with life.br /br /Even A HREF="http://cbs11tv.com/slideshows/Celebrities.40.2009.20.900973.html"famous people turn 40 this year/A – ones we still find hot like Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston.br /br /I think life is about taking what’s thrown at you and sifting through it. Taking the things that you like and throwing back the rose creams… I’m hoping that each year I get better at doing that.br /br /It’s also about standing up, standing out, asserting yourself for yourself and no one else. Whether you want to be rich and famous or a good knitter, or something in between…br /br /Life is the journey and the journey is all we have.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-1320804462264132356?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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21:48
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Holli's ramblings
When I moved to Ghana all those years ago, I had to leave behind all my Western consumerist obsessions – Diet Coke, Kraft Dinner, chocolate bars - even boxed breakfast cereals for my little boy were things of another world. Firstly, they weren’t available. Second, even if they were, on our volunteer ‘stipend’ we wouldn’t have been able to afford them.br /br /But there were always days when, buried in the blur of culture shock, we all longed for a ‘taste of home’. There was a small Lebanese grocery store called Kwatsons that we'd visit, at the top of the A HREF="http://livinginghana.wordpress.com/2008/02/17/districts-of-accra-osu/"Osu/A main strip, just admiring all the expensive imported foods. And once in a blue moon I’d buy a little block of cheese, or some real butter (as opposed to the cheap and readily available, non-refrigerated mystery bread fat), a jar of jam and a fresh baguette bread. br /br /Kwatsons became A HREF="http://www.koalashop.com.gh/home/"Koala/A over the years, though I assume it’s the same family who owns it. They’ve grown and expanded and today you can pretty much buy anything you might want. And these days I don’t have to look longingly, I just get on with the grocery shopping. br /br /Accra has a big mall now, up the other end of town, through throngs of traffic… but I still prefer the family run Koala. They really try. Last December, in the blazing heat, they set up a fake snow machine outside the door, so when you were at the check outs looking out, it appeared as a blistery winter’s day in Canada. (Now THAT’s trying). They acknowledge each holiday – from Easter to Eid and of course Christmas. br /br /It could be said that they are just capitalizing on the season. That there’s no authenticity, no heart. That maybe the staff who string these things up have no clue of the cultural significance…br /br /I was in Koala on the weekend, and noticed they’d put up a Christmas tree this year! br /br /I just had to take a photo and share. Here it is (and no, I did not stand on my head to take the picture):br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SwsDjyHOJ-I/AAAAAAAABRs/uLgsjvRq0rU/s1600/IMG_0032.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SwsDjyHOJ-I/AAAAAAAABRs/uLgsjvRq0rU/s400/IMG_0032.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5407419690870777826" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3716969099993077653?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:23
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Holli's ramblings
I was going to write the other day, on A HREF="http://www.worldtoilet.org/"World Toilet Day/A – which was on Thursday. Not because I wanted to highlight the sad reality that a vast number of people on the continent where I live have no access to proper sanitation, including toilets…br /br /I was going to write on that day because I heard, on the same BBC radio broadcast, another story about yet another massively rich, corrupt African stashing his billions abroad.br /br /In other news, yesterday I heard the flabbergasting news that the A HREF="http://www.sott.net/articles/show/197357-Overt-Destabilisation-European-Union-gives-Nigeria-1bn"EU is donating $1 BILLION to Nigeria, to help with corruption…/Abr /br /HUH? To help WITH corruption. Why does stuff like this still surprise me?br /Right. A bit of background…br /br /In the A HREF="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/11/17/us/17visa.html?pagewanted=1_r=3ref=global-home"first story/A, our reluctant hero is Mr. TN Obiang, the Minister of Forestry and Agric. (and the son of the President) of Equatorial Guinea.br /br /His country is the A HREF="http://www.alertnet.org/thenews/newsdesk/IRIN/c7642eb3765e9d5108a0ffb247976a37.htm"third richest in oil in Africa,/A just below Angola and Nigeria. There is a tiny population of half a million people. In 2007, the government sold USD$4.3 Billion in oil. Yet 90% of the 500,000 inhabitants live on less than a dollar a day. br /br /This leaves quite a few billion for the government guys…br /br /The news story goes on to explain that Mr. Obiang travels freely between his little country and the USA, to his Malibu Mansion, commonly carrying millions in cash each time he enters the states(normally punishable by a 5 year prison term), despite supposed laws in the states that deny entry to corrupt foreign officials. He keeps quite a few millions in bank accounts in America as well.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Swfw7i0L2eI/AAAAAAAABRk/gA7qhQzRvc4/s1600/article-1161327-03D77A69000005DC-568_468x286.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Swfw7i0L2eI/AAAAAAAABRk/gA7qhQzRvc4/s400/article-1161327-03D77A69000005DC-568_468x286.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406554783430203874" //abr /br /These laws are enforced, when it comes to guys like Mugabe – Zimbabwe’s tyrannical despot. br /br /Why the double standard then? br /br /Oil. And America’s interest in it.br /br /Which brings us to the second story. The EU working with the Nigerian government, globally renowned for corruption, by offering them USD$1 Billion to assist… br /br /Other African countries are up-in-arms about the choice of this massive donation to A HREF="http://peakoil.com/peak-oil-discussion/top-20-net-oil-exporting-countries-2008-t54050.html"the richest oil country in Africa, eighth richest oil country in the world./Abr /br /But that is the point really.br /br /Oil. And the EU’s interest in it.br /br /In the BBC story, the reporter A HREF="http://www.bbc.co.uk/worldservice/africa/2009/11/091120_eu_nigeria.shtml"asked so many of the questions/A I was squirming in my seat, itching to ask.br /br /“Why Nigeria? With it’s vast oil reserves and billions in annual income from oil?”br /br /“With the Nigerian government’s dismal track record for corruption, surely the EU is somewhat concerned that the funds will not be used as per their intended aim?”br /br /etc. etc. etc. br /br /The answers from the EU press officer were wishy-washy, non-committal. No surprise.br /br /What makes my blood boil is that the bleeding heart Americans and Europeans don’t put all these facts together.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Swfu6O19GKI/AAAAAAAABRc/AZgWRYWN_DM/s1600/corruption+in+africa.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Swfu6O19GKI/AAAAAAAABRc/AZgWRYWN_DM/s400/corruption+in+africa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5406552561865791650" //aNGO’s grow and collaborate and fundraise, and promote guilt and scrape like finger nails on the thin raw skin of western conscience, to help, help, help! These helpless Africans.br /br /Meanwhile the Western governments condone, concede, support and feed into the corruption.br /br /When Mr. Obiang is welcomed at LAX, whisked over to his Malibu mansion in the stretch limo, darkened windows, cool aircon and refreshments in the back seat, there is a directly proportionate mass of slum dwellers back home, robbed of the basics of sanitation, housing, education, clean water, electricity. Babies are born and die the next day in a pool of their mother’s blood where the midwife couldn’t save their lives in the corrugated iron shack amid the thousands in a shanty.br /br /I A HREF="http://www.dailymail.co.uk/money/article-1161327/Playboy-used-Barclays-launder-Third-World-cash.html"read further/A that despite his official salary of $6000 per month, he bought his mansion for $26million cash. Plus three Bugatti Veyron sports cars at £1.2million each.br /br /The proceeds from just one of these cars would have bought enough mosquito nets for every child in his country, where malaria is the number one childkiller.br /br /So the next time a campaign to end poverty in Africa comes my way, I’ll give them the address of T N Obiang in Malibu. I doubt he’s given yet.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8377582179779324921?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:54
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Holli's ramblings
I make a mean chili (con carne). It’s true (ok, people tell me it’s true so I choose to believe them). And the amazing thing about this fact is that it’s one of the only things I can cook. Well. My culinary skills are quite limited. You’re about to find out just how limited…br /br /So it’s a lazy Sunday, the diet starts tomorrow (as usual), and I peel myself off the couch, inspired out of nowhere (but for the looming supper hour approaching), to make some chili. (I am usually off the hook for this task, as we have a cook who comes from Monday to Friday... I know, I know... spoiled).br /br /I was humming away to myself in my sauna-cum-kitchen (in the house we inhabit, which used to be the Libyan Embassy of Accra – no joke! Irrelevant to this story but interesting and random). br / br /I was actually feeling quite happy with myself, since I’d remembered to pick up chili powder in Houston last week. Chili powder cannot be bought in Ghana. Here, chili powder is exactly what it says it is – fire hot peppers, dried and ground into powder. I found this out the hard way once in my earlier years in Ghana, while making one of my ‘killer chilis’. I near killed a couple of guests…br /br /But I digress. So there I was this fine evening, cutting and sautéing and humming, (this is a rare thing in my life), when Q walks in with that inevitable teenager question,br /br /“What’s for supper?”br /br /Me, proudly, “Chili!”br /br /Q - “With rice?”br /br /Me – “No, why?”br /br /Q – “Well chili’s not chili without rice!”br /br /So there it was. All my cooking ineptitude quivering, hanging, about to spill out, on this statement.br /br /I cannot cook rice. There, I’ve said it. br /br /I haven’t tried many times, but when I have it’s always been a disaster. Think rice pudding with lots of salt. Hmmm.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SwBUhpYq6vI/AAAAAAAABRU/Ae6sHzNO4hE/s1600-h/_advertising_pictures_rice-day-04-01-1949-107.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 187px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SwBUhpYq6vI/AAAAAAAABRU/Ae6sHzNO4hE/s400/_advertising_pictures_rice-day-04-01-1949-107.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5404412489866341106" //abr /br /It’s not entirely my fault though. I grew up on the hideous fast-food-inspired Uncle Ben’s Instant rice. WHAT IS THAT STUFF?! I always hated rice as a result. Uncle Ben is creepy in general - who owns that company? Somehow I doubt it was Uncle Ben himself. Between he and Aunt Jemima, lots of racial stereotypes have stood the test of time... but apparently in unrelated news, A HREF="http://opinion.latimes.com/opinionla/2007/03/next_weeks_news.html"Uncle Ben has a new image!/A He is now a CEO executive type, traveling the world... br /br /Shit, where was I?br /br /When I moved to Africa, I met a continent that is obsessed with rice. Carbs in general, but rice specifically.br /br /I have a colleague from Mali who declared at lunch one day, “Without rice, there is no life. There is no life without rice.”br /br /So, I tried rice in Africa, all over Africa, and it is great. Cooked so many ways, but always delicious. The texture, the taste. Who knew? Then I discovered A HREF="beta.irri.org/news/images/.../ricetoday/8-4/Mechanical_self-sufficiency.pdf"all this rice is imported from Thailand, or thereabouts…/A When I had the misfortune of tasting local Ghanaian rice, I understood why everyone imported rice. Come on Africa! Come on Ghana! The climate is perfect – grow your own rice commercially!... sigh, one day…br /br /But we are here to expose my pathetic ineptitude for making rice. And there we stood, my son and I in the steamy kitchen… and we made a decision.br /br /An hour later, my humble gardener returned from his ‘quarters’ with the remaining dry rice and a tub of salt in one hand, a full, steamy pot of perfectly cooked rice in the other.br /br /Yes, I asked my gardener to make rice for me. I know how pathetic this sounds. Having a gardener, who lives on-hand, available for my demented whims…br /br /The fact that I laughed at myself nervously to him, offered him a bag of uncooked rice and some beers from our fridge as well as a small ‘overtime pay’ does not make up for it, I’m sure…br /br /I think I’ve sunk to an unprecedented low.br /br /I can imagine he and his new lady friend in their room…br /br /Eric: “Please, we have to make a pot of rice for Madam”br /br /Lady friend, “What? Rice for your madam, why? She cannot make rice?” Lady friend thinking, WHAT WOMAN CANNOT MAKE RICE?! br /br /Eric and lady friend thinking, AH, THESE STRANGE, DEPENDENT OBRUNIS (whites), WE’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND THEM…br /br /The truth is that if we take a look across cultures, and then back at ourselves, a lot is revealed about strange practices and habits we find normal. But sadly, in this instance, I cannot even blame cultural differences. I am just a spazz – cross culturally, who can’t make a pot of rice to save her life.br /br /PS – the chili AND the rice were delicious! The diet starts tomorrow…div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3099388115318735369?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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21:24
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Holli's ramblings
I landed in Houston for the second time in my life. The weather was gorgeous. Nothing else was…br /br /I witnessed mile after strip mall infested mile to the hotel, to town, to the airport, and in between, I witnessed these:a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Svx-dadnWlI/AAAAAAAABRE/6WT1znwsNkA/s1600-h/IMG_0265.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Svx-dadnWlI/AAAAAAAABRE/6WT1znwsNkA/s400/IMG_0265.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403332696722594386" //abr /br / - FLAT. F. L. A. T. - A speed bump might be considered a mountain in Houston.br /br / - Christmas pics with pets… I’m not kidding. Dogs and cats are food in parts of the country where I live…br /br / - Beautiful green precision cut lawns. New, just poured? sidewalks everywhere, and not a pedestrian in sight.br /br / - In fact, on my solemn walk, I found out the hard way that not only are pedestrians NOT given the right of way, they are not given ANY way! There were NO pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights!br /br / - I was confused with a Mexican (no doubt) as I WALKED (OMG, unheard of) – as young Mexicanos in pimped up cars slowed down, base thumping, to chat me up in Spanish… are you serious?br /br / - Jack in the boxbr /br / - Did I mention strip malls?br /br / - Chili’sbr /br / - Nail salons (in strip malls)br /br / - McDonald’s – no seriously. Every 2 blocks. In between the Jack in the Boxes…br /br / - Drive-thru Pharmacies. br /br / - Baby back ribs – like the kind on the Flintstones - massive. YUM! a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SvyAU9yB9XI/AAAAAAAABRM/r_1CLAxWTAg/s1600-h/China_Hair_Bumpits_as_seen_on_tv200962321395810.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 280px; height: 280px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SvyAU9yB9XI/AAAAAAAABRM/r_1CLAxWTAg/s400/China_Hair_Bumpits_as_seen_on_tv200962321395810.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5403334750607897970" //abr /br / - A HREF="https://www.bumpits.com/2/?"Bumpits/A – for big Texas hair – as seen on TV. This is SOOO Texas stereotype! C’mon people, we need to work at breaking these down, not fulfilling them to the letter… sigh.br /br / - Muslim American military doctor goes postal… kills 13? He’d just been promoted and was headed to Afganistan to help Muslim Americans with their conflicting feelings… This was big news during my 3 day stay. Only in America.br /br / - Restaurant motto on massive sign board – “Walk in – Roll out”br /br / - Sheriff/police eat free policy at all conferences, including ours – Offshore Communications… and they did! Just waddled in, sat down at sponsored event lunches, (at reserved tables), and then waddled out. Wow. Wonder if this is listed in the perks of the job?br /br / - Street names: Beauregard, Rip Van Winkle, Mossycup, Overcup, Broken Bough, Broken Arrow…br /br /You gotta love Houston… or not. In my case, I think there will be no love lost from either side if I don’t make it back… br /br /What I gained from the experience? 3 pounds.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8969533316507025584?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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23:31
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Su9ve3m3nAI/AAAAAAAABQ8/gukBOkgjw3A/s1600-h/hosanna.gif"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Su9ve3m3nAI/AAAAAAAABQ8/gukBOkgjw3A/s320/hosanna.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399657054354250754" //abr /br /In a random European Airport, under the harsh lights, at some ungodly hour, somewhere between the comfort of home and the great unknown, a group are huddled together for reassurance, uniform in cotton t-shirts, with big eyes and sturdy backpacks from Bass Pro Shops. Eager beavers, goats before the slaughter. Their thick backs bear the inscription ‘Malawi 2009’. Their armour is weak for the journey they have yet to begin.br /br /Characteristically pudgy and pale, stodgy raw sausage ankles push out from under sensible cotton trousers and long modest skirts, stuffed into Dr. Scholls and Tevas for comfort. Their packs, like them, are stuffed, taut. Unscented sunblock, mosquito spray and bed nets; and ‘little gifts for the children’- and Dairy Milk fruit and nut bars for themselves. For strength. br /br /They are jovial, yet a tangible nervous energy hangs over them like animals devoid of instinct, when the forest around them knows there is danger ahead. They have no idea. They decide to sing.br /br /They hover, docile and domesticated around their guide. He is confident and all-knowing. He has actually BEEN TO AFRICA before, and he will lead this unprepared motley crew into the wild. His cheeks are a deeper red than the others, his enthusiasm rehearsed. He knows what lies ahead, but has pledged himself to a make believe cause…br /br /The bland mass are willing but not able, well-meaning but insincere, sheltered and softened by processed foods and years of inactivity. They have emerged from the warm dark cave where they’ve been nurtured on clean running water and Starbucks, electricity and mod-cons, the frivolity of Hallmark love and television emotions.br / br /There is not a muscle in sight. The sinews of these creatures have never strained. Never pulsed against the enemy that awaits. br /br /Poverty the rat will mock them and eat it’s children with wanton fangs, and these soft bellied creatures will weep and mourn and look up to the Hosanna they’ve had inscribed on their XL tees. Cheek flesh will tremble, hot tears will well up and spill uselessly on the dry crusted surface of the African slum.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Su9vCnuQ2_I/AAAAAAAABQ0/sGu-SJWkdas/s1600-h/african-slum1.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Su9vCnuQ2_I/AAAAAAAABQ0/sGu-SJWkdas/s400/african-slum1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5399656569053961202" //abr /br /And the naïve smiles painted on their blank faces will be replaced. Temporarily smudged. br /br /They will return a few weeks or months later, believing they’ve been changed forever. Licking their wounds they will retreat. They will cling limply to the belief that something has changed. That their mission has had a higher purpose… br /br /They will remember the bright saucer eyes in the tiny brown faces atop spindly limbs, and believe there was connection, love, hope… while countless faceless rats scurry underfoot.br /br /When our group are back in their warm caves, baking Pilsbury chocolate chip cookies, the trip to the wild will slip into a pocket of memory, a conversation for tea. A flash reflection before excess and indulgence overcome them once again. Swallowed by mountains and mountains of things.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8244228908501676733?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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13:54
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Holli's ramblings
I'm still new to blog-love in the formal sense, so I was astonished to find out someone's got a 'blog-crush' on me! *blushes*, looks down, sweeps ground with toes...sways from side to side coquettishly (is that a word?)...br /br /Well i have to say, it's mutual, I just didn't know how to show it - there's so much to learn! br /br /Thank you wholeheartedly to Julochka, mother of the wonder-blog, A HREF"http://julochka.blogspot.com/"Moments of perfect clarity - an outlet for madness with occasional flashes of insight/A. I've been visiting and thoroughly enjoying this blog for a while now... sort ot stalking from the sidelines and now it's all out in the open! J wrote a lovely tribute type post about Holli's Ramblings today. I'm trying not to let it go to my head, but it just might... (reminds self: "Holli, remember crushes pass, don't be broken hearted" later) :)br /br /She also posted a wonderful photo of a globe with a beautiful Africa as the focal point - it's gorgeous and I'm posting it here (all rights reserved or something, photo belongs to Julochka - hopefully she will still like me and not have me arrested for using the image without permission)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuxEvM6EzJI/AAAAAAAABQs/5i6fBMtzrCw/s1600-h/DSC_0381.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 268px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuxEvM6EzJI/AAAAAAAABQs/5i6fBMtzrCw/s400/DSC_0381.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398765631019732114" //abr /br /Interestingly, Julochka and others who fearlessly go where others have not gone before - have pioneered new terms, which I've discovered, have not even made it into the world famous A HREF="http://www.urbandictionary.com"urban dictionary/A (let alone Websters)!!! The terms 'blog crush' and 'blog love' are all new and innovative people! We are molding and editing language to follow the trends of our time! Aren't you excited?!br /br /I'm starting to feel part of something bigger than all of us as individuals. Thanks again... Oh, and Happy Halloween!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3909548118941955379?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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11:37
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Holli's ramblings
I discovered the hilarious comic genius of Natalie Dee a while ago and borrowed some of her bits A HREF="http://www.blogcatalog.com/blog/hollis-ramblings/ec5bc405d6bae33380ee61779f8a84e5"here/A and A HREF="http://www.blogcatalog.com/blog/hollis-ramblings/13ba6f9efcc666769876577fc48b4fd4"here/A and A HREF="http://www.blogcatalog.com/blog/hollis-ramblings/706d194fe4beed83f75850d7f473ee85"here/A. br /br /Her hubby is equally funny - his site is called A HREF="http://www.toothpastefordinner.com/"Toothpaste for Dinner/A.br /br /Here's a few of their recent comics that made me smile, and after all, TGIF! Smile with me :)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurTI3B_WaI/AAAAAAAABQM/ZIvFe9p3Lww/s1600-h/know-your-body-type.gif"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 198px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurTI3B_WaI/AAAAAAAABQM/ZIvFe9p3Lww/s400/know-your-body-type.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398359252521671074" //abr /You have to love this, with all these new TV shows telling us how to 'dress for your body type'... as if we're all various fruits!br /br /______________________________br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurTIh1z_eI/AAAAAAAABQE/yl608StRBnU/s1600-h/dont-leave-a-message.gif"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 333px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurTIh1z_eI/AAAAAAAABQE/yl608StRBnU/s400/dont-leave-a-message.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398359246833450466" //abr /br /_____________________________br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRiS0pVLI/AAAAAAAABP0/Nweteqf45yU/s1600-h/failed-jelly-bellys.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 247px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRiS0pVLI/AAAAAAAABP0/Nweteqf45yU/s400/failed-jelly-bellys.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398357490455368882" //abr /br /____________________________br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRiP_jHhI/AAAAAAAABPs/knmSFTh4z9E/s1600-h/can-you-imagine-the-indignity.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 291px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRiP_jHhI/AAAAAAAABPs/knmSFTh4z9E/s400/can-you-imagine-the-indignity.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398357489695792658" //abr /br /____________________________br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRh2qTt7I/AAAAAAAABPk/XGugnRROcSE/s1600-h/doing-donuts.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 321px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurRh2qTt7I/AAAAAAAABPk/XGugnRROcSE/s400/doing-donuts.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398357482895816626" //abr /br /____________________________br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurQ5iMLEJI/AAAAAAAABPc/HCZ4kEL3GyI/s1600-h/paperless-office.gif"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 244px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SurQ5iMLEJI/AAAAAAAABPc/HCZ4kEL3GyI/s400/paperless-office.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5398356790205943954" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7352670476696465504?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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14:06
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Holli's ramblings
Last time I was back in Canada visiting the family I found a box of my old life. It had hundreds of dusty and molding papers, photos, clippings, print outs, and mostly poems I had written.br /br /I decided they would be worth keeping, if only for the humour and nostalgia in going over the thoughts and offerings of the teenage dreamer I was.br /br /The plan has been to scan the lot, and then send the paper piles back for a boxed existence in my mother’s basement on some back shelf.br /br /Last night I dragged out the various envelopes within, and sifted through. Most of the poems I found there were naïve and badly composed. They try too hard, with long adjectives and disjointed concepts. Who was that girl? I find it amazing that she lived in my frame, looked in the mirror and saw the young me. br /br /So much has changed and I have forgotten how she felt. All that is left is the paper trail of her untidy emotions.br /br /And then I found the following. It is dated April 22nd, 1994. I was 24 years old and Q was just over 1 year. We were living in an old row house in Toronto. The back window looked out over rusted train tracks and beyond that, lake Ontario. br /br /The highrises around us were overflowing with the city’s poorest and most marginalized. We dodged used needles and condoms that littered the sidewalks on our daily outtings. I remember having at first thought the neighborhood was vibrant and gritty, when we had opted to move out here, for cheaper rent but still within walking distance to work.br /br /We had recently lost our restaurant, investors had backed out right as the place was establishing itself as a fixture in the area. It was a few blocks over in the ‘trendy’ neighborhood of Queen West, and Q’s father, (my ex-locker partner and high school sweetheart) was on a slippery path to self destruction. It was the reason the business had fallen apart. Too much too young? Addiction: lies, behaviour changes followed. br /br /This particular day, he gathered our comforter from the bed and carried it with purpose to the living room with it’s big bay window. Q and I watched him with curiousity, and I with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He hoisted himself up on a chair, and stretched from his tippy toes to nail the heavy blanket across the top of the window frame. br /br /The smashing noise from the hammer was deafening and Q looked up at me, uneasy. I scooped him up and whisked him off to the other room to play. Then M walked by us. The light in the hallway had disappeared, shrouded in thick cloth.br /br /M: “That old lady from next door! She keeps watching us! Well, I’ll show her…”br /br /me: “What are you talking about?!”br /br /Door slam. He was gone for the afternoon. I could only guess where, and did not want to take that mental journey. I lied down beside Q and his stuffed animals and sang softly, running my hands gently through his loose black curls, until he drifted off to sleep. Then I got up and decided to write, to put things in perspective and keep myself sane:br /br /span style="font-style:italic;"“His face was broad, the skin creamy and smooth and tight. This carefully beautiful face, created as if to make a mother question the sarcastic overtones of a ‘concept of God’.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SucCYFuQugI/AAAAAAAABO0/-gmQG6ZU7Rg/s1600-h/2174315643_d83d365607.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 204px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SucCYFuQugI/AAAAAAAABO0/-gmQG6ZU7Rg/s320/2174315643_d83d365607.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5397285291303156226" //aOh, he was no ordinary soul. A mother was sure. Why, one only had to ponder the enormous circumference of his eyes. Not uncommon was it to be stopped several times during the daily walks, with comments of praise and astonishment at the wonder of his gaze.br /br /A mother again had to question her accomplishment. For even then she knew it was a twosome till death-do-us-part. Mother and child. Somehow she's known this while he played within her. Mompati - 'my companion', the name she'd given him after all the others on his birth papers.br /br /And she felt comfort in that shred of stability, as everything else slowly fogged over around her.”br /span style="font-weight:bold;"/span/spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2263752126201034328?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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15:16
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Holli's ramblings
I’ve been on a cyber journey for the past two months – seeking out interesting and exciting blogs to populate my link list and to inspire me in writing.br /br /I looked to ‘writing’ focused blogs and found a lot of highly motivated American mom/writers who get up every day and fold the laundry, pack the kids lunches, and find the ‘me’ time somewhere to work on their books. They talk of WIPs and ‘Me Time Thursdays’ and I feel small and excluded like junior high at recess…br /br /I looked into funny blogs – the witty ones who’s authors think of all the cute titles for their followers and have one liners to fit all life’s day to day drone. They leave me feeling amateur and ill-equipped to comment. They are outside the world of the PC moms, a world I like but am afraid to join.br /br /I stumbled upon racial focused blogs and made my small comments amidst those filled with angst and resentment.br /br /I even went over to the development bloggers – those who represent a past in me that I have yet to analyse and deconstruct. Hence I am skeptical and dismissive yet still drawn to their experiences and perspective. Yet there too I am an outsider. I loathe projects and funding and all the industry entails.br /br /I am an expat now – and looked to this group as well. The expat bloggers. I joined some sites, linked some great blogs. It is here I relate best to what is written, to the experiences and outlook.br /br /In my search I have found some great people, sites, inspiration.br /br /But I have been false in my intentions and I have been led astray. By the desire to fit somewhere, to get a blog award with a pretty tea cup on the picture and post it proudly on my blog, from an appreciative ‘blogger friend’. It is addictive this linking and commenting and creating of a network. br /br /But it is not why I started to blog. It has nothing to do with the powerful gut deep desire to express, to write, to create. To share genuinely what I have to share.br /br /And that is why today’s post is a dedication. To a blogger I randomly found, who has truly inspired me and made me regret my hours making small comments around the blogosphere. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuW_JfNayLI/AAAAAAAABOs/mf005tUptVs/s1600-h/GirlInWindowRainResized.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuW_JfNayLI/AAAAAAAABOs/mf005tUptVs/s320/GirlInWindowRainResized.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5396929898190915762" //abr /br /This is a woman in a small corner of the web, in a small town somewhere, who has not been blessed with a perfect life or millions of friends and followers. But she is a true writer. She is the essence of the word. She is a great, a classic, undiscovered.br / br /I feel like I’ve been busking and found the hidden diamond. I am torn between sharing and not. But it is not for me to hold her writing to my heart alone. After all, art is like life and should be shared, opened up and appreciated.br /br /Her name is Kelly and the site is humbly called A HREF="http://www.ordinaryartblog.com/"Ordinary Art/A. br /br /Please read and digest the beauty and talent you find A HREF="http://www.ordinaryartblog.com/"there/A. Real self-giving words that grace the page in a way I can only dream of. Share the link to this site. Send her a blog award. Or not. But she deserves recognition and a broader audience and I felt compelled today to do my little part.br /br /Kelly – thank you for genuine inspiration and a glimpse of your beautiful soul.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2921950324601899696?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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17:18
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Holli's ramblings
Apple computers are renowned for their reliability. They don’t freeze, they don’t crash. They make PC’s look like crippled dinosaurs. (All of these statements are up for debate, but are not the core topic of my rant). a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuCUTqEI6sI/AAAAAAAABOc/z_vmf03XrRs/s1600-h/mac-book-air.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuCUTqEI6sI/AAAAAAAABOc/z_vmf03XrRs/s400/mac-book-air.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395475419019930306" //abr /br /So when JW and I got matching Macbook Airs, we looked forward to the carefree ease of working with the Mac operating system, on these slim, slick new devices. And it started off well! It boots up in 30 seconds and closes down in 3! It has adorable icons and finger scroll features I love!br /br /I had always coveted these, since I first saw one – slim as a notebook and that cool metallic class… almost sexy I tell you. JW sees computers as he does all gadgets. He personifies them and gives them a peck now and then. He cleans them almost compulsively and makes sure all updates are current. He claims you must love and speak to your machines for them to respond and work for you. And his machines work for him. Seemingly forever. When he hands something down years later it looks brand new, no scratches, no apparent wear and tear. He even keeps all the boxes and manuals. I’ve written about his gadget mania A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2008/06/gadget-man.html"here/A.br /br /But today we are talking about me. About the complete opposite. I see machines as a means to an end. I need to do e-mails for work, I love to write and surf the net – a computer lets me do that. Thanks computer. But kiss it? C’mon. Even my sexy MacAir, which I love, is still just a computer.br /br /I am beginning to believe there is something in JW’s theories though. I’ve had this machine for a few months. In that time it has experienced a myriad of bizarre glitches and freezes from time to time without explanation. Sometimes it flips. Goes crazy and starts calling me names. Then it’s functions break down one by one… If I cuddled it, would it be nicer?br /br /There is another popular theory (in my household) that electronics are allergic to me. That I emit some sort of evil radioactivity that cripples them temporarily in my presence. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuCWoO3uc_I/AAAAAAAABOk/uUL_RqfDPBk/s1600-h/pow_300.gif"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 284px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SuCWoO3uc_I/AAAAAAAABOk/uUL_RqfDPBk/s320/pow_300.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5395477971520615410" //abr /Only when I hold the TV remote does it get stuck on a channel, and the only fix is a complete shut down, reset… When I had a PC I easily blamed all the mysterious happenings on the inferiority of the software/hardware. Now that excuse is gone…br /JW’s Macbook has only ‘misbehaved’ twice, and I was present both times. He was not amused.br /br /Should I feel powerful or cursed? Special or freakish?br /br /All I know is that I’ve stopped reporting all the bizarre things that happen with me and the electronics around us. It’s become my dirty little secret. My private little hell. I secretly wonder if I should choose the back seats in airplanes, just so I don’t inadvertently tamper with the cockpit electronics…br /br /Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to break my diet with some A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2009/10/cobra-beans-and-belly.html"red red/A for lunch.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-641870238927844444?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:03
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3h8Sk8bwI/AAAAAAAABOE/85yvPCEdOxw/s1600-h/phpsniSkn_600x400_1861.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 225px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3h8Sk8bwI/AAAAAAAABOE/85yvPCEdOxw/s400/phpsniSkn_600x400_1861.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394716354554916610" //abr /We have a couple of lovely visitors staying with us from the land down under. They were both raised on rural dairy farms and are quite down to earth.br /br /I have been asking about the cultural relations between the Aboriginal population and those of European ancestry in Australia. Their perspective is quite honest and derived from personal experience as opposed to academic. They are not concerned with political correctness or viewing relations objectively. I find their candidness refreshing.br /br /Last night I heard the following story: in the white farming community where our visitor *Pamela grew up, there was an Aboriginal grouping quite close by, living on what they called a ‘reserve’.br /br /The story goes, that when one of the influential and well known Aboriginal chiefs died, the priest from Pamela’s village insisted that he officiate at the funeral, and ‘splashed out’ on a fancy, expensive coffin of hardwood and a plush interior for the chief.a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3jM45GI2I/AAAAAAAABOU/VVNVIk8Xgbk/s1600-h/Aboriginal+Tribal+dance.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3jM45GI2I/AAAAAAAABOU/VVNVIk8Xgbk/s400/Aboriginal+Tribal+dance.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394717739229520738" //abr /br /After the funeral, the priest made a courtesy visit to the chief’s family some time later. What he found was that the body had been dug up and the children of the chief’s family were found in the coffin, splashing around in their makeshift bathtub.br /br /Imagine the shock for the priest! I’m sure he was incredulous. To this date, the majority of whites assume that the people were simply ignorant, uncultured and ‘wild’…br /_______________________________________________________________________________br /br /So after Pamela’s narration of the story , I decided to investigate/research the beliefs and practices surrounding death and burial amongst Australia’s Aboriginal groups.br /br /What I found cemented the notion I had about the blatant cultural/religious imposition. br /br /Aboriginal groups have a completely different concept of what happens to body and soul after death and the traditional practices differ widely and wildly from the Christian conservatives who settled in these areas and proceeded to set up missions.br /br /I found a highly detailed article online A HREF="http://books.google.com.gh/books?id=gbiazZhizRcCpg=PA69lpg=PA69dq=aboriginal+funeral+practice+australiasource=blots=b-MJErlXoysig=lqSNLzG9wChQ9W8ML0pDUIkCILchl=enei=O9HdSomMJJGwsgOZo6zPDwsa=Xoi=book_resultct=resultresnum=2ved=0CA8Q6AEwAQ#v=onepageq=aboriginal%20funeral%20practice%20australiaf=false"here/A (for those of you who might find this interesting), about the complicated funeral of an influential Aboriginal chief in 1997.br /br /Basically, after a Christian funeral (to appease the ‘whitefellas’), the body is transported to a specially selected cave, removed from the coffin (which is simply a mode of carriage to the spot), and arranged on a high platform, protected from animals and exposed to drying wind. br /br /After two years the bones are collected and ceremonially treated, and then presented to the family of the deceased in an elaborate ceremony of mourning and remembrance. Traditional belief sees the body being locked up in a box and sunk ‘six feet under’ as against the natural procession for body and soul.br /br /Can’t blame them really…br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3iWMz0ccI/AAAAAAAABOM/49vxxCbPecA/s1600-h/aboriginals_1906.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 251px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/St3iWMz0ccI/AAAAAAAABOM/49vxxCbPecA/s400/aboriginals_1906.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394716799683293634" //abr /br /Find A HREF="http://reconciliaction.org.au/nsw/education-kit/about/"here/A a very concise and well presented site on statistics regarding Aboriginal Australians.br /br /span style="font-style:italic;"*Any names of real people in this story have been changed to protect their identity./spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8315942878198612461?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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14:42
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Holli's ramblings
So today is Monday. We promised (JW and I as a team) that the diet starts Monday. It was with conviction, after a few months of excess and due to the fact that our clothes are stretching to the limit to accommodate our girth…br /br /So this morning my colleague comes to my desk, and assaults me with an offer I find I can’t refuse. Red red from the roadside seller in Osu. For lunch. Today. br /br /“Ok! Great, thanks.” I’m all excited. br /br /All those vows taken last night, as I chomped on a biscuit smothered in butter, with accompanying warm tea…forgotten in an instant.br /br /But how could I fall so quickly? Day one, meal two?? (Breakfast was a very controlled scrambled egg. Plain. With water and multivitamins).br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Stx8PV6DewI/AAAAAAAABN0/OJbbiizl5tE/s1600-h/RedRed(1).JPG"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Stx8PV6DewI/AAAAAAAABN0/OJbbiizl5tE/s320/RedRed(1).JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394323056703535874" //abr /“Oh, but I shouldn’t. My diet started today.” Laughter from colleagues ensues… You see, this 'diet starting Monday' may have had quite a few public false starts…br /br /The thing is that this red red from this seller is not something you can resist.br /Red red is a local Ghanaian dish consisting of a tomatoey bean stew, served with fried plantains. Not low cal stuff. It’s yummy.br /br /The famous seller has been sitting at her tiny outdoor stall, serving up the delicious stuff in bright green banana leaves, for literally YEARS. She sits on a bumpy untarred dead end road, near the old American Embassy in Osu (before they built their new fortress of epic proportions). People come from miles around.. (My colleague being a case in point. I will call him Ernie here, to protect his innocence).br /br /On Friday Ernie mentioned going there and how amazing the food was – the smell, the texture as he indulged with his hands, scooping the beans from the waxy leaf, just like the good old days. The experience transported him to his youth and the carefree days of school.br /br /As he was narrating the story, another colleague walked by and said:br /br /“You know what you are eating!” in a warning tone and walked off. Ernie called her back.br /br /“No, come back! Tell us what!”br /br /A small crowd of us gathered. All the Ghanaians knew what she was going to say. I was the only clueless one (A common occurrence for me here!).br /br /“The cobra under the table!”br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StyDpPc0FuI/AAAAAAAABN8/3Qzj0T_ztC8/s1600-h/img_0558.JPG"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 294px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StyDpPc0FuI/AAAAAAAABN8/3Qzj0T_ztC8/s320/img_0558.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5394331198228272866" //aEveryone laughed. It is apparently common knowledge/superstition/rumour that this woman uses juju (in this case a mystical cobra snake that hides in her stall), to get her customers craving her food and coming back for more.br /br /I was amazed at this silly belief people hold, creating a witchhunt mentality – just because someone is doing well and has maintained a customer base.br /br /Now it’s Monday. I am supposed to be on day one of a strict and purposeful diet, and yet my mouth has been watering since first thing this morning at the mere suggestion of the red red…br /br /Perhaps there’s more to this juju thing than I care to admit???br /br /On the other hand I could just be a typical diet failure, losing the willpower before it began!!!br /br /The diet starts Tuesday.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-1870718584761254702?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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11:17
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StX5ii76p3I/AAAAAAAABNk/kSLM6-26fd4/s1600-h/_45899421_img_1074.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 258px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StX5ii76p3I/AAAAAAAABNk/kSLM6-26fd4/s400/_45899421_img_1074.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392490500735018866" //abr /br /A petite pervasive Scottish blond woman arrived on Ghanaian soil two years ago with a vision. A bizarre and complicated vision.br /br /She wanted to uproot 10 massive rainforest tree stumps, and have them shipped to the UK. (Each is the size of a gnarled house – note the size of a man beside the uprooted stump in the photo)…br /br /Her name is A HREF="http://www.angelaspalmer.com/artistsstatement.html"Angela Palmer/A and her vision is about to be realized, and the fruits of her labour will comprise the A HREF="http://www.ghostforest.org/"Ghost Forest Project/A, to be on display in London in November.br /br /What!?! br /br /Yes, I am not kidding. At a A HREF="http://edinburghnews.scotsman.com/comment/-John-Gibson-They-branched.5727151.jp"cost of £250,000/A for the transport aspect alone, not to mention the logistical nightmare encountered getting them out of the forest, the manpower involved and even libations poured to angered gods in the area….br /What is the point of this seemingly indulgent and over-the-top endeavour?br /br /Art.br /br /Oh, and the desire to highlight issues of deforestation.br /br /The stumps will be displayed in Trafalgar Square in London from November 16th to 22nd, and then moved once again to Thorvaldsens Plads, Copenhagen, Denmark to coincide with UN Climate Change conference.br /br /Many questions need to be raised here. What is the carbon footprint of this project? What are the costs in total and could the funds have been better allocated in a campaign to highlight climate change?br /br /What is the desired and measurable effect? Is it a mad delusional artist’s self indulgent dream or is it an important and unprecedented step in exposing the issues at hand?br / br /What are the issues at hand? br /br /A HREF="http://earthobservatory.nasa.gov/Newsroom/view.php?id=32686"Deforestation in the tropics accounts for nearly 20 per cent of carbon emissions due to human activities./A That’s quite a staggering figure. br /br /Considering that A HREF="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/science/nature/8300689.stm"Ghana has lost 90% of its virgin rainforest in the past 50 years/A, there is definitely a need for a change in practise.br /br /This exhibit will definitely be eye-catching and thought provoking, both in London and Copenhagen. But here where we need it – here where the deforestation persists and where the affects of global climate change will be most harshly felt – what will be the benefit? br /br /Ghanaians know nothing of this project or it’s aims. Apart from those involved in moving these mammoth stumps from the rural areas down to the Takoradi port and schlepping them onboard the cargo ships, it has slipped under the radar. It has missed it’s chance to shock and educate and to inform.br /br /I get visions of Live 8 back in 2005, aimed at raising awareness and money to eliminate African poverty, yet not one African band or contributor was included.br /If we want to make a difference in the so-called third world, we need to involve, include and make accountable the communities that need it most.br /All is not lost though. In 2008, Ghana became the first country in Africa to enter the VPA (Voluntary Partnership Agreement) with the European Union in an effort to outlaw illegal logging, which incidentally still accounts for over half its harvested timber.br /br /This year, the A HREF="http://www.johnbitar.com/"John Bitar company/A in Western Ghana where the tree stumps were excavated from, began one of the world's largest private reforestation programmes, which involves planting 25 million trees on degraded land over the next five years. br /br /br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StcGZV9306I/AAAAAAAABNs/viZTldF-vFE/s1600-h/3437589635_24bcb99192_m.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 180px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StcGZV9306I/AAAAAAAABNs/viZTldF-vFE/s320/3437589635_24bcb99192_m.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392786111262610338" //a Meanwhile, back home for me in Accra, on a street I walk by all the time, a massive majestic wonder of a tree was unceremoniously hacked down earlier this year, at the edge of a residential plot. The tree was so big that it blocked the street for days while teams of men hacked the giant corpse into small enough pieces to carry away.br / br /The roots were so hard and big and old, that thy abandoned the job from about 4 feet to the ground…br /br /I kept waiting to see what would be built there in it’s place. What on earth could justify cutting a tree that was centuries old and provided shade and a home to wildlife all it’s days.br /br /Today, on Blogger Action Day, I walked by the familiar corner. The owner of the house has planted some garden plants to hide the eye sore that is the massive base of the tree.br /br /Come on Ghana!!! Let’s value our trees and ourselves! br /br /Start asking about climate change and it’s affects. Let’s not attend seminars on climate change, just to collect our per diems and get the funding.br /br /In the end, Ghana is for Ghana’s children and they deserve a better and stable future without flooding and famine.br /br /Read, explore, learn... Get involved for the sake of sharing knowledge and promoting change – right here at home.br /br /Today is Blog Action Day! A HREF="http://www.blogactionday.org"Visit the site!/A Take part!!!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StX5YtSy08I/AAAAAAAABNc/Q5Vf8Z_M6NE/s1600-h/bad-300-250.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 250px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StX5YtSy08I/AAAAAAAABNc/Q5Vf8Z_M6NE/s400/bad-300-250.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5392490331716637634" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-27073621531402954?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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17:34
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Holli's ramblings
I found this catchy, cute, well put together video - thanks to fellow Ghana blogger Prissy over at her great site A HREF="http://simplyprissyb.blogspot.com/2009/10/ghana-rising.html"SIMPLY PRISSY/A. Great to see a Ghana goat in gold sequins and an animated cocoa bean galloping through a typical village street in a music video!br /br /Found some info. about it A HREF="http://theinspirationroom.com/daily/2009/cadbury-zingolo-from-ghana/"here/A.br /br /object width="560" height="340"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/hGKj9E1M6K4hl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/hGKj9E1M6K4hl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="560" height="340"/embed/objectbr /br /span style="font-style:italic;"Cadbury is celebrating the move to fair trade chocolate with the launch of Glass and A Half Records, an album inspired by the music of Africa. The first single, “Zingolo”, celebrates all things Ghana, its people, its rappers, its dancers, its cultural figures and, of course, its cocoa beans.br /br /The initiative is aimed at emphasising Cadbury’s 101 year-history of trading with Ghanaian cocoa farmers. Starring villagers of a Ghanian village, all proceeds from the Zingolo single at iTunes will go to charity Care, which works with the cocoa communities in Ghana.br /br /The campaign also features print ads designed and painted by Ghanaians using traditional Ghanaian techniques.br /br /Phil Rumbol, marketing director for Cadbury says: “We wanted to celebrate Cadbury Dairy Milk’s Fairtrade certification and Ghana, the heart of our Fairtrade cocoa, in a unique way. Music has always been a big part of Glass and a Half Full Productions and we were inspired by Ghana’s love of music so it seemed the perfect way to capture the spirit of the country was through a track. We hope we’ll bring a smile to people’s faces.” Cadbury Dairy milk is now Fairtrade in the UK and Ireland and will extend this to Canada Australia and New Zealand in 2010.br //spanbr /br /I'm going to reserve my comments about the charity aspect of the video, with proceeds going toward Care International, but interestingly, all the credits on the video are for people and post production outside Ghana...br /br /span style="font-style:italic;"Creditsbr /br /The Zingolo campaign was developed at Fallon, London, by executive creative director Richard Flintham, creative directors Chris Bovill, John Allison, creatives Filip Tyden, Dan Watts, Chris Bovill, John Allison, account director Nathalie Clarke, agency producer Tom Goodwin, executive producer Nicky Barnes and agency producer Gemma Knight.br /br /Filming was shot by director Ringan Ledwidge via Rattling Stick with producer Sally Humphries with director of photography Franz Lustig.br /br /Editor was Rich Orrick at Work Post. Post production was done at The Mill, London.br /br /Music was composed by Paul Epwort and produced by Alex Lavery and Simon Rose at Pitch Sync. Audio post-production was produced by Parv Thind at Wave Studios.br /br /Media planner was Ellie Roberts at PHD.br //spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-422505241997436267?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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20:38
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Holli's ramblings
Not surprisingly I survived the wedding. Not only survived, but actually enjoyed it. I mean hey, it was a week long holiday to one of the most beautiful cities in the world, in the company of all my boys. Ideal almost!br /br /It was Q’s first time south of the equator and he kept obsessing about figuring out whether water goes down the drain in the opposite direction from the northern hemisphere. In the end I don’t think it was ever figured out. We were too busy having a blast.br /br /We stayed in a bunch of amazingly trendy flats in an area of Cape Town called De Waterkant (Afrikaans, and absolutely rude when pronounced properly (duh vah ter kuhnt) to us English speakers!) a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StD1eZau23I/AAAAAAAABNQ/stzYponURZw/s1600-h/73+Loader+Balcony.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 323px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StD1eZau23I/AAAAAAAABNQ/stzYponURZw/s400/73+Loader+Balcony.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391078656530373490" //abr /Q had a field day with that one! Their A HREF="http://www.dewaterkantcottages.com/"website/A lists the properties as ideal for ‘gay stay’ which was quite far from our agenda, but nonetheless, we found out the area had other ideas… The area used to be quite rough, but has been cleaned up recently and lots of cafes, cute shops and boutique hotels line the streets. The owners are a friendly enough gay couple, who have an array of gay focused brochures and newspapers, and while we sat in the office on a serious note, discussing a potential theft of camera SD cards, I couldn’t help but pick up a copy of the A HREF="http://www.pinktongue.co.za/"Pink Tongue!!/Abr /br /But I definitely digress.br /br /We went for a wedding and it was a great one. It was all a bit last minute and why not?! Stress shouldn’t be part of the party to unite two souls in my opinion. The day before the nuptials, we were huddled around an ATM en mass, trying to draw enough cash to pay the stubborn wedding planners who told us just then that thy didn’t take credit cards… br /br /On the morning of the wedding, the ceremony was e-mailed to the officiating friend to read and remember, and on the way to the venue with our bride in tow, she let us know she’d forgotten a cake. No worries! We pulled over at a bakery in A HREF="http://www.simonstown.com/"Simonstown/A and picked up a cute little chocolate lemon cake, which the wedding venue decorated with flowers and which came in handy later, for bride and groom to cut symbolically together and smear in each other’s faces. All in good fun.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StDzd3jPx0I/AAAAAAAABNI/256E0yb5xfY/s1600-h/IMG_1673.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/StDzd3jPx0I/AAAAAAAABNI/256E0yb5xfY/s400/IMG_1673.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5391076448416024386" //abr /br /The ceremony itself, at A HREF="http://www.go2africa.com/south-africa/cape-town/african-safari-guide/boulders-beach"Boulder’s Beach/A, with the penguins and other visitors to the park as the background audience, was blessed with the best weather in Cape Town one could ever hope for. No wind, lots of sun… br /br /It looked like a movie scene… Our bride looked beautiful. The whole backdrop was surreal. I don't think you could have asked for better. br /br /I volunteered as photographer while JW and our boy's mom sat upfront to proudly ‘give away’ their son. I saved my hugs and pride for later, and wiped away the happy tears from behind my lense…br /br /And the after party put all family differences in the bin, while we bonded and danced and drank and danced some more until it was midnight and the DJ called it a night… I think we could have gone on for hours.br /br /The best part of this trip was seeing all the boys bond. In step-families it can go wrong so easily. It can make life uneasy and put all the relationships on edge. In our case however it has always gone well. Everyone gets along. Everyone accepts and gets on with life. And on this trip everyone had the chance to hang out (which isn't often now that the big boys are scattered across North America and we are here on the dark continent), to support each other, to be proud and to feel the love that family represents. I felt something shift. We’d all become closer. We’d all grown and we’d gained even more respect for each other. And that is good enough for me!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8566364928967538148?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:06
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SsOEjOwOr0I/AAAAAAAABNA/yey5suUTWbc/s1600-h/card-avanti-penguinwedding.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 330px; height: 330px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SsOEjOwOr0I/AAAAAAAABNA/yey5suUTWbc/s400/card-avanti-penguinwedding.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5387295320055918402" //abr /We're in the last throws of packing and closing up everything in the house. In a few hours we'll be above the clouds, heading south. All the way from Africa's west coast to it's southern most tip.br /br /This weekend my stepson is getting married. Not only does this make me feel old! It is also a sentimental occasion and one of those important life defining moments. The children are growing up!!!br /br /The wedding will be very non-traditional which suits me just fine - never having been a traditionalist, nor remotely religious.br /br /Family members from both sides will gather, some from the other side of the world - as the bride is American.br /br /They are having the wedding and reception at a national park - home of the African penguins. You gotta love that. A bunch of guys in tuxedos and matching penguins wobbling about. I'm looking forward to that.br /br /But there is the minor issue of being the step-mom', It's not the most highly regarded position in a family if you know what I mean. Yesterday - when I had WAY more time, I had the idea of writing some witty post about the topic but then I got sidetracked when I found a number of websites outlining the etiquette for step parents at a wedding!!br /br /I couldn't believe it - but if you go A HREF="http://www.articlesbase.com/relationships-articles/stepmother-wedding-etiquette-proper-wedding-etiquette-for-stepmothers-465940.html"HERE/A you can see a good example.br /br /Who knew I was supposed to sit on a back seat, bow out of the receiving line and most probably wear beige.br /br /The bottom line is that you should try to blend in with the surroundings. In this case, maybe I should go as a penguin?br /br /Well - etiquette and family feuding aside, I'm excited for the young couple - all those hopes and dreams ahead of them!br /br /I plan to have a stiff cocktail near the very beginning and enjoy the day in their honour.br /br /Be back in a week.br /br /xodiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-413839169669975281?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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18:30
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sr-zuS0LBtI/AAAAAAAABM4/kbyVVvVkj0M/s1600-h/633519230532681237-42-the-meaning-of-life-i-know-i-dont-get-it-either.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 256px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sr-zuS0LBtI/AAAAAAAABM4/kbyVVvVkj0M/s320/633519230532681237-42-the-meaning-of-life-i-know-i-dont-get-it-either.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5386221287264421586" //abr /I've been getting lots of 'things about me' chain mails and facebook links... Some are 100 things, some are 25 things, some are 50 things. So I decided to post my own. Only I've heard that A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Phrases_from_The_Hitchhiker%27s_Guide_to_the_Galaxy"the meaning of life is 42/A. That's exactly as many points as I could muster up. br /br /Apparently this is a pay it forward type thing and apparently I'm months behind as everyone has already done this... so here goes my late to the finish line contribution... br /br /1. I have no fear of rats and mice, but I’m convinced cockroaches and earwigs are the devil’s spawnbr /br /2. And I’m not even religious!br /br /3. Chocolate though, it’s gotta be from heaven. 70% is the closest of all to heavenly…br /br /4. I fractured my skull falling from a lifeguard’s chair when I was seven.br /br /5. Apart from my head I’ve never had a broken bone.br /br /6. I’ve never tried any drugs except for marijuana, and it had me believing I could see the entire Captain Hook movie unfolding along the ashphalt as we drove down the road, my head hanging out the window. I realized it wasn’t for me…br /br /7. I love red wine – especially Malbec and good Shiraz, but to be honest the third glass could be anything – it all starts to taste the same.br /br /8. I only like flowers growing. I think cut flowers are wasteful and pointless.br /br /9. One of my favourite childhood pastimes was popping tar bubbles on the side of the road. Although my friend and I missed entire lunchtimes doing this and got separated by our parents for the walks to and from school as a punishment.br /br /10. One of my other favourite childhood pastimes was collecting worms after the rain in jars… I was a bit weird.br /br /11. I refused braces even though my bottom teeth are all ‘higgelty piggelty’ according to my husband.br /br /12. Once in a restaurant I owned with my ex, a man fell down the stairs and cracked his head open. One of the waiters shouted to me at the bar, “Call 911!!!!” I shouted back in a panic, “What’s the number?!!”br /br /13. Cilantro is a love or hate thing. I LOVE it. Beets are the same, but I HATE them.br /br /14. Sports have never been my thing. As a kid I failed at ballet, tennis, t-ball, soccer and synchronized swimming. Since the age of 13 I have pretty much avoided all sports like the plague.br /br /15. I have a big horizontal scar across my right knee from an operation I had at 16 to remove a calcium deposit – the result of a soccer injury!br /br /16. I’ve never been a very feminine lady. I don’t wear make up and always feel like a kid wearing her mom’s make up when I do try for special occasions.br /br /17. I hate to chew gum, it gives me a headache.br /br /18. I can’t whistle. I just look funny and air comes out of my mouth.br /br /19. I can’t play video games, it makes my chin quiver involuntarily.br /br /20. My 20th birthday was spent in a village in Botswana where I was volunteering for a year with Crossroads Internationalbr /br /21. I have had two to three recallable dreams a night ever since I can remember. Most are not profound.br /br /22. I like movies that are realistic or based on true stories. I hate Sci-fi and action films.br /br /23. I owned a gas station as a single mom for three years when I was 25.br /br /24. My first boyfriend was in kindergarten. He was from Nigeria and his name was Nigel. His family was the only non-white family in the small Ontario town I lived in.br /br /25. I was an only child until I was 8.br /br /26. I’ve always been enamoured with Africa.br /br /27. I hate gambling. Never understood the fascination with casinos. br /br /28. No one can convince me that creationism should be taught along side evolution in a science class.br /br /29. I find dogmatic religions to be insulting and controlling.br /br /30. I’m a fan of British comedy. A HREF="http://www.rickygervais.com/index.php"Ricky Gervais/A and A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddie_Izzard"Eddie Izzard/A are my favourites.br /br /31. I have an arm band tattoo of dancing stickmen, all holding hands around my bicep (what bicep!)br /br /32. I LOVE spicy food. The more pepper the better.br /br /33. I learned Swahili in University. I learned Twi in life, in Ghana.br /br /34. A friend and I named ourselves ‘ABFab’ moms after the famous British duo in the show A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Absolutely_Fabulous"Absolutely Fabulous/A.br /br /35. I gave my first son three middle names – one of them is ‘Mompati’ which means my companion in Setswana.br /br /36. I’m pretty good with chopsticks and I like sushi before it was trendy.br /br /37. My fav foods are cheesecake, Pad Thai and vegetarian roti (from Bacchus Roti shop on Queen St. in Toronto).br /br /38. I am not remotely graceful.br /br /39. I can get along with almost everyone.br /br /40. My friends say I’m a typical Sagittarius. They mean I like to travel and put my foot in my mouth a lot. I talk louder than I think sometimes.br /br /41. I’ve had more heartache in this lifetime than anyone should endure, but I still have a positive outlook.br /br /42. I've had 3 major relationships, 2 children, 2 stepchildren and 1 boat and I've learned something from each one of them.br /br /Now my eyes are squeezed shut. I'm sending this off to cyber space and waiting for the meaning of life to come to me. Does it come by e-mail attachment?div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-526914121750655649?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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21:35
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Holli's ramblings
Not feeling particularly inspired to write myself tonight, I stumbled upon a brilliant piece of writing that I had found and read once before but had not recorded, and thought was lost to me. I was so happy to find it again. It is actually quite famous in some circles concerned with Africa, and it’s bitter satire hits close to home when you are an expat writing in general about Africa.br /br /The piece was written in 2003 by A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Binyavanga_Wainaina"Binyavanga Wainaina/A, a Kenyan author and journalist.br /br /Many of you will know this piece (and it is always worth re-reading!), but for those of you who don’t, especially the writers and those who are not familiar with Africa – this is an eye opening commentary on how the west has portrayed Africa for so long. To me, it needs to be read, sarcasm and all. The stereotypes are disturbing and 'in-your-face'. It’s brilliant. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srqady120EI/AAAAAAAABMw/qh0LlbMlm94/s1600-h/manandsunset.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srqady120EI/AAAAAAAABMw/qh0LlbMlm94/s320/manandsunset.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384786141129396290" //abr /br /span style="font-style:italic;"span style="font-weight:bold;"HOW TO WRITE ABOUT AFRICA/spanbr /Always use the word 'Africa' or 'Darkness' or 'Safari' in your title. Subtitles may include the words 'Zanzibar', 'Masai', 'Zulu', 'Zambezi', 'Congo', 'Nile', 'Big', 'Sky', 'Shadow', 'Drum', 'Sun' or 'Bygone'. br /br /Also useful are words such as 'Guerrillas', 'Timeless', 'Primordial' and 'Tribal'. Note that 'People' means Africans who are not black, while 'The People' means black Africans.br /br /Never have a picture of a well-adjusted African on the cover of your book, or in it, unless that African has won the Nobel Prize. An AK-47, prominent ribs, naked breasts: use these. If you must include an African, make sure you get one in Masai or Zulu or Dogon dress.br /br /In your text, treat Africa as if it were one country. It is hot and dusty with rolling grasslands and huge herds of animals and tall, thin people who are starving. Or it is hot and steamy with very short people who eat primates. Don't get bogged down with precise descriptions. Africa is big: fifty-four countries, 900 million people who are too busy starving and dying and warring and emigrating to read your book. The continent is full of deserts, jungles, highlands, savannahs and many other things, but your reader doesn't care about all that, so keep your descriptions romantic and evocative and unparticular.br /br /Make sure you show how Africans have music and rhythm deep in their souls, and eat things no other humans eat. Do not mention rice and beef and wheat; monkey-brain is an African's cuisine of choice, along with goat, snake, worms and grubs and all manner of game meat. Make sure you show that you are able to eat such food without flinching, and describe how you learn to enjoy it—because you care.br /br /Taboo subjects: ordinary domestic scenes, love between Africans (unless a death is involved), references to African writers or intellectuals, mention of school-going children who are not suffering from yaws or Ebola fever or female genital mutilation.br /br /Throughout the book, adopt a sotto voice, in conspiracy with the reader, and a sad I-expected-so-much tone. Establish early on that your liberalism is impeccable, and mention near the beginning how much you love Africa, how you fell in love with the place and can't live without her. Africa is the only continent you can love—take advantage of this. br /br /If you are a man, thrust yourself into her warm virgin forests. If you are a woman, treat Africa as a man who wears a bush jacket and disappears off into the sunset. Africa is to be pitied, worshipped or dominated. Whichever angle you take, be sure to leave the strong impression that without your intervention and your important book, Africa is doomed.br /br /Your African characters may include naked warriors, loyal servants, diviners and seers, ancient wise men living in hermitic splendour. Or corrupt politicians, inept polygamous travel-guides, and prostitutes you have slept with.a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqV0QtkyUI/AAAAAAAABMY/IPEucMAUDd4/s1600-h/d28c0997856a05645d82a9087658cedf.htm"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 235px; height: 252px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqV0QtkyUI/AAAAAAAABMY/IPEucMAUDd4/s400/d28c0997856a05645d82a9087658cedf.htm" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384781029546707266" //a (Image © Andy Davies/ardillustration.com)br /br /br /The Loyal Servant always behaves like a seven-year-old and needs a firm hand; he is scared of snakes, good with children, and always involving you in his complex domestic dramas. br /br /The Ancient Wise Man always comes from a noble tribe (not the money-grubbing tribes like the Gikuyu, the Igbo or the Shona). He has rheumy eyes and is close to the Earth. br /br /The Modern African is a fat man who steals and works in the visa office, refusing to give work permits to qualified Westerners who really care about Africa. He is an enemy of development, always using his government job to make it difficult for pragmatic and good-hearted expats to set up NGOs or Legal Conservation Areas. Or he is an Oxford-educated intellectual turned serial-killing politician in a Savile Row suit. He is a cannibal who likes Cristal champagne, and his mother is a rich witch-doctor who really runs the country.br /br /Among your characters you must always include The Starving African, who wanders the refugee camp nearly naked, and waits for the benevolence of the West. Her children have flies on their eyelids and pot bellies, and her breasts are flat and empty. She must look utterly helpless. She can have no past, no history; such diversions ruin the dramatic moment. Moans are good. She must never say anything about herself in the dialogue except to speak of her (unspeakable) suffering. br /br /Also be sure to include a warm and motherly woman who has a rolling laugh and who is concerned for your well-being. Just call her Mama. Her children are all delinquent. br /br /These characters should buzz around your main hero, making him look good. Your hero can teach them, bathe them, feed them; he carries lots of babies and has seen Death. Your hero is you (if reportage), or a beautiful, tragic international celebrity/aristocrat who now cares for animals (if fiction).br /br /Bad Western characters may include children of Tory cabinet ministers, Afrikaners, employees of the World Bank. When talking about exploitation by foreigners mention the Chinese and Indian traders. Blame the West for Africa's situation. But do not be too specific.br /br /Broad brushstrokes throughout are good. Avoid having the African characters laugh, or struggle to educate their kids, or just make do in mundane circumstances. Have them illuminate something about Europe or America in Africa. African characters should be colourful, exotic, larger than life—but empty inside, with no dialogue, no conflicts or resolutions in their stories, no depth or quirks to confuse the cause.br /br /Describe, in detail, naked breasts (young, old, conservative, recently raped, big, small) or mutilated genitals, or enhanced genitals. Or any kind of genitals. And dead bodies. Or, better, naked dead bodies. And especially rotting naked dead bodies. Remember, any work you submit in which people look filthy and miserable will be referred to as the 'real Africa', and you want that on your dust jacket. Do not feel queasy about this: you are trying to help them to get aid from the West. The biggest taboo in writing about Africa is to describe or show dead or suffering white people.br /br /Animals, on the other hand, must be treated as well rounded, complex characters. They speak (or grunt while tossing their manes proudly) and have names, ambitions and desires. They also have family values: see how lions teach their children? Elephants are caring, and are good feminists or dignified patriarchs. So are gorillas. Never, ever say anything negative about an elephant or a gorilla. Elephants may attack people's property, destroy their crops, and even kill them. Always take the side of the elephant. Big cats have public-school accents. Hyenas are fair game and have vaguely Middle Eastern accents. br /br /Any short Africans who live in the jungle or desert may be portrayed with good humour (unless they are in conflict with an elephant or chimpanzee or gorilla, in which case they are pure evil).br /br /After celebrity activists and aid workers, conservationists are Africa's most important people. Do not offend them. You need them to invite you to their 30,000-acre game ranch or 'conservation area', and this is the only way you will get to interview the celebrity activist. Often a book cover with a heroic-looking conservationist on it works magic for sales. Anybody white, tanned and wearing khaki who once had a pet antelope or a farm is a conservationist, one who is preserving Africa's rich heritage. When interviewing him or her, do not ask how much funding they have; do not ask how much money they make off their game. Never ask how much they pay their employees.br /br /Readers will be put off if you don't mention the light in Africa. And sunsets, the African sunset is a must. It is always big and red. There is always a big sky. Wide empty spaces and game are critical—Africa is the Land of Wide Empty Spaces. br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqXJBymziI/AAAAAAAABMg/RdJ58WbFBuA/s1600-h/576115829_c13e6c8ccc_o.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqXJBymziI/AAAAAAAABMg/RdJ58WbFBuA/s400/576115829_c13e6c8ccc_o.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384782485830159906" //abr /br /When writing about the plight of flora and fauna, make sure you mention that Africa is overpopulated. When your main character is in a desert or jungle living with indigenous peoples (anybody short) it is okay to mention that Africa has been severely depopulated by Aids and War (use caps).br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqYAE2zT3I/AAAAAAAABMo/OdXXoCpOgSM/s1600-h/madiba.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 144px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrqYAE2zT3I/AAAAAAAABMo/OdXXoCpOgSM/s200/madiba.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384783431545868146" //abr /You'll also need a nightclub called Tropicana, where mercenaries, evil nouveau riche Africans and prostitutes and guerrillas and expats hang out.br /br /Always end your book with Nelson Mandela saying something about rainbows or renaissances. Because you care.br /br //spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-558952487337003501?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:17
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Holli's ramblings
Yesterday was a holiday - there was holiday traffic in Accra. Today was a business day - there was weekday traffic in Accra.br /br /We left the office midday to head off to a meeting - but the roads had different ideas of how we should spend the next hour and it wasn't sitting around a boardroom table. That would come later (after we'd made calls apologizing for being late due to traffic).br /br /In the meantime -I thought I'd expand on a A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2008/11/shopping-ghana-style.html"post I once did/A - that listed all the items for sale by hawkers in traffic...br /br /This time it's a visual account. Enjoy!!br /br /When traffic came to a standstill, the hawkers lined the streets fully ready for business... a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkN_xheYI/AAAAAAAABI8/swSQdkB3Dvk/s1600-h/IMG_0121.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkN_xheYI/AAAAAAAABI8/swSQdkB3Dvk/s400/IMG_0121.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384374652374186370" border="0" //abr /br /Tiger nuts. These fibrous little balls grow in the ground and taste like coconut... Personally my mouth just ends up full of dry little bits after a while. Not my snack of choice...br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmGMLO0xI/AAAAAAAABLM/9TtaWtx5dqw/s1600-h/IMG_0204.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 323px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmGMLO0xI/AAAAAAAABLM/9TtaWtx5dqw/s400/IMG_0204.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376717287543570" border="0" //abr /br /Pillows. This guy was definitely hoping for a bulk sale. He was swamped by his wares!br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmF747uiI/AAAAAAAABLE/IbHPc9FevOk/s1600-h/IMG_0198.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmF747uiI/AAAAAAAABLE/IbHPc9FevOk/s400/IMG_0198.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376712915827234" border="0" //abr /br /Pirated DVDs - usually with three sets of indistinguishable subtitles embeded... they sell pretty much anything from Africa movies to American series, but the 'shoot 'em up movies seem to sell best...a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmFhfQoBI/AAAAAAAABK8/ig6-nOGwPkA/s1600-h/IMG_0192.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 349px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmFhfQoBI/AAAAAAAABK8/ig6-nOGwPkA/s400/IMG_0192.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376705828823058" border="0" //abr /br /Designer ties! No less than Burberry, Gucci and Giorgio Armani. Notice the white gloves for his delicate merchandise.a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmFKbPGeI/AAAAAAAABK0/s3l3BOlUvag/s1600-h/IMG_0191.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 254px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmFKbPGeI/AAAAAAAABK0/s3l3BOlUvag/s400/IMG_0191.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376699637930466" border="0" //abr /br /"Wanna buy a watch" - I get visions of a guy in a long trench-coat.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srklf6qCZtI/AAAAAAAABKs/QeEHr_YeVh8/s1600-h/IMG_0184.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 379px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srklf6qCZtI/AAAAAAAABKs/QeEHr_YeVh8/s400/IMG_0184.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376059749885650" border="0" //abr /br /Loved this seller's t-shirt. Canadian Idol!! He had a complete barbering set and a scale for sale...br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srklfq2Kh0I/AAAAAAAABKk/H_5K_J9-6d0/s1600-h/IMG_0174.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 287px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srklfq2Kh0I/AAAAAAAABKk/H_5K_J9-6d0/s400/IMG_0174.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376055505782594" border="0" //abr /br /A single pair of men's shoes. He was really convinced I might want them. How did he know they were my size?! :)br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrklfIL6GdI/AAAAAAAABKc/_vzIor8Ef3w/s1600-h/IMG_0173.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrklfIL6GdI/AAAAAAAABKc/_vzIor8Ef3w/s400/IMG_0173.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376046201739730" border="0" //abr /br /Shoes for the whole family. Now that's more like it!! Especially liked the USA flip-flops.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srkleo6KwzI/AAAAAAAABKU/Z7qjpQuGRIc/s1600-h/IMG_0172.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 391px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srkleo6KwzI/AAAAAAAABKU/Z7qjpQuGRIc/s400/IMG_0172.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376037805835058" border="0" //abr /br /Boiled peanuts (which are quite good and as addictive as any snack food), and dictionaries...br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrklefekcKI/AAAAAAAABKM/ffoqk-x9M0o/s1600-h/IMG_0169.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 291px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrklefekcKI/AAAAAAAABKM/ffoqk-x9M0o/s400/IMG_0169.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376035274158242" border="0" //abr /br /Ties.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srkkzw0DsqI/AAAAAAAABKE/feTTF2-SpUo/s1600-h/IMG_0167.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Srkkzw0DsqI/AAAAAAAABKE/feTTF2-SpUo/s400/IMG_0167.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384375301193314978" border="0" //abr /br /Popcorn (sweet or salty)br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkzcqobuI/AAAAAAAABJ8/MfBRctvzd78/s1600-h/IMG_0165.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 370px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkzcqobuI/AAAAAAAABJ8/MfBRctvzd78/s400/IMG_0165.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384375295785070306" border="0" //abr /br /Plastic wall clock. Like gold!br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkzMbdTcI/AAAAAAAABJ0/Ana2vZnzTS0/s1600-h/IMG_0164.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkzMbdTcI/AAAAAAAABJ0/Ana2vZnzTS0/s400/IMG_0164.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384375291426459074" border="0" //abr /br /Unrefrigerated yogurt drink. I always fear the wrong kinds of active bacteria will be in there after a day in the sun in traffic...br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkyqH7u9I/AAAAAAAABJs/X8JoH5r6Tmg/s1600-h/IMG_0161.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkyqH7u9I/AAAAAAAABJs/X8JoH5r6Tmg/s400/IMG_0161.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384375282217761746" border="0" //abr /br /Basketballs, footballs (Soccer balls) - these must do well...br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkyME6UtI/AAAAAAAABJk/-qisT0Zvh0c/s1600-h/IMG_0157.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkyME6UtI/AAAAAAAABJk/-qisT0Zvh0c/s400/IMG_0157.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384375274152022738" border="0" //abr /br /Salted cashews and cashew butter - yum!br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkPmYkfJI/AAAAAAAABJc/KjfrPjK-OZk/s1600-h/IMG_0146.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkPmYkfJI/AAAAAAAABJc/KjfrPjK-OZk/s400/IMG_0146.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384374679918378130" border="0" //abr /br /Handkerchiefs - everyone seems to have one in Ghana for everything from sweat removal to nose blowing.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkPFWP9NI/AAAAAAAABJU/6bcaEj3x4ZM/s1600-h/IMG_0136.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 284px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkPFWP9NI/AAAAAAAABJU/6bcaEj3x4ZM/s400/IMG_0136.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384374671050274002" border="0" //abr /br /Various power bars and sockets and even a universal television remote. This guy was a walking hardware store.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkOuKJFlI/AAAAAAAABJM/A81NnQFqXQU/s1600-h/IMG_0128.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 386px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkOuKJFlI/AAAAAAAABJM/A81NnQFqXQU/s400/IMG_0128.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384374664825476690" border="0" //abr /br /This was my favourite. The portable gym - Tummy Trimmer AND a scale to check if it's working!!!br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkORAKNNI/AAAAAAAABJE/wBFv8Bs6dPs/s1600-h/IMG_0125.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 281px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkkORAKNNI/AAAAAAAABJE/wBFv8Bs6dPs/s400/IMG_0125.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384374656998978770" border="0" //abr /br /Last but not least - the lord Jesus poster. The bigger the better for your lounge.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmGqNZBDI/AAAAAAAABLU/n1ljjJ1ChrY/s1600-h/IMG_0210.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 381px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrkmGqNZBDI/AAAAAAAABLU/n1ljjJ1ChrY/s400/IMG_0210.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384376725349663794" border="0" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-1123743443759776883?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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22:36
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Holli's ramblings
Today was a public holiday in Ghana. In fact it was a dual holiday - on the one hand (the Muslim one), Ghana celebrated the end of Ramadan with the a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eid_ul-Fitr"Eid ul-Fitr/a end of fasting celebrations. Ghana's a href="http://www.islamicpopulation.com/ghana_muslim.html"Muslim population/a makes up about 45 percent of the population of about 22 million. And on the other hand (the political one), Ghana celebrated a href="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Kwame_Nkrumah"Kwame Nkrumah's/a (Ghana's first president at the time of independence from Colonialism) Birthday.br /br /We headed off to enjoy the holiday for neither purpose really, but figured we'd head down to a friend's beach house all the same.br /br /What we encountered however was a traffic jam like no other... Apparently the mosque had just let out and we turned down the wrong (or right!) road.br /br /While JW cooled his heels in the stop-start traffic for about 45 minutes along a 500 metre stretch of road, I snapped happily away with my versatile iPhone...br /br /Accra's Muslim community were out in full force in killer outfits.br /br /Below - some of the scenes of the day:br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgDTEBOTSI/AAAAAAAABIk/NKmg5LZn8Og/s1600-h/IMG_0425.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgDTEBOTSI/AAAAAAAABIk/NKmg5LZn8Og/s400/IMG_0425.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384056980552699170" border="0" //aA lady stops to buy some fresh paw paw (papaye) from a roadside seller.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgDGgoeMHI/AAAAAAAABIc/mCIIwlo9CsY/s1600-h/IMG_0393.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 324px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgDGgoeMHI/AAAAAAAABIc/mCIIwlo9CsY/s400/IMG_0393.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384056764895211634" border="0" //abr /Someone is watching me too!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgC16bQJ_I/AAAAAAAABIU/tUAdmIw2qDY/s1600-h/IMG_0396.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 222px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgC16bQJ_I/AAAAAAAABIU/tUAdmIw2qDY/s400/IMG_0396.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384056479761311730" border="0" //abr /This lady is dressed to kill! Great shades and earrings!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCsHv0MCI/AAAAAAAABIM/U4f5TjAeDW8/s1600-h/IMG_0464.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCsHv0MCI/AAAAAAAABIM/U4f5TjAeDW8/s400/IMG_0464.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384056311538528290" border="0" //abr /The guys move in groups...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCh35W1jI/AAAAAAAABIE/iXmcrB4P8-Y/s1600-h/IMG_0467.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 303px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCh35W1jI/AAAAAAAABIE/iXmcrB4P8-Y/s400/IMG_0467.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384056135484888626" border="0" //abr /And the ladies too!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCYZulFDI/AAAAAAAABH8/3jS0g_18oOk/s1600-h/IMG_0386.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 362px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCYZulFDI/AAAAAAAABH8/3jS0g_18oOk/s400/IMG_0386.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384055972767798322" border="0" //abr /Even the little girls are all dolled up for the day. Looking lovely.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCKFQxdgI/AAAAAAAABH0/ZilqIkRE1Qw/s1600-h/IMG_0360.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 354px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgCKFQxdgI/AAAAAAAABH0/ZilqIkRE1Qw/s400/IMG_0360.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384055726755902978" border="0" //abr /A senior lady in some gorgeous cloth...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgB6mkMZII/AAAAAAAABHs/TmVAJVPba14/s1600-h/IMG_0358.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 341px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgB6mkMZII/AAAAAAAABHs/TmVAJVPba14/s400/IMG_0358.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384055460817822850" border="0" //abr /And new moms dressed up with baby in tow!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgEAgPcx9I/AAAAAAAABIs/WnRs4otwXiw/s1600-h/IMG_0352.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 280px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgEAgPcx9I/AAAAAAAABIs/WnRs4otwXiw/s400/IMG_0352.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384057761222674386" border="0" //abr /This young guy was all dressed up and had his prayer mat ready.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgERrheTvI/AAAAAAAABI0/QoUOnieKXJk/s1600-h/IMG_0477.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 400px; height: 349px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrgERrheTvI/AAAAAAAABI0/QoUOnieKXJk/s400/IMG_0477.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5384058056308838130" border="0" //abr /And finally - as we started to move and the throngs of people thinned - this truck drove by with a 'humbling' message...br /br /Ramadan Kareem Ghana!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-864166687251129104?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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12:04
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrOECtEUFvI/AAAAAAAABHk/0zRlZFEiGQk/s1600-h/dictionary2.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 238px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrOECtEUFvI/AAAAAAAABHk/0zRlZFEiGQk/s320/dictionary2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382791161630168818" //abr /Living in a foreign country provides so many opportunities to look at language – specifically the language you take for granted as your own – in my case English – and look critically at how it is taken for granted as universally understood.br /br /The truth is that language is more of a cultural and societal construct than we realize.br /br /Last night I got a call from one of my Ghanaian colleagues:br /br /Me: Hello?br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Hello/spanbr /br /Me: Yes, hello?br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Good evening/spanbr /br /Me: Good eveningbr /(This exact banter comprises the beginning of every telephone conversation in Ghana – except if it’s morning, then there is the good morning greeting…_If you are very unlucky, the hello, hello, hello can go back and forth up to 10 times. I’m not kidding)br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Holli, please can you tell me, what is a jackass?br //spanbr /Me: (amused) What?! A jackass is like an idiot, why?br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"OH! That is serious then! Well I was reading on the Internet that President Obama called Kanye West that word./spanbr /br /Me: Well it’s true. He is a jackass. But Obama did not say that officially! It was ‘off the record’br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Off the what?/span br /br /Me: Nevermind. Is that all? Don’t you guys know the word jackass?br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"No not at all. Is it anything like baloney? /spanbr /(This refers to a conversation we had two years ago when George Bush visited Ghana and in his speech said that the rumors that the US wanted to build a military base in Ghana was ‘a bunch of baloney’. This was totally lost on most of Ghana…)br /br /Me: (Laughing) No! Not like baloney…br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Also, what does he mean when he says ‘cut the President some slack’?br //spanbr /Me: Oh, well he just means to give him a break, not be so hard on him…br /br /GC: span style="font-style:italic;"Wow. Americans have some funny English! /spanbr /br /Perhaps they do… It’s just that phrases we know seem so normal, so obvious…br /br /When I hung up I decided to write a little list of phrases that are common in Ghana in English, that I found bizarre when I arrived:br /br /1. 'span style="font-style:italic;"We know ourselves/span' – meaning we know each otherbr /br /2. 'span style="font-style:italic;"We’ll advise ourselves/span' – meaning we’ll reconsider or think twicebr /br /3. 'That girl is span style="font-style:italic;"tough/span' – meaning she is chubby or bigbr /br /4. 'I’m getting span style="font-style:italic;"bored/span' – meaning getting annoyedbr /br /5. 'Please, I’ll span style="font-style:italic;"alight/span here' – used in a vehicle, meaning I’ll get off/out herebr /br /6. 'I’m going to buy span style="font-style:italic;"provisions/span' – nice fancy old colonial word for groceriesbr /br /7. 'span style="font-style:italic;"Bend/span right or span style="font-style:italic;"pass/span right or span style="font-style:italic;"curve/span right or span style="font-style:italic;"branch/span right' - when giving directions it means simply to go rightbr /br /8. 'I had a span style="font-style:italic;"blast/span last night' - refers to a tire blow-out on a car, NOT a fun time!br /br /9. 'He is a 'blow-man' - this refers to a fighter - used alot when identifying characters in action moviesbr /br /10. 'What's for span style="font-style:italic;"chop/span? What did you span style="font-style:italic;"chop/span?' - referring to food - what's for supper, what did you eat? br / br /Can anyone else give me some examples of how English is a whole different thing, depending on the where and when??div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4120073331109616968?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:12
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrJhOkVUpuI/AAAAAAAABHc/b_DohOspIhw/s1600-h/facebookparents.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 237px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrJhOkVUpuI/AAAAAAAABHc/b_DohOspIhw/s320/facebookparents.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382471407560337122" //abr /span style="font-weight:bold;"Well it’s apparently official – I’m an E-mom. This is not a good thing. It makes me feel like someone who’s past their prime, trying to be young, hip and cool (a cougar? - hanging out in nightclubs thinking they pass for 20 something but just not cutting it in their leopard skin tights...). br /br /The thing is that I joined facebook quite a while ago. I have a network or friends and contacts… My children also joined facebook. The opportunities for overlapping were there… Of course they accepted my friend requests, and some of their friends even ‘friended’ me… so I thought it was all ok.br /br /But I was wrong. Apparently if you have children, you must be old and by proxy, have no business using social networking sites – because your children are on there and that is their domain … and you are a stalker!!!br /br /Watch this news piece on the phenomenon below…/spanbr /br /object width="640" height="505"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/yu4zMvE6FH4hl=enfs=1color1=0x402061color2=0x9461ca"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/yu4zMvE6FH4hl=enfs=1color1=0x402061color2=0x9461ca" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="640" height="505"/embed/objectbr /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Are all mothers so uncool? I just feel lumped into this category now - ashamed and utterly uncool. I feel like the pimply pre-teen outcast in Grade 7… who has tried to join the chat in the cafeteria with the cool girls, and they all turn and look at you in stony silence.br /br /Should I retreat? Give it all up to spare my children the embarrassment?br /br /The real issue is that once parents are on facebook, any photos of their children that are uploaded (and tagged), can be viewed and even saved by their parents… And I admit guilt here. Our college aged son is half a world away, across continents even! We are really easy going, non-pedantic, open minded parents. But it’s nice to ‘see what their up to’ from time to time… there have been a few times it would have been better NOT to see though… The truth is that those years are all about finding your footing. Learning how much partying you can get away with, and still make it through to a degree. I suppose if you come out the other end having had fun and succeeded, then no harm done.br /br /But how would I feel if the shoe were on the other foot? If my parents could have seen into my social world when I was a teenager – with evidence of every out of control party, and tweets professing that I was too hung over to get to class … well. I guess I would be equally horrified. br /br /I am so glad the world has only taken this turn toward complete social invasion – with constant updates and photo proof of everyone’s movements – AFTER I got through the teenage years and college.br /br /Not sure my parents would still be talking to me if they’d seen what I see now!br //spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-1752731881266522518?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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17:35
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Holli's ramblings
We encountered quite a few signs like this on our 5 hour Sunday drive back to Accra from Axim this weekend. Could never find out why (there was a shortage)... but it happens from time to time. Ignorance is bliss for me when it comes to matters like this anyway.br /br /At least they were polite about it...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrEim7bAd6I/AAAAAAAABHU/Gb2tL2-Ep9A/s1600-h/IMG_0084.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SrEim7bAd6I/AAAAAAAABHU/Gb2tL2-Ep9A/s400/IMG_0084.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5382121081865795490" border="0" //abr /br /And inside the shop they had warm coke (power was off), and melting chocolates for the drive! :)div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4460188551906367875?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:14
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Holli's ramblings
Being gay is illegal in Ghana. br /br /Under Ghanaian law, male homosexual activity is officially illegal. Criminal Code 1960 - Chapter 6, Sexual Offences Article 105 mentions unnatural carnal knowledge – and homosexuality is included in this description. br /br /Coming from Canada, one of the most liberal countries in the world (especially with regard to homosexuality see map of sexual freedoms A HREF="http://images.google.com.gh/imgres?imgurl=http://markhumphrys.com/Bitmaps/gay.rights.pngimgrefurl=http://markhumphrys.com/world.htmlusg=__ld95axxNr3798kxXnGpY7iFDfW4=h=457w=800sz=112hl=enstart=63um=1tbnid=K2LHCEWebArE_M:tbnh=82tbnw=143prev=/images%3Fq%3Dtolerance%2Bgay%26ndsp%3D18%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN%26start%3D54%26um%3D1"here/A), it’s almost shocking to me. The topic does not impact my life directly, but I am a definite believer in human rights, and so the subject holds a certain importance.br /br /This topic can spark heated debates if ever broached with Ghanaian colleagues in my office – though I am usually a lone warrior for the cause, inevitably against a tirade of Christian rhetoric about the evils of homosexuality and the belief that it is an illness that can be cured, or at least prayers can be said to cure a person of it.br /br /Today I came across A HREF="http://news.myjoyonline.com/features/200909/35213.asp"this article/A on Ghana’s popular Joy FM site. I found it interesting both that the issue is in the forefront of the news in Ghana today, and that there is now an official Gay and Lesbian Association of Ghana (GALAG), with a spokesperson who is not afraid to appear in public. This says something.br /br /The article points out that Ghana’s heros have come out publicly in support of gay and lesbian rights, br /br /“Nelson Mandela said that he considered “homosexuality to be just another form of sexuality that has been suppressed for years”; Kofi Annan, a former UN General Secretary, supported gay rights with a move to extend benefits to the same-sex partners of UN staff; and as well as signing the UN declaration calling for the decriminalisation of homosexuality, Obama also recently spoke at a Lesbian, Gay, Bisexual and Transgender (LGBT) Pride event, describing homophobia as an example of “worn arguments and old attitudes”.br /br /Yet deeply entrenched cultural attitudes in Ghana die hard. There is a widespread belief in Ghana that homosexuality is a morally deprived lifestyle choice of the west. That it is not something inherently African, but a cultural export from Europe and the Americas. Interestingly there are more and more vocal African raised advocates for gay rights - including A HREF="http://www.thegully.com/essays/africa/021204_traore_gay_afr_AIDS.html"Cheikh Traoré/A, a half Nigerian, half Mauritian Muslim, raised in West Africa. He is currently an AIDS educator in the UK, and speaks openly on growing up gay. br /br /Locally though, tolerance for diversity can be lacking. A Ghanaian born and bred gay man describes his alienating experiences in A HREF="http://www.thegully.com/essays/gaymundo/040623_gay_life_ghana.html"this article/A. BBC even covered an A HREF="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/6445337.stm"article/A on the subject last year. br /br /The official line in Ghana – even from the minister of human rights – is that Ghana is ‘not ready’ for Gay and Lesbians as an accepted group. Again, it is individuals that suffer.a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq_nzvARzLI/AAAAAAAABHE/onSCFoaUFh8/s1600-h/488.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq_nzvARzLI/AAAAAAAABHE/onSCFoaUFh8/s400/488.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381774955708009650" //abr /br /My amazement in all this, is that in general, Ghanaians are far more comfortable with human closeness than any western culture. It is a common sight in Ghana to see two grown men, walking down the street hand in hand, or with their hands lingering in embrace when they greet an old friend. None of this is seen to threaten a man’s sexuality. I love this about Ghanaians. In contrast, in North America and the UK, where opinion is supposedly more liberal, straight men would never been seen in such close contact with a male friend. They commonly squirm and cower away from male to male hugs, and insist on a rough pat on the back just to assert their ‘maleness’.br / br /In Ghana, in certain instances, cross-dressing is accepted if not named. In the heart of Jamestown (a rough and poor neighborhood in Accra’s south centre), there is a man I’ve seen many times in wigs and skirts. “He’s a bit mad”, I’m told. It’s all in good fun. No one bothers him and he’s free to be himself. I suppose his perceived mental illness grants him reprieve from societal scorn…br /br /Again, I find it amazing that homosexuality is so abhorred by Ghanaians, when - if any Ghanaian will be honest with themselves - they know all about a common practice called A HREF="http://www.kfpe.ch/projects/jeuneschercheurs/dankwa.php"‘Supi’/A – which is basically a condoned (or conveniently ignored) form of lesbian relationship that develops in boarding schools between older girls and the ‘freshers'. It is seen as a way for girls to develop their sexuality, but not viewed as homosexuality outright, despite the physical relationships that develop between the girls. I would love to discuss this particular topic further and encourage my Ghanaian friends and readers to contribute…br /br /The bottom line is that no matter what the law states, or whether outside pressure will convince Ghana to decriminalize homosexuality, it will continue to exist, despite any raging debates in Ghana and beyond about whether being gay is chosen or genetic, cultural or contrived... and individuals will continue to struggle with their identities, mostly in private. br /br /The issue becomes quite difficult for gay visitors or even expatriates who enjoy a level of acceptance in their home countries and find themselves in a place where the very act is illegal! I know legally married same sex couples who have come to Ghana on official government posts, only to be forced to hide their relationship, for the sake of appeasing the laws of the country. Some gay travelers websites warn couples about the laws of Ghana A HREF="http://www.queerty.com/gay-in-ghana-keeping-quiet-in-yet-another-african-nation-20060330/"here/A.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq_zXqjmfaI/AAAAAAAABHM/7r9gdg8BSKM/s1600-h/2009_06_30+(Gay+Pride).jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 258px; height: 193px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq_zXqjmfaI/AAAAAAAABHM/7r9gdg8BSKM/s320/2009_06_30+(Gay+Pride).jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381787667617185186" //aDespite this lack of tolerance though, there is a small but thriving gay community. There are even a few very gay friendly bars. I’ve been to a few ‘gay friendly’ parties, with mostly local revelers, that were some of the most fun and memorable in Ghana. After all, the gays in Ghana are Ghanaians. They have the same innate friendliness and act as ambassadors for the country just as well as other Ghanaians do. They are the sisters, brothers, sons and mothers, fathers, uncles, aunts and others - of the close-minded ones. They are individuals of this society, part and parcel of it. I personally think the place is better off for it.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8335225904039643545?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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21:35
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Holli's ramblings
Whenever we make the westward drive down Ghana’s coast, I am reminded of one of my favourite childhood books – A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Where_the_Wild_Things_Are"Where the Wild Things Are/A. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq15ebFlqsI/AAAAAAAABGo/-eo1M561OXg/s1600-h/045.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 280px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq15ebFlqsI/AAAAAAAABGo/-eo1M561OXg/s320/045.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381090693351844546" //aNot because there are wild things (though certain things you see along that road could be considered quite wild), but because we pass through long stretches of thick rainforest. The wall of trees makes me feel like Max in the wolf costume, watching the imaginary forest grow, and I expect the huge yellow-eyed monsters to come lumbering through the branches… br /br /I am always jolted back to reality when the forest is broken by a village, straddling the road, goats, chicken, children, women in rollers and men in ill-fitted suits… a slice of rural life, cut through by the rushing 4x4 we inhabit. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq153nyQVVI/AAAAAAAABGw/QPV0-oy7RvE/s1600-h/IMG_0140.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 334px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq153nyQVVI/AAAAAAAABGw/QPV0-oy7RvE/s400/IMG_0140.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381091126257145170" //abr /br /This weekend, after a presentation in Takoradi to the Oil and Gas sector (in my pseudo professional capacity), we headed further along the coast. Our destination: A HREF="http://www.loumoon-lodge.com/"Lou Moon Lodge/A near A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Axim"Axim/A. It’s a wonderful oasis among the chaos that is Ghana. It’s run by a Belgian couple who have worked out perfectly how to take the best of the quaint village (using traditional thatch structures and local rock formations), and mix it with the sophistication and calm of a European spa. With no electricity in the area, they run all modern amenities completely on generator. They have also lucked out with a great little corner of Ghana’s mostly rough coastline. The 11 room hotel is built on a tiny, calm bay where you can swim without fear of the undercurrent sucking you along with it. Anyone visiting Ghana should make the 5 hour drive from the capital Accra – it’s worth the headaches in traffic and the increasing police roadblocks cum extortion points…br /br /What always strikes me on these trips are the massive contrasts; the (not always peaceful) meeting of two worlds. The modern meets the ancient, the haves meet the have-nots, or more accurately, the haves pass swiftly by the have-nots on the roadside.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq14ukKxJtI/AAAAAAAABGg/ZtrPTVIKjA4/s1600-h/IMG_0033.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 259px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq14ukKxJtI/AAAAAAAABGg/ZtrPTVIKjA4/s400/IMG_0033.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381089871155766994" //abr /br /br /As we left the resort after 24 hours of pure rest and relaxation, I noticed a young guy from the sea side village next door, standing at the top of the unpaved hill. He was maneuvering himself to get cell phone coverage, which is intermittent at best... It dawned on me as we bumped along further in 4 wheel drive, that there is no electricity for miles. How do they charge mobile phones?? This is a village that is bathed only in moonlight from 6pm each evening. Where traditional drums are used for ceremonies and for calling villagers to attention. Yet he had a cellphone. Contrast! Ghana...br /br /Below, a snapshot of the Ghana we drove through, to and from the resort.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq1z0OeBuBI/AAAAAAAABFg/eeA0CF_5E7o/s1600-h/IMG_0070.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 326px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq1z0OeBuBI/AAAAAAAABFg/eeA0CF_5E7o/s400/IMG_0070.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381084470852040722" //aBeautiful regal trees, tower above everything - remnants of the thick massive rainforest of the past...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq10Tx3XUjI/AAAAAAAABFo/Ho62Ozfu0Vc/s1600-h/IMG_0326.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 308px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq10Tx3XUjI/AAAAAAAABFo/Ho62Ozfu0Vc/s400/IMG_0326.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381085012929499698" //aBut in some places, too much human waste is winning the battle against nature...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq10nnpVwSI/AAAAAAAABFw/yoP_4MuRLEE/s1600-h/IMG_0195.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 253px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq10nnpVwSI/AAAAAAAABFw/yoP_4MuRLEE/s400/IMG_0195.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381085353783705890" //aSometimes the colours of the village are like a live painting - vibrant and beautiful and almost defying description.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq11YQXQp2I/AAAAAAAABF4/iU-LgCmhX_Q/s1600-h/IMG_0192.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 248px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq11YQXQp2I/AAAAAAAABF4/iU-LgCmhX_Q/s400/IMG_0192.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381086189347448674" //aThere is always an array of snacks to buy - this lady sells roasted plantain and in the characterstic blue plastic bags - fante kenkey - a dish famous in the western and central regions - it is a firm maize porridge, fermented and wrapped in plantain leaves and then sold in the blue bags. No less than 100 ladies tout these pyramids along the coast.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq12MM9DDVI/AAAAAAAABGA/RRdqyco24yo/s1600-h/IMG_0087.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 306px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq12MM9DDVI/AAAAAAAABGA/RRdqyco24yo/s400/IMG_0087.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381087081785396562" //abr /Another fante kenkey seller, Ama Adoma, where we bought two bags on special request from a Ghanaian colleague back in Accra. (Many of the ladies name their stand after themselves, or a suitably hopeful religious quote).br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq12xmu6CvI/AAAAAAAABGI/ZWjCZItrpcA/s1600-h/IMG_0316.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 319px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq12xmu6CvI/AAAAAAAABGI/ZWjCZItrpcA/s400/IMG_0316.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381087724360567538" //aCloser to Accra some strong armed boys sell yams.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq13F0ktcLI/AAAAAAAABGQ/LjttjDQJCwE/s1600-h/IMG_0235.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 305px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq13F0ktcLI/AAAAAAAABGQ/LjttjDQJCwE/s400/IMG_0235.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381088071673278642" //aAt one of the tollbooths (which charge a mere 10 pesewas (equivalent to 10 cents US and seemingly hardly worth employing staff...), I saw this sign... WTF??!!! I can't even guess what the name is supposed to signify..HUNGBARK...?!!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq13uyLUh7I/AAAAAAAABGY/ChqT8jzXpGs/s1600-h/IMG_0217.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sq13uyLUh7I/AAAAAAAABGY/ChqT8jzXpGs/s400/IMG_0217.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5381088775404554162" //aI couldn't resist this one - it's an advertisement for a school... in case it's too blurry, it's called: span style="font-style:italic;"Peculiar Child Academy/span. There was another one quite near it called span style="font-style:italic;"Virgin Kids and Secondary School/span... How can they be sure? And why the word AND? Ghana does have it's mysteries...br /br /All of this and so much more on a business trip/holiday weekend drive! I'm a lucky girl with the opportunity to see so much life around me to be in the place of others, observing, learning, growing...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2436677725657898340?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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19:18
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Holli's ramblings
Hi Readers! I feel like a junior celebrity today. Ok, very junior. Today my humble blog was visited by the author of a well read, well written Canadian design blog, A href="http://www.poppytalk.blogspot.com/"Poppytalk/A and she took the time to look around, read some of my ramblings and... yes - A HREF="http://poppytalk.blogspot.com/2009/09/pale-observer.html"post about me!!/Abr /br /It feels great to see my blog header there, in plain view, in colour, on a real website!br /br /I do realise I've exposed myself as a small-timer here, reveling in an imagined 15 minutes (seconds?) of fame... but hey! Take it where you can get it.br /br /Now it's up to me to step up to the keyboard, and write down all the crazy stories that have made up the patchwork of my 13 years here.br /br /Thanks Poppytalk and thanks Ghana for giving me so much material to work with!!!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4151417746151236954?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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21:26
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Holli's ramblings
Two weeks ago when the gender controversy about South Africa's 800m runner Caster Semanya was bubbling, the biggest concern out of South Africa was the humiliation that she would feel, with her gender and indeed her entire sense of self being questioned.br /br /Numerous sources cited other examples of how this public scrutiny could damage a person's psyche - the most poignant being the recent case of Santhi Soundarajan who was stripped of her silver medal in the 800m in 2006 after failing a gender test, and later attempted suicide.br /br /All interviews with Caster's family, friends and community at large have described her as a tomboy - a girl who favoured trousers and football to lipstick and boyfriends... They were all adamant that she is a girl, and that the world should abandon the ridiculous and judgemental notions of what a girl should look like, be like...br /br /So it shocked me today when I was flipping through the channels on A HREF="http://www.dstv.com/dstvsa/content/en/dstvsa/home"DSTV/A (the South African pay-TV platform that broadcasts across Africa), and came across a commercial for A HREF="http://www.you.co.za/"YOU Magazine/A. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SqV-EC7LmTI/AAAAAAAABEw/AXx0jfooH2U/s1600-h/492009_124025_Main-pic.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 195px; height: 232px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SqV-EC7LmTI/AAAAAAAABEw/AXx0jfooH2U/s400/492009_124025_Main-pic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378843937933596978" //aThe woman's weekly mag was promoting their latest issue, "WOW - LOOK AT CASTER NOW! Athletics star Caster Semenya as you’ve never seen her before – transformed by YOU from powergirl to glamour girl". The photos show a glammed up Caster, looking about as uncomfortable as humanly possible.br /br /What pathetic exploitation! You take a very masculine woman (her appearance and interests being the main aspects that brought about the questioning to begin with), and then completely take the humiliation to a new level by dressing her up in sequin dresses, dripping make up and size 13 stilettos...br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SqV-Si0TvNI/AAAAAAAABE4/9afi-gLXXnc/s1600-h/movie-comedy-wong-foo-julie-newmar.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SqV-Si0TvNI/AAAAAAAABE4/9afi-gLXXnc/s400/movie-comedy-wong-foo-julie-newmar.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5378844187012873426" //abr /I'm guessing Caster's appearance in this photo shoot is about as far from her personality and style as is possible. Whatever possessed them?br /br /It completely makes a mockery of the athlete. The bottom line is that, in order to try to prove to the world that Caster is female, they have made her a laughable media pawn, looking more like Wesley Snipes in drag in the comedy A HREF="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0114682/"'To Wong Foo'/A, than any glamour girl.br /br /Sad. To me, it seems all they have done is perpetuated the rigid gender roles that someone like Caster never fit by nature, and forced her into the mold - the result being a complete disaster, at the expense of yet again, her identity, dignity and sense of self.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4024711094575041973?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com' alt='' //div
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16:01
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Holli's ramblings
I’ve always been amazed/intrigued/amused by the roadside posters in Ghana. These enterprising artists advertise their work with the most kitsch drawings… It’s not uncommon to see a slightly asymmetrical Osama Bin Laden, raising a toast (with a local Star Beer in hand), to George Bush and Kenny Rogers… all portrayed in oil colours on the canvas of a 6 foot plywood board…br /br /I also discovered a few years ago, during my work with artisans in Ghana, that the A HREF="http://www.indigoarts.com/gallery_barbersign_ghana.html"typical barbershop signs/A, made by these same artists, had become quite popular in some art circles in the USA and Europe. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6XClbetpI/AAAAAAAABEI/rghwpTKNd6Y/s1600-h/3803293487_56a06e8d6f.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 312px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6XClbetpI/AAAAAAAABEI/rghwpTKNd6Y/s400/3803293487_56a06e8d6f.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376901075789854354" //abr /I even bought my son one when we redecorated his room, but having grown up in Accra for the majority of his life, he didn’t appreciate the kitsch factor and thought it stupid to pluck a badly drawn painting of three guys with various geometric hair designs up on his wall… so the idea was scrapped… but I digress. These paintings can be found online, selling for between $200-$400 each!!br /br /Today I learned another industry has embraced the art of our beloved Ghanaian roadside painters… the movie industry! Look out Hollywood – here comes vintage Ghanaian movie posters – advertising so much more than the original film intended… The history as explained in my source site:br /br /“In the 1980s “mobile cinema” operators in Ghana traveled from town to town creating temporary cinemas by hooking up a TV and VCR onto a portable generator and playing the films for the public.br /br /Artists were hired to paint large posters of the films for promotion, and were given the artistic freedom to paint the posters as they desired - often adding elements that weren’t in the actual films, or without even having seen the movies. The “mobile cinema” began to decline in the mid-nineties due to greater availability of television and video; as a result the painted film posters were substituted for less interesting/artistic posters produced on photocopied paper.”br /br /On this great A HREF="http://assemblyman-eph.blogspot.com/2009/08/film-poster-paintings-from-ghana.html"art appreciation blog/A, I found an article that explained the history of the posters, and when I looked further I found many sites that have been selling these unique bits of Ghanaian 80’s popular culture – again, averaging $200 each, despite their raggedy condition.br /br /Here are a couple examples – I also found the ‘real’ movie posters for the films.. quite the artistic license I must say!!!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6X8zBoVJI/AAAAAAAABEQ/JeLSJlpom3w/s1600-h/3804590793_69b5d1d75c_b.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 271px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6X8zBoVJI/AAAAAAAABEQ/JeLSJlpom3w/s400/3804590793_69b5d1d75c_b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376902075871941778" //abr /br /You gotta love the head in the field eating someone's amputated arm... oh, and the red bugs coming out of the lday's head. I just can't figure out why she's only in a bra?! And the main guy there looks like a bad cross between Beetlejuice and Freddie Kruger! :)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YJrRdRdI/AAAAAAAABEY/U2HOX6P0lKo/s1600-h/Childrenofthecorn3.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 220px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YJrRdRdI/AAAAAAAABEY/U2HOX6P0lKo/s400/Childrenofthecorn3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376902297129141714" //abr /br /The real poster is just so dull in comparison!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YYLgUavI/AAAAAAAABEg/GLzn8mepPH4/s1600-h/3805426772_331aacc089_b.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 312px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YYLgUavI/AAAAAAAABEg/GLzn8mepPH4/s400/3805426772_331aacc089_b.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376902546299579122" //abr /br /With this one, it appears the artist may have seen the actual poster, but decided to localize it - Bond and his female companion have become browner.. but I can't make out what the huge red fish is for?!! Then there is the issue of tenses - the spy obviously still loves this girl!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YhyQoj4I/AAAAAAAABEo/jDZ-twym-yI/s1600-h/spy_who_loved_me.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 259px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sp6YhyQoj4I/AAAAAAAABEo/jDZ-twym-yI/s400/spy_who_loved_me.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5376902711321595778" //abr /br /I bet Bond never knew he was a black star in rural Ghana!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8861148588127882736?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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21:55
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Holli's ramblings
One of the annoyances of living in West Africa is the fact that I can’t use my credit card. Now to be fair, this is mostly a cash economy and I really don’t purchase many things that require a credit card, but if and when I need it, I cannot use it. br / br /Fraud is the single reason that comes in many forms. Fraud is so rampant in this area of the world, that in February this year, it was announced that A HREF="http://www.emarketservices.com/start/index.html?cl=emsmi=6mi2=1mi3=1so=1ca=newsni=1ci=2155"the majority of U.S. and Canadian retailers had blocked any Internet orders originating from Ghana and Nigeria/A. br /br /Back in my early days in Ghana, 1997 – 2003, I was a lowly volunteer with no credit card to use. My first experience with fraud was during my parents’ epic journey across the waters, to visit me in my new ‘homeland’. My dad was uneasy about just about everything, and just to exacerbate the problem, he got called to the bar at the hotel – where we were all lounging around the pool (me in heaven at the decadence!) – and on the other end of the phone was Visa International. They explained that his card had been used in a global whirlwind of purchases, ever since he used the card at the hotel and a restaurant two days earlier.br /br /All these years later, in the modern age of online bookings, I’ve had to recently contact my offshore bank and go through the highly laborious process of changing the billing address from Ghana to Canada. br /br /JW and I travel a lot for work and as many holidays as possible, and it has become impossible to book car rentals, hotels or air tickets. br /br /We tried to book online with Emirates and South African Airways in the past month and both times their Ghana website states that due to excess fraud, tickets must be paid for in person within 48 hours of booking online. This totally defeats the purpose of booking online! Gone is the convenience of not having to get through insane midday traffic to make a purchase. The only benefit now is that you can choose your seats in advance…. Whoopee!br /br /Ghana has their own word for this rampant fraud now – rivaling the A HREF="http://www.fraudwatchinternational.com/nigerian-419/"Nigerian 419 scams/A – the Ghanaian term is A HREF="http://www.telecentre.org/profiles/blogs/ghana-education-service-wild"Sakawa/A. br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SphYOaVByiI/AAAAAAAABEA/fK-U_BdDqac/s1600-h/6a00d8341c824e53ef00e54f20d8bd8833-640wi.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 284px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SphYOaVByiI/AAAAAAAABEA/fK-U_BdDqac/s400/6a00d8341c824e53ef00e54f20d8bd8833-640wi.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5375143159875619362" //abr /Cyber cafes in the Nima slum run a booming business… rows and rows of 17 – 25 year olds (mostly guys), lit up behind the monitors, with the intense sounds and smells of the gritty streets outside, drowned out by the dream of getting rich quick.br /br /There are as many types of scams as guys running them. The numbers are mind-boggling. In a A HREF="http://www.internetworldstats.com/stats1.htm"continent that represents only 3% of global Internet users, and a country where Internet penetration is at less than 1 million people/A, Ghana has ranked among the A HREF="http://www.modernghana.com/news/233766/1/ghana-banned-from-use-of-credit-cards.html"world’s top 10 for Internet fraud/A. br /br /This month Ghana’s government has announced their plan to “set up an emergency Cyber Crime Response Team, to review existing legislature governing the Information Communication and Technology (ICT) activities and strengthen the country's cyber security.”br /br /I hope that this makes a difference, but if we look to ‘big brother Nigeria’, the chances are slim… There is just too much promise for those with the cleverest new scam. Easy money is too tempting to a population of impoverished kids who long to emulate the bling bling, gangster deifying rap stars of the USA, and there are no tangible repercussions… except for those of us who want to use our credit cards in Ghana – legally! Users beware...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4999205344541790996?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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20:13
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Holli's ramblings
There has been quite a debate raging at my office and in the house, and I’m sure it reflects discussions going on globally this week. It’s about Caster Semenya, the gripping controversy surrounding her 800m gold medal win in Germany, and the subsequent doubts as to her qualification as a ‘true’ female.br /br /It’s actually quite amazing that this story has become such a globally followed issue, but for me, as for many others, it is so interesting because it involves both the human side and the not-so-simple science of sex and gender.br /br /I’m sure there was a day not so long ago when gender was viewed as a cut and dry issue by the majority of us – if a person had the external sexual organs associated with either sex, it was accepted that the person was that gender. Since then science has delved further and discovered a variety of cases where this simple identification is just not as straightforward as we’d thought. There is a very interesting 'Intersex' association in North America that answers many of the questions A HREF="http://www.isna.org/faq"here/A.br /br /In terms of sexuality, more and more people are identifying themselves as A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Transgender"transgender/A – and are convinced that they are ‘in the wrong body’. There are a myriad of combinations of sexual orientation, along with gender identifications. One of my favourite stand up comedians, A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Eddie_Izzard"Eddie Izzard/A, commonly wears traditionally ‘female’ clothing and identifies himself as a ‘male lesbian’ or a ‘straight transvestite’. Are these people right or wrong? Who are we to judge?br / br /But when it comes to the case of Caster Semenya, if we look for a minute beyond the personal side – beyond the fact that the media coverage her case has attracted is no doubt humiliating and demoralizing – a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SpRHgjSjxKI/AAAAAAAABD4/TGGzKT-yuxA/s1600-h/498px-20090819_Caster_Semenya.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SpRHgjSjxKI/AAAAAAAABD4/TGGzKT-yuxA/s320/498px-20090819_Caster_Semenya.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5373998879914312866" //athere are the complicated yet unavoidable scientific and ethical issues.br /br /There are pictures all over the Internet of Caster now, with everyone trying to scrutinize every aspect of her appearance. The fact is that she has the complete outward appearance of a male. br /br /Her speech and mannerisms confirm that view.br /br /So when then is a girl not a girl? If Caster identifies as a female, who are we say she is not?br /br /If Caster is subjected to all possible tests, there will be one of many possible outcomes; anything from true A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hermaphrodite"hermaphroditism/A (where a person possesses both male and female sexual organs, internally and/or externally, to variations like male A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Pseudohermaphroditism"pseudohermaphroditism/A or a type of A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Mixed_gonadal_dysgenesis"gonadal dysgenesis/A. The bottom line is that it goes far beyond a simple physical inspection of someone's 'private parts'!br /br /object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/693bw9mwxn0hl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/693bw9mwxn0hl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /There have been numerous cases in the western world, where these conditions are diagnosed at birth, are closely monitored through childhood, and the child is gender assigned, based on their tendencies. I believe if Caster Semenya had been born in different circumstances – i.e. not in a rural village with no access to expensive modern medicine, she would have been one of these people.br /br /Accounts of Caster’s life only reinforce this. She is said to have identified always with boys – and competed on par with her male peers in school throughout her childhood. However, due to the fact that she had no visible penis (and this is really the only reason), she was assumed to be a girl.br /br /The biggest question is an ethical, moral and philosophical one. It has been my opinion that if a person is found to have a Y chromosome, to possess A HREF="http://news.bbc.co.uk/sport2/hi/athletics/8219937.stm"more than 3 times the testosterone as the typical female (as in the case of Caster)/A, then they have an unfair biological advantage over other females (in terms of muscle development etc.), and hence it would be unfair to compete against 'entirely female' women, especially at this level.br /br /Another perspective (that of JW) is that if the person has been classified at birth as a female, with no outward evidence that this is not the case, then she should be able to compete regardless. Her biological advantage is something she is lucky to have, in the same way that people with higher IQs have a biological advantage to others when it comes to academics – yet we all compete on the same level, regardless of the advantages of the smarter people.br /br /It is a very intriguing debate!br /br /However, this is not a theoretical issue. There are victims. The very sad side of this story is Caster herself. As far as she is concerned, she is a woman. Despite any questions she or others she knows have had about her appearance, she is simply a tomboy… however, the IAAF has strict guidelines that may just determine that she is not in fact female. This would mean they would have to strip her of her medal. Imagine the devastation! Not to mention that the whole world (including me) is currently debating her gender. It is a controversy that she has found herself trapped in, through no fault of her own.br /br /I believe that the South African A HREF="http://www.athletics.org.za/"ASA/A could have dealt with the issue discretely in advance, completing the tests before the Berlin race, so as to eliminate all the aftermath, but their conduct has been uneducated, boorish and infantile. A HREF="http://www.kickitout.org/news.php/news_id/4485"They have accused the IAAF and international media of being racist/A, despite the fact that A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gender_verification_in_sports"these tests have been carried out on female athletes globally/A, regardless of race or origin, for decades. In interviews, A HREF="http://www.thetimes.co.za/PrintEdition/Insight/Article.aspx?id=1053666"Leonard Chuene/A, President of the ASA repeatedly ignores the complex issues at hand.br /br /In 2006 A HREF="http://sportsnob.wordpress.com/2006/12/26/the-mysterious-case-of-santhi-soundarajan-and-the-y-chromosome/"Santhi Soundarajan/A from India, was robbed of her silver medal after the same type of controversy about her gender. Raised as a woman, this blow devasted her and soon after she attempted suicide.br /br /Gender may not be as simple and straightforward as we’d once believed, but it remains a delicate and taboo subject, and when questioned, can have devastating effects...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-857280363764995815?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:36
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Holli's ramblings
I’ve always had an incredibly suspicious view of religion. I guess we are all products of our upbringing to an extent, and neither of my parents were religious, despite the fact my father was raised a Catholic. There was no mention of God or church in my house, and it all seemed quite fine…br /br /My first encounter with church was a mixed experience, and it went progressively downhill from there. Somehow at five years old I had been enrolled in Sunday school with a friend. The fun part was the bus that picked us up and dropped us off. We sang silly songs (which I’m sure were geared toward familiarizing us with the Lord’s word, but was utterly lost on me), and best of all they gave us little toffees called Mojos. Looking back it seems like shameless bribery! However, at the time it seemed great. Free candies and songs… a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sowq8Wf3vLI/AAAAAAAABDg/_xg9h097U2c/s1600-h/mojo%27s.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 152px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sowq8Wf3vLI/AAAAAAAABDg/_xg9h097U2c/s200/mojo%27s.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371715671865932978" //abr /br /The actual Sunday school was in the back of a church, smelled musty and looked like a dusty store room. We sat on metal fold out chairs and made crafts out of uncooked macaroni, sparkles, Elmer’s glue (always a bit too much was used so that it oozed out from under the macaroni…), and paper plates. I was unconcerned as to the significance of the guy with the beard and the cross. I was always just waiting for the ride home for more Mojos.br /br /I promptly forgot all about it until around the age of twelve one of my friends invited me to church with her family. I asked my mom and her answer seemed strange. “If that’s what you want, by all means go and check it out”, or something along those lines.br /br /I think it was an Anglican church. It was all very stark and somber. Everyone was white and middle class. Everyone dressed up, but not too flashy. Lots of brown and grey suits. Dull floral dresses and sensible shoes… and it was BORING! There were hymns that no one knew the words to, but opened the booklets in the pews and made a half-hearted attempt at mumbling through, along with the priest/pastor. The actual sermon was irrelevant in it’s topic and content. I wondered why anyone would consider the tribulations of people centuries ago, given that the world had changed so much. br /br /It seemed like the longest hour of my life – akin to math class, where I always had to come up with clever ways of keeping myself awake. br /br /I never went back. br /br /When I had a Jamaican boyfriend in my later teens, his sister invited me to her ‘revival’ church. Wow! That was the closest thing to a pop concert that I could imagine a church to be. It was held in a huge hall and 95% of the worshippers were black, despite the fact that it was in downtown Toronto. Everyone was dressed to the nines – big hats, flashy dresses, snake skin patterned suits (it WAS the 80’s…).br / br /There was an air of excitement as everyone made their way in, serenaded by a full gospel choir with a rock band accompaniment. When the preacher took the stage everyone cheered. He was an ex-A HREF="http://www.wwe.com/"WWF wrestler/A, turned born again preacher. This seemed like a major career change until I compared the both - on stage, performing.. I guess it was a good fit. He preached with vigour and might, enthusiasm and omnipotence. It all seemed so happy and lively until he started with the ‘scare tactics’. I was shocked when he brought out the old testament threats of fire and brimstone… I looked around and the people looked entranced, like docile lambs. Why would they believe this stuff? Why would they come every week to be threatened with supernatural horror movie style afterlife nightmare speeches?br /br /And then came the ‘healings’. There is a Steve Martin movie that comes to mind. In the a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SowrNaJ-TAI/AAAAAAAABDo/bvitIVq9j8U/s1600-h/LeapOfFaith.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 281px; height: 320px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SowrNaJ-TAI/AAAAAAAABDo/bvitIVq9j8U/s320/LeapOfFaith.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5371715964905606146" //amovie he is a ‘preacher’ who does a completely bogus ‘healing roadshow’… br /br /One after another, people went down to the front and fell willingly to the ground when the ex-wrestler’s chubby hand touched their forehead , some in crumpled heaps, some rigid and convulsing like epileptic seizures, many in tears. I was amused but flabbergasted. br /br /There followed obligatory dancing in the aisles and I slowly realised the insistence on everyone getting up and moving was a ploy to get each of us to pass by the collection box. Extortion!!!! And this church service lasted close to 6 hours!!!br /I never went back. br /br /In the meantime I had been learning about evolution in biology class – I found it one of the only truly interesting topics. And I couldn’t help but think how drastically these scientific theories contradicted the simple teachings of the bible – with the 7 days God created the earth, and the clay moulding of Adam with Eve as his rib… br /It confirmed to me at the time that religion is a tool in society/culture; something that gives simple answers to the questions that in reality none of us can comprehend. The world and it’s creation is beyond any of us, so how preposterous for certain people to claim ‘the knowledge’. How even more preposterous to teach that there are certain rules of conduct that ‘please’ a god…. More mind control….br /br /This was all before I headed to the mind-opening years of University, and my sojourns in Africa where I came to learn so many more things – where I saw the similarities of the Christianity practised by Afro-Canadians and the continent they ultimately came from. Where I learned about traditional religions and colonialism and power struggles and politics and the role of Christianity and Islam... but I’ll blog about them tomorrow. br /br /Thanks Esi - for inspiring my contemplation on the topic today in your A HREF="http://maameous.blogspot.com/2009/08/confront-your-fearsdiscover-traditional.html"great blog post/A.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7072360372510117889?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:10
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Holli's ramblings
Things I used to associate with the country Turkey:br /br /1. This silly song, that is very catchy by The Four Lads - originally released in 1953, covered by They Might Be Giants in the early nineties...br /br /object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/vankaSlfSr0hl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/vankaSlfSr0hl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /2. Turkish delight (a disgusting jelly like candy sold in squares, dusted with icing sugar) comes from there.br /br /3. The country's name is synonymous with the festive food (read dead bird) centerpiece at Christmas and Thanksgivingbr /br /4. The country's name can be used as an insult, by calling someone 'a turkey' - implying stupidity and simpleness...br /br /5. They made it into the International news for wars, violence and corruption over the years..br /br /That's about it really.br /br /THINGS I NOW KNOW ABOUT TURKEY:br /br /1. Turkey is bordered by 8 countries! Greece, Bulgaria, Georgia, Armenia, Azerbijan, Iran, Iraq, Syria (and even Cyprus if you count that...)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SoLwYF2zqaI/AAAAAAAABDQ/wJ9MKHgvIYI/s1600-h/tu-map.gif"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 204px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SoLwYF2zqaI/AAAAAAAABDQ/wJ9MKHgvIYI/s400/tu-map.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369118002458634658" //abr /br /br /2. It is divided into 81 provinces and is very different geographically and culturally across the provincesbr /br /3. Turkish is a completely unique language - unlike Arabic or the European languagesbr /br /4. Turkey is a Muslim country but in the cities it is rare to see women covered up, and drinking is completely accepted br /br /5. Turkey has amazing tourist areas, and even an area called the Turkish Riviera that is made up of a series of south facing bays, that are tourist magnets every summer - complete with great beaches, restaurants and nightclubs (some of the best in the world - Ibiza has nothing on the southern Turkey nightclubs!)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SoLw2EG0XFI/AAAAAAAABDY/tE-Agm56Isw/s1600-h/marmaris_main.183114029_std.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SoLw2EG0XFI/AAAAAAAABDY/tE-Agm56Isw/s400/marmaris_main.183114029_std.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5369118517384993874" //abr /br /6. Istanbul was the capital city of the Roman, Latin and Ottoman Empiresbr /br /7. St. Nicolas (later known as Santa Claus) was born in Patara, Turkeybr /br /8. Istanbul is the only city in the world built on two continents!br /br /9. Abraham (of biblical fame), Aesop and Homer were all from Turkeybr /br /10. 70% of the world's hazelnuts come from Turkeybr /br /11. It is illegal in Turkey to make fun of Turkishness (can you imagine?)br /br /12. Mustafa Kamal Ataturk, who founded the Republic of Turkey in 1923 is the country's hero, and his image is displayed EVERYWHERE - homes, boardwalks, businesses, bars - everywhere.br /br /13. Turks have a long standing rivalry with the Greeks br /br /14. The island of Rhodes in Greece is closer to Turkey than to the Greek mainland br /br /15. Parts of Turkey are absolutely beautiful - mountainous, warm, lakes, lagoons, beaches, and numerous famous ruins dot the countryside.br /br /Last but not least - I recommend a visit by all!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8210129192125273181?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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14:45
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Snw-F71Q8cI/AAAAAAAABDI/us-1pon2z20/s1600-h/olu_deniz.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 304px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Snw-F71Q8cI/AAAAAAAABDI/us-1pon2z20/s400/olu_deniz.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5367233127600157122" //abr /br /Excuse my silence, but places like this inspire awe, and silence. And for the past three weeks, these are the types of scenes that I've awoken to - in Dubai, around the south of Turkey and on Rhodes Island, Greece.br /br /And now I'm back in Ghana - back to reality. Reviews from the holiday to follow - but for now - soak this in!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7550126000815513933?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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12:10
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sl3ITwiOysI/AAAAAAAABDA/YVCMtPSfjq4/s1600-h/Ghana+beach+sculpture_n.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sl3ITwiOysI/AAAAAAAABDA/YVCMtPSfjq4/s400/Ghana+beach+sculpture_n.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5358659373412305602" //abr /Another amazing thing seen on the streets, or rather in this case, the beach of Accra - sand sculpture at A HREF="http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/NewsArchive/photo.day.php?ID=60848"La Pleasure Beach/A, Labadi, Accrabr /br /Photo courtesy A HREF="http://www.facebook.com/s.php?ref=searchinit=quickq=kofi%20nyarko#/photo.php?pid=1702007id=552174172ref=share"Ann Botchway (facebook)/Adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-473773120294463144?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:03
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sltrv4hzNyI/AAAAAAAABC4/AGdKF0A9UWo/s1600-h/2009-07-11T124248Z_01_APAE56A0ZBH00_RTROPTP_2_OFRTP-OBAMA-GHANA-2-20090711.JPG"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 214px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sltrv4hzNyI/AAAAAAAABC4/AGdKF0A9UWo/s320/2009-07-11T124248Z_01_APAE56A0ZBH00_RTROPTP_2_OFRTP-OBAMA-GHANA-2-20090711.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357994652059514658" //abr /br /With Obama’s visit come and gone – been there, bought the t-shirt (two actually) – Accra has returned to normal.br /br /Definitely the Obama family had a profound effect on the country. Firstly, the cities of Accra and Cape Coast were literally brought to a halt on Saturday, and the circling helicopters made us feel their presence.br /br /Apart from that, there was a buzz in the air, and all radio and TV stations were focused on the historic visit, following Obama on his few planned and strictly controlled visits. The streets were lined with supporters - with flags, scarves, t-shirts...br /br /Everyone wanted some little part of Obama – of the fame, the hope, the power that has now come to signify his name. This was a visit that topped any of the other foriegn dignitaries or prior American presidents. Ghana and Africa felt a deeper sense of connection, they claimed to welcome Obama HOME. There was a wild pride in the air...br /br /But Obama did more than shake hands and smile and feed the politicians of Ghana and Africa what they wanted to hear. He was firm in his speeches, asking the African leadership to take responsibility for the future of Africa. He focused on the US supporting Africa’s independent development and made some giant steps away from the typical western leader’s promise of never-ending aid. At his farewell address at the airport he pointed out the Peace Corps volunteers and asked that if these youngsters had come so far to work in the communities, there was no reason that the youth in Ghana and in Africa could not do the same. And he was right.br /br /In a way, I believe that only Obama could have gotten this message across without any repercussions of being labelled racist. After all, he is considered ‘one of us’ among Africans.br /br /This is a point that has annoyed me during the presidential campaign last year and the ramp up to his recent visit.br /br /How is it that a man who had an A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2008/06/obama-mama-myth-and-drama.html"absentee father/A (who happened to hail from Kenya), but was raised completely by his white mother and grandparents and Indonesian step-father, far from Africa, can be called an African man?br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SltrF0M7bcI/AAAAAAAABCw/5na0GBaufy4/s1600-h/barak-and-grandparents-small.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 283px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SltrF0M7bcI/AAAAAAAABCw/5na0GBaufy4/s400/barak-and-grandparents-small.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5357993929343724994" //abr /br /Surely we cannot forget the woman that raised him single-handedly, with the support of her own family, while his father lived out his life continents away with other wives, other children. Where is the acknowledgement for those that played the key role in his biological and cultural upbringing, when Africans proudly exclaim Obama’s blackness and African heritage?br /br /It all seems a bit hypocritical, if not deceptive.To put it in perspective for Ghanaians - it would be like Scottish people taking credit for the accomplishments of J.J. Rawlings. It would be like other Europeans welcoming Jerry 'home' back in his heyday, for being the first 'European' leader in Africa. But we all know that despite Jerry having a Scottish father, he is culturally a Ghanaian and there is not much of a connection between him and Scotland. This is because his father did not play much of a role in his life, and he was raised in Africa as an African. The same is true in reverse for Obama...br /br /I agree that Barack Obama has the X Factor, that he is extremely intelligent and an excellent motivational speaker. He is one of the only politicians that I honestly believe has positive motives for genuine change.br /br /Whether Africa or Africans or black America can take the credit for a man with his history and upbringing is quite another story altogether.br /br /I think it’s fair that we ALL take pride in such a leader, globally, and stop harping on a simple biological fact that did not entirely shape Obama’s character. br /br /He is a global citizen, an American, and a figure for positive change. He is not technically a BLACK man nor culturally an African – and it doesn’t matter in the least!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5640498028215688301?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:33
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlYmeXNZ1zI/AAAAAAAABCo/miq2CJ5nhzM/s1600-h/Obama+in+ghana_298.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 298px; height: 100px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlYmeXNZ1zI/AAAAAAAABCo/miq2CJ5nhzM/s320/Obama+in+ghana_298.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356511109871949618" //abr /The pre-Obama frenzy is in full swing in Accra. But instead of the excitement felt by the rest of the world, locally we are reeling at the extreme measures being taken by the Obama-planning-and-security-committees, that will render the city of Accra and Cape Coast completely at a standstill for most of Friday and Saturday. br /br /As we walked down to our local luncheon spot in Airport residential area today, the skies above us were alive with the drone of military helicopters – circling, circling.br /br /Rumours are growing and spreading and mutating about where Obama will stay, what time he will arrive, what time he will leave and everything in between. It is generally agreed now that all roads around the airport will be closed from 7pm Friday evening until most likely Saturday night or Sunday morning. All office buildings in the area will be completely evacuated and even the regularly scheduled commercial flights will be cancelled or rescheduled. The airport is to be emptied completely from 7pm Friday night. This is serious!br /br /The latest I’ve heard is that the Holiday Inn will be evacuated, including staff, and completely sterilised by American security personnel. This gives me the impression that Obama and his family will sleep there. br /br /The roads will also be closed – but no one knows which ones, from what time etc. So we’re guaranteed to have mass chaos... I also just read that Ghana has vowed to A HREF="http://www.660news.com/news/world/more.jsp?content=w084348728"dedicate 10,000 police officers to the Obama visit/A – both in Accra and Cape Coast. I find this amazing, if not completely impossible – given that the entire Ghana police force is less than double this number. Imagine the logistics in a feat like that?!br /It all makes the mind boggle, that the 24 hour visit of one man and his massive entourage, could cause the complete immobilization of a city!br /br /The usual last minute city clean-up is also underway – the teams in overalls can be seen, weathering the seasonal rain, white wash painting all the curbs on the roads the Obama delegation will drive down, as well as American and Ghanaian flags posted at regular intervals along the main boulevards. This is standard practice whenever a foreign dignitary visits. But this time it is on a much higher scale. There is a drive by authorities, who are not afraid to use physical force, to remove all of the hawkers and beggars that line the streets of Accra daily. br /br /Today’s Graphic newspaper, dedicated to Obama’s visit, describes the clean-up: “The recent exercise to clear the central business district and other parts of Accra of street hawkers and traders gives a vivid posture of official intolerance to general indiscipline before and during the visit of Mr. Obama”. br /br /I read with interest and melancholy, A HREF="http://blog.timesunion.com/microbusiness/587/dear-president-obama-a-few-tips-for-your-upcoming-trip-to-ghana/"a letter to Obama/A, posted online, with such care and detail - by an average Ghanaian, who, like others, has so many high hopes from Obama's visit. She mentions how many thousands of poor rural Ghanaians will be making the long journey to the capital with the remote hopes of 'catching a glimpse' of the President. But this is post 911, and this is OBAMA. What chance will the average Ghanaian have to get within 10 city blocks of the world's most highly protected and revered man?br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlYdbecfmHI/AAAAAAAABCg/LeX8T3Sa1O0/s1600-h/obama+ghana056_01c642366e.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 213px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlYdbecfmHI/AAAAAAAABCg/LeX8T3Sa1O0/s320/obama+ghana056_01c642366e.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5356501164670031986" //aWell we hope that the visit goes well – Obama’s speech (to be delivered to a select, private, invited audience), will no doubt be inspiring – they always are! – and no doubt the international media who follow him here will be abuzz with feedback. There are numerous online forums set up for live discussions during his visit... and at the end of the day, when he goes, Ghana will definitely be on the world map. But by Sunday the roads will open and the average Ghanaian will emerge (now allowed back on their streets), jumping puddles on their way to church - and apart from their new commemorative t-shirts, life in Accra will be back to normal.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5523072564230569191?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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11:48
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Holli's ramblings
object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/xfHCjv5IWkQhl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/xfHCjv5IWkQhl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /You have to hand it to Ghanaians for enthusiasm. They have put together a music video showcasing about 10 of Ghana's well known pop/A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Hiplife"hip-life/A artists - all in honour of the Obama visit.br /br /Alot of the song is in Twi, but I've captured some of the english verses here:br /br /A HREF="http://www.ghanamusic.com/2008/05/22/asem-steps-out-at-boomerang/"ASEM/A:br /"span style="font-style:italic;"Ever since I set eyes on you Barackbr /I felt good like I bought a new Cadillac.br /I talk about you to my Granny, I have pictures of you and your Granny.br /And I heard that you won a Grammy.br /When I get mine it will make us family!/span"br /br /A HREF="http://www.museke.com/en/node/3695"ECHO/A:br /"span style="font-style:italic;"Is the first time in Africabr /To see a hero in America.br /Is like seeing a Godfathahbr /Welcome home Obama.br /br /You you you youbr /Fathah of the Nationbr /And we are proud to have you herebr /Obama Obama Obamabr /Welcome to Ghana.../span"div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8284030196074009866?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:52
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlItvE2e9nI/AAAAAAAABCQ/0MV77w1FUWA/s1600-h/Obama+to+Ghana.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 226px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlItvE2e9nI/AAAAAAAABCQ/0MV77w1FUWA/s400/Obama+to+Ghana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355393193676306034" //abr /br /‘Friends For Obama Ghana - Welcome Home!’ Are the words that adorn hundreds of strategically placed posters around the Accra city sprawl.br /br /Welcome Home? I know we are all getting excited for the imminent visit of the most famous American president (of all time?!) – certainly during my lifetime. But these posters are a testament to the completely unrealistic expectations that the world, and especially Africa has placed on this man. An American man with partial Kenyan heritage. How can he solve the problems of the world? Africa will not be his number one priority – how could it be? Obama is the American President - and no matter how much enthusiasm we generate in Ghana, he will never be a Ghanaian and this will never be his home! br /br /We cannot be so naive as to believe Obama is visiting Ghana simply to reaffirm his African heritage, to acknowledge his roots – if this was the case he would be visiting Kenya! br /br /Everything is political – especially for politicians! Ghana recently announced the discovery of oil. Within two years we have become visible on the American radar, to the extent that we will have seen the visit of two presidents! Coincidence? I am no conspiracy theorist, but hey...br /br /There is also the less known issue of America’s determination to establish a military base in the region. Ghana seems the most stable, the most inviting environment. Again, no coincidence. br /br /So as the world has been following Obama’s recent travels, the streets of Accra have been showing signs of the growing excitement around his visit – which still remains shrouded in mystery. br /br /Which hotel will he stay in? When will he arrive? Will the streets be blocked? How tight will the security be?br /br /As life has gone on seemingly as normal around here the last month, there have been numerous security exercises carried out quietly under our noses. Obama’s team has sent over 100 security personnel in advance, to take care of every little detail in preparation. br /br /When Bush visited last year, his entourage took over the two largest 4 star hotels in the city/country. I know this because our company had a prebooked conference of 80 people that was unceremoniously bumped, without warning or compensation.br /br /The visit of an American president is a big deal – especially in a developing country like Ghana where there are only a few hotels that could cater for the entourage, and there are basic things to ensure, like running water and continous electricity supply!br /br /But Obama’s visit is even bigger. He is the world’s hero, the ‘blue-eyed boy’, to coin an ironic phrase... Obama chose Ghana and has A HREF="http://tvnz.co.nz/world-news/kenya-nigeria-feel-snubbed-obama-2827011"angered Nigerians and Kenyans alike/A. The Internet abounds with theories on why he has forsaken the others. Ghanaians are full of the pride they do so well. br /br /A HREF="http://www.graphicghana.com/news/page.php?news=2417"Obama fever is here!/A There is Obama wax print cloth being printed with fury – in time for the people to sew commemorative outfits in his honour. I have to get my hands on some of that – even if just for the kitsch value. Banners with Obama and Prez. Mills huge beaming faces line the streets. There is a palpable excitement in town.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlIu6ie_Z2I/AAAAAAAABCY/UOR2dh959fo/s1600-h/obama_cloth.ghana_pic.gif"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 395px; height: 296px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SlIu6ie_Z2I/AAAAAAAABCY/UOR2dh959fo/s400/obama_cloth.ghana_pic.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5355394490121021282" //abr /br /I had the privilege of a VIP ticket to this year’s Ghana Fashion Weekend on Saturday at the Conference Centre in Accra (quite impressive!), and as I sat in the front row, I was not surprised to see the Obama themed collection of t-shirts by Jojo Costello, strutting down the catwalk, pinned tightly around the young female bodies. One of the t-shirts stated “My President is Black”. Obviously this did not in fact refer to President Mills of Ghana, who actually IS black. But Barack Obama, who is not Ghana’s president, and is not technically black. br /br /At the finale of the show, the organiser, Mr. Ibrahim Sima of Exopa Model Agency, wore a shirt that read, “YES WE CAN, AND WE HAVE!” It was a great Obama-positive message – though I am confused as to exactly what Ghana has to do with the achievements of Obama in far away America. But we were of course all caught up in the enthusiasm, and when he made the statement aloud, the room was electrified with the energy of the cheers of the crowd.br /br /Obama is coming! And to the people of Ghana, despite the reality, he is coming home!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4006307478958118489?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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21:05
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkkxB_4WWHI/AAAAAAAABBo/FHLaD2fKZg0/s1600-h/20804849sn0.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkkxB_4WWHI/AAAAAAAABBo/FHLaD2fKZg0/s400/20804849sn0.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352863542503954546" //abr /br /I am not one to start blogging about celebrity news, and EVERYONE is blogging about Michael Jackson this week, which is precisely why I wasn’t going to... But I just caught sight of the A HREF="http://blogs.wsj.com/speakeasy/2009/06/29/highlights-from-joe-jackson-and-al-sharptons-crazy-press-conference/"press release/A on Sky News, held by the controversial, activist yet self serving A HREF="http://www.realchange.org/sharpton.htm"Reverend Sharpton/A, and who else but A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Joseph_Jackson"Joe Jackson/A, Michael’s ‘father’ and it drove me to this post...br /br /We’ve all heard about the tragic abuse that exemplified Michael’s upbringing – he described it himself in the 2003 documentary A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Living_with_Michael_Jackson"Living With Michael Jackson/A. Michael described the beatings and resulting fear he had of his father. He explained that his father refused to let his children call him Daddy, and banned playing. The boys were whipped for missing a step when practising for shows. It wasn’t much of a childhood. When he reached puberty and suffered from acute acne, his father was the first one to criticize. He teased Michael viciously about his wide nose and his developing appearance to the point where Jackson was traumatized for life. (It puts the whole skin and plastic surgery obsession into perspective!).br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkkxPkUeZgI/AAAAAAAABBw/oHRW4l_LM1E/s1600-h/michael-jackson.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkkxPkUeZgI/AAAAAAAABBw/oHRW4l_LM1E/s400/michael-jackson.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5352863775623898626" //abr /br /A less well known documentary called A HREF="http://www.imdb.com/title/tt0387362/"Louis, Martin and Michael/A, written and produced by the witty British pseudo-journalist Louis Theroux, (who had lost out to Martin Bashir for the 2003 interviews), eventually got the opportunity to A HREF="http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/entertainment/3268133.stm"interview Joe Jackson/A. It was almost amusing then. Joe behaved like a second rate mafia boss. Louis was introduced to Joe through a shady cab driver cum magician (who called himself 'Magestik'), who was a ‘close friend’. Joe agreed to an interview late at night in a Vegas hotel room, only if the price was right. They eventually agreed on $5,000, but neither Joe nor his ‘friend’ were happy about the figure for the extortion, so they only granted an hour long interview. br /br /Guess what happened in that interview? Joe Jackson used the opportunity to plug some new acts he was planning to sign to his new record label. He paraded these groups through the hotel room and made them perform. When they were finished, the interview was finished. He did meet Louis again another night for 15 minutes in a hotel room at 2am. br /br /When Louis tells him Michael had been so scared of him as a child he'd regurgitated at the site of him, Joe replies, "He regurgitates all the way to the bank". Nice... br /br /Well tonight took the cake. Michael is dead. After an amazing career and a highly troubled adulthood. A press conference was scheduled, purportedly to discuss the upcoming funeral plans. Joe Jackson came out of their Hollywood home, flanked by the coiffed Sharpton and a yes-man, dressed like ‘Pimp my Dad’ had gotten hold of him just before the appearance, complete with black fedora tipped forward, mirror glasses and some ‘big ass’ chains. This is a man supposedly in mourning, holding a press conference to discuss plans for his uber-famous son’s funeral. And what came out of his mouth? A shameless, pathetic plug for his new record label. Of course he introduced his mafia-esque sidekick as well – his partner in the new label – nothing at all to do with Michael. Joe smiled, laughed, slurred his words. Sometimes his answers to the press's questions were incoherent, at best they were plain ignorant. It was a disaster, a shamble, the most distasteful media stunt I’ve seen.br /br /All of this confirms my speculation that Joe Jackson was the single most influential force in Michael Jackson’s spiralling psychological problems, and complete breakdown as an adult. The only other factor with as much devastating repercussions was the extreme fame. But fame is not by it’s nature, an evil force. Joe Jackson on the other hand, has proven himself an insecure, self centered, brutish, callous coward with only malevolent intentions – having exploited his children as pawns in his pathetic grasps at fame. Luckily his lack of talent or charm ensured that the children achieved the fame, and left him behind. Today, he is a washed up sorry old fool whose transparent lack of concern for his child, exposed him in front of millions.br /br /Poor Michael. With a foundation like that – there was no hope of a well-rounded life. And then there is the case of Michael’s children! I don't even know where to begin with that one...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3654595618613689695?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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18:51
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkPHsf0pcRI/AAAAAAAABBY/qMqZHfjd_Wk/s1600-h/28-06-2005+19-38-18_0193.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 270px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkPHsf0pcRI/AAAAAAAABBY/qMqZHfjd_Wk/s400/28-06-2005+19-38-18_0193.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351340349516771602" //abr /The first time G (the Ghanaian ex), walked through our rickety compound house door with the red and white little mini-scooter I was at once excited and terrified.br /br /At the time, being a struggling volunteer, my main source of transport in Ghana had been by tro tro. The world of tro tros is one only understood through experience. They wait in their lorry parks in a chaotic form of organization, each with their final destination , and wait to fill up before moving. This can be anywhere from minutes to hours. In 34 degree Celsius heat, as the rows get jammed fuller and fuller with all sorts of travelers and their wares, children, livestock… Needless to say, I was ecstatic to be presented with an independent form of transportation that would eliminate all the waiting and the cramped conditions, but it would mean taking on the roads of Accra directly, on the tiniest form of motorized transportation known to humankind.br /br /The little scooter immediately became one of the family, and despite the fact that we already had five people with numerous additional compound children at any given time living in a 10 x 10ft room, the scooter slept inside with us. It fit right between the TV and the coffee table, and on the hot nights, we all lay in various configurations around it's little tires, on our straw floor mats.br /br /At first G was the brave driver and all of us took turns on the back, feeling the exhilarating whizz of the air as the compound and the gawking, shuffling excited children were left behind in the swirling dust. It was fun! The first time we headed out into the main roads was another level of terrifying. We negotiated potholes that were bigger than the scooter, then there were goats and kids, that represented unpredictable moving targets on the sides of the roads where we carved our little path. We splashed through puddles of unidentified opaque liquids, and made it back home safely to the cheers of our little audience. br /br /Then they all pressured me to take a spin alone. In all honesty, driving one of those things is beyond easy, and immediately I was hooked.br /br /It wasn’t surprising then that a few years later I met many people from Tamale to new foreigners, who said I was ‘known’ as the Obruni scooter girl. That was after I had graduated to the larger, upscale model. My blue Suzuki with a custom made black ‘boot/trunk’ welded on the back. To think that I had become the thing of myths - a mysterious pale face woman, a strange foreigner, whizzing through the streets of Accra, my hair flowing in the wind...as deified as the one obruni girl who acted a few episodes of the Sunday musical drama on GTV (she had been a Peace Corps volunteer who had learned to speak Twi fluently)... but I digress.br /br /It didn’t surprise me either though, that despite my limited notoriety on the scooter, it never became an expat trend, in fact in the 12 years I’ve lived in Ghana, I’ve never seen another white girl driving a scooter. In recent years I’ve seen two African women (who I doubt were Ghanaian, since driving scooters in Ghana is not regarded highly, but is quite common in all the surrounding Francophone countries). There are also the mad Ghanaian and Lebanese motorcyclists who use the Tema motorway to pull wheelies on their mammoth beast, with the front tire high in the air. These are of course men –as the motorcycle seems to be an ego extension, exhibiting macho prowess – the louder the better.br / br /For me, the scooter represented ultimate freedom and adventure – it took me to so many places I never would have known or ventured. It was a catalyst to me breaking through my own fears, cultural and gender barriers, and it was always a topic of great interest to Ghanaians and foreigners alike.br /br /I’m sure most thought I was nuts, and indeed I may have been, but I’ll never regret it. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkPH_77qmtI/AAAAAAAABBg/mwaO4TUFwCA/s1600-h/23-06-2005+20-40-46_0071.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 288px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SkPH_77qmtI/AAAAAAAABBg/mwaO4TUFwCA/s400/23-06-2005+20-40-46_0071.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5351340683479915218" //abr / br /I even took my boys on the scooter, two at a time once we had the bigger one – and this has provided countless stories that we remember with sheepish grins. It was careless, it was dangerous, it was improper – I’m sure had I done this in Canada I’d have been arrested for child neglect or abuse or some variation. But we loved it and I will forever cherish our little adventures on the scooter – just the three of us. I remember one day when I had Q on the front and we were singing at the top of our lungs, cruising down the Ring Road, en route to visit a friend, each of us with our helmets on (I think his was actually a bicycle helmet), and boom! Out of the blue were dive bombed by a bird that had just fallen from the sky. It ricocheted off my son’s helmet and into mine and bounced off, leaving us stunned and bewildered and then consumed with laughter. The things that happened on that scooter!br /br /Even when I was unceremoniously mugged by some thugs in a passing car, the scooter cracking in two and ending up in a gutter with my passenger (a visiting Canadian friend) and I ending up scraping along the gravel….I did not give up the scooter.br /br /When I was faced head on one day in an incredible split second game of chicken with a crazed tro tro driver, I had to succumb, jump off and watch as my scooter hit it’s side and slide off, engine running, into the roadside sellers, while I dropped and rolled off to safety in the other direction.br /br /I still wasn’t deterred.br /br /There came a time though when the scooter was just abandoned. In fact, it had been sent to our trusty mechanic and we just never went to pick it up. It represented the end of an era – there was a break up of the family, of the frivolousness we had all shared, and with it went our beloved scooter. br /br /I just found these photos and had to share the days of old - from the Obruni scooter girl.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7945337887400154020?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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19:15
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Holli's ramblings
I haven't always been an expat princess, living in a big airconditioned house with swimming pool and servants. I knew a very different Ghana once. I came to Ghana as a volunteer and I got married here. And I moved into the family compound. For 5 years. Below an excerpt from the old life:br /br /I’ve been up all night. There’s a power outage that’s persisted since the evening before, when the hum of music, laughter and buzz of the naked lightbulbs everywhere were simultaneously silenced, our busy little world falling into darkness. And heat. “Ohhhhhh!” the unanimous disappointed shout comes up from the neighborhood like so many fans at a football match. “Light off, oh!” Candles and paraffin lamps take over and the night takes on a hush. Bedtime comes early.br /br /3am I’m woken from a broken and sweaty slumber, my light cotton nightgown plastered to me – a nocturnal street preacher has chosen our street to tout his doomsday warnings. In Twi. At the top of his voice. At 3am… Am I the only one who finds this an absolute outrage?! I lie silently, noticing the peaceful breathing of my little boys, and Abina our ‘housegirl’, the three of them oblivious to the shouts and to my frustration. The only other beings awake are the eternally confused crowing cocks. They add their annoying squawks to the night preacher’s noise. I suppress the urge to run out there and demand quiet as a personal right. Am I the only one who finds this untolerable!? The answer is yes.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sj57EZHqEDI/AAAAAAAABBI/9G8NFDX1iPg/s1600-h/18-11-2005+23-55-44_0537.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sj57EZHqEDI/AAAAAAAABBI/9G8NFDX1iPg/s400/18-11-2005+23-55-44_0537.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349848722755424306" //abr /br /I live in a Ghanaian compound in Osu, the centre of Accra. 56 of us live in the compound. I am the only one who is not Ghanaian. I’ve come with my personal baggage. Apparently I am the only one who hasn’t trained my brain to sleep peacefully through the sounds of the night.br /br / It’s 6am and around me the compound has slowly come to life. The first sounds are the incessant scraping of the brooms. All the girls are given the daily chore of waking before dawn and sweeping the entire compound with hand made reed brooms. This instills discipline and an appreciation for cleanliness I’m told. By now Aunty Josephine is awake as well, singing her church hymms in an unashamedly off key pitch as she starts preparing for a day of selling minerals on the roadside. The sound is strangely comforting. She’ll soon be joined by Aunty Akwele, Sister (‘Sta) Narde and Kofi Mommy. In Ghana all women are given the title of either Aunty or Sister depending on their age or status. When a woman gives birth to her first boy, she is henceforth given the title of ‘his mother’. In the compound I will forever be Kobina Mommy.br /br /By 7am the entire compound is busy like a hive. I lie on my straw mat, grateful for the coolness of the concrete floor underneath, and soak up the pulse of life around me. The children have gathered in the corridor just outside my window, queuing to shower in small groups, each with his or her small bucket of soap, toothbrush, paste and a ‘sponge’ made of brightly coloured plastic mesh. The first time I went to the communal shower without the obligatory sponge, the children found it so funny they laughed at me until some of them fell to the ground in an exhausted little pile of brown bony limbs. I stood mortified and clueless. This has characterized many of my experiences in the compound. There are rules of conduct that one must know, by instinct. Obrunis like me – we just don’t get it. br /br /The children are the best teachers. And at once the most brutal. I love them for this. They taught me on that fateful day that the only way to get clean is to scrub with a sponge. Now I know. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sj56ag71wxI/AAAAAAAABBA/SKG_ht93ocs/s1600-h/Kobina+washing+his+own+clothes+now+April+98.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 279px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sj56ag71wxI/AAAAAAAABBA/SKG_ht93ocs/s400/Kobina+washing+his+own+clothes+now+April+98.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5349848003298837266" //abr /br /This morning they are debating whether Ronaldo or Ronaldinho is the better football player. It is quite a heated debate and everyone has something to say. Even the littlest ones pipe in, just managing to say the names of the players aloud. My boys are out there in the queue, waiting for the morning shower, under the early morning sun.br /br /I’m up and fumbling around to make a coffee in our kitchen which is essentially a 2 x 2 ft corner of our sitting room, or ‘hall’ as it’s called in Ghana. Through the curtain is the ‘chamber’ where the five of us sleep in various configurations nightly. In all the rooms around me there are families of four to eight in similar or smaller rooms, managing to live out the domestic reality of compound life. br /Through the window I peer at the courtyard where all converge. It’s Saturday and all the women are washing. Sitting on low stools they bend forward, hands immersed deep in soapy suds in huge basins. Beside each a mountain of the week’s dirty clothes. The chocolate brown and manila government issue school uniforms prominent in each pile.br / br /Aunty Maude has set her two girls the task of washing today, as she prepares for baking. Aunty Maude is a nurse at the government hospital, but supplements her income by baking bread and pies. She sells these to others in the compound and neighborhood at large throughout the day, as we all smell the warmth of yeast and sugar in the ovens and are loured in… she also provides cakes for weddings, funerals, birthdays and any other occasion. Aunty Maude also makes the best banku and fish in Ghana. She knows I like it and makes it for me as a treat often. Aunty Maude has been has been my mentor, my guide, my sister, my friend and my mother figure in the complex world of adjusting to compound life. She is a testament to human kindness and selflessness. When I gave birth to my son in the nearby hospital, she sensed by nervousness and stood by me through everything. She helped me bathe my little boy and sat awake many nights with me when he was ill. She has a knack of taking control of situations with a sense of calm akin to Zen. br /br /I will forever admire her. Once when I had severe malaria, I told Aunty Maude in a hallucinatory haze that I would surely die. I’d never felt as sick in my life. She just changed my sheets, gave me my medicine and smiled that peaceful grin. I knew then I’d make it.br /br /Some Saturdays after pay day Aunty Maude goes to the market and comes back with a feast of ingredients. Then she sets up in the open pit kitchen on her small stool and sets to work cooking soup in a massive cauldron for everyone. The children scramble to help her with her bags when she arrives back from market. They are as excited as western children on Christmas morning, their eyes aglow. They push and shove and manage to get the bags to the kitchen. They help unpack, and at once find what they’ve been looking for. The game today will be snail races. The large slimy snails are set out on a chalk drawn line on the concrete floor. The children then cheer on their snail toward the finish line. Most snails do not even head in the right direction, but that’s hardly the point. They laugh and joke and poke fun – they even name the creatures. However Ghanaian children do not have frivolous sentiment for the animals they play with. When tonight’s soup is ready, they are fully aware that their snail did not escape the pot. It is the same for the rabbits and the goats that come home over Christmas. br /br /At 9am I emerge for the day. The children are dressed and fed and are engrossed in a game of oware or ampe or football, each sucking a small mango. br /obbr /When I walk out the compound gates and hit the streets I am an obruni. A visitor. I may head to the craft market or go to a coffee shop with friends, but by evening I will be back here, in the compound that has absorbed me into it’s fold. That has so many stories to tell and so many lessons to teach me. I’ll be home. In my Ghana.br /br /This article was published in "Obruni Where Are You Going?" a A HREF="http://mirrorproductions.com"Mirror Productions/A publication, by A HREF="http://lightforchildren.com"Light For Children Ghana/Adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8822388472703834332?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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15:12
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sje2v7g1m9I/AAAAAAAABAs/1my-LblWnBk/s1600-h/ghana+goat.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 299px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sje2v7g1m9I/AAAAAAAABAs/1my-LblWnBk/s400/ghana+goat.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5347944017071283154" //abr /br /I couldn't have made it up! Ghana-o... now I've seen everything.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2740990783094188559?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:51
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Holli's ramblings
We had to drive down Ghana’s coast to Takoradi this week for an Oil Gas trade Show. The highway has finally been repaved and fixed all the way past Takoradi (all hail the Japanese for their donations and subsequent contract win – oh and the Japanese construction overseers on the ground!). br /br /So – you’d think the 200km drive would be reduced from the 5 hour journey it used to be (during the good old pothole days…)br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sia8U17g7CI/AAAAAAAABAk/uVIJl4KzSzY/s1600-h/roads+ghana.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 245px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sia8U17g7CI/AAAAAAAABAk/uVIJl4KzSzY/s400/roads+ghana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5343165074181778466" //abr /br /BUT NO! Alas, this is Ghana and nothing can be straightforward. Now since the road was smooth and clear, the trotro drivers decided to take it a step too far and drive like ABSOLUTE lunatics, and consequently there have been something like 60 massive A HREF="http://images.google.com.gh/imgres?imgurl=http://cdn.wn.com/o25/ph//2009/04/25/f36c1658459fd6cef7974d42f19860b3-grande.jpgimgrefurl=http://article.wn.com/view/2009/04/25/602_killed_by_accidents_in_first_quarter_of_the_year/usg=__4WjSQBFs6rIvcRLzZ5eCFPnark8=h=351w=468sz=46hl=enstart=70um=1tbnid=hDzOLYXHXMGSFM:tbnh=96tbnw=128prev=/images%3Fq%3Dghana%2Broads%26ndsp%3D18%26hl%3Den%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-GB:official%26sa%3DN%26start%3D54%26um%3D1"fatal accidents/A on that road since mid last year. All along the way you are reminded by Toyota sponsored bright red signposts that warn, “Overspeeding kills!” and then list the number of people who died at that particular spot in a tragic accident. One of the signs listed 70 people! Others were 12, 5, 32... and there were many! And you just know that didn’t include the numerous others who were carried away (in taxis) and died at hospitals later due to neglect, inability to pay etc.etc…br /br /So now, as a reaction to this carnage, they have put up 50km limits on half of the highway, and numerous speed traps to ensure you don’t go a kilometer over 50… but mostly the speed traps ensure a steady income for those lucky officers… not to mention the fact that the ‘highway’ was rebuilt right in the same place, running directly through every village along the way, with random goats and unaccompanied three year old kids wandering across….br /br /Also, since the new government has taken hold, the police are hungry and hence there are about 20 police roadblocks between Accra and Takoradi… which are annoying and depending on how hungry the guys are, can be quite expensive too!br /br /Then there are the infamous rumble strips… everywhere along the road you are subjected to butt jiggling, kidney shuffling road bumps – put in to replace the potholes I presume…. All with an aim of slowing everyone down.br /br /The brave start overtaking at every corner keeping me with white knuckles in the passenger seat and gasps aplenty... it seems some people just cannot judge distance or danger! All the while, the road provides enough emissions to choke a nation... cars here pass roadworthy through a cheap 'dash' (read bribe)....br /br /So coughing and cringing and stopping and whinging... it eventually took us 4.5 hours both ways…br /br /Overall the journey is a ridiculous experience of Ghana at it’s worst.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5963570480872630958?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:10
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShbOrWfj8gI/AAAAAAAABAc/wsSETckVDBk/s1600-h/anxiety+girl.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 322px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShbOrWfj8gI/AAAAAAAABAc/wsSETckVDBk/s400/anxiety+girl.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338681652461957634" //abr /br /I promise - this is the last cartoon I post for a while - serious posts to follow. I just thought this was my perfect super hero... I can relate!!!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-1567608846886118444?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:45
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShWG-Slh9kI/AAAAAAAABAU/22srblXSWTs/s1600-h/19-pound-carphone.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 398px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShWG-Slh9kI/AAAAAAAABAU/22srblXSWTs/s400/19-pound-carphone.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5338321338016855618" //abr /br /Thanks to A HREF"http://nataliedee.com"Natalie Dee/A for the cute comic.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8314247172300363754?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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20:17
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHIl-zNKGI/AAAAAAAAA_k/HLgC9F6xbQY/s1600-h/Accra_Traffic.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 262px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHIl-zNKGI/AAAAAAAAA_k/HLgC9F6xbQY/s400/Accra_Traffic.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337267588249233506" //abr /Having just returned from a well appreciated mini-holiday in Germany with a one day Dubai shopping stopover, I returned back ‘home’ to Ghana over the weekend. Back to the ‘expat life’.br /br /Sunday morning we headed off to Somanya, a village about 90km out of Accra that holds a series of annual female puberty initiation rites ceremonies – called Dipo. (A more culturally sensitive and detailed post with photos to follow). My good friend had gotten us an official ‘obruni’ invitation to come and observe.br /br /So the day started in true Ghanaian style, dodging church traffic and hawkers, through a maze of roads, avoiding road construction and trotro drop offs – and this was a Sunday! br /br /Armed with full bottles of Voltic water, we were all set and arrived in the village just in time to realise we all needed to pee. Uh oh. This is not a desired state to be in, arriving as an obruni in a village in Ghana. You can’t just straddle the gutter unnoticed as others can... and the chances of finding an actual flushing toilet with – gasp – toilet paper - were slim. Luckily one of us had been here before and knew a trustworthy ‘spot’ (Ghanaian roadside restaurant). This one was indoors, WITH a toilet AND toilet paper. No flowing water though, but two outta three ain’t bad. We ‘dashed’ the waitress a tip for saving our butts literally, and headed to the ceremony. br /br /It was about a million degrees in a tight little dilapitated compound, writhing with about 20 times the bodies safe for such a space, and we pushed our way in. br /We emerged three hours later, after having offended half the village TWICE through some daft and semi-serious cultural faux pas, having nearly passed out from heat and over-crowding, and having witnessed quite a spectacle – shot gun salutes and all!br /And with that we headed back to Accra, conscious not to be caught on the roads after dark...br /br /As we came into the city we realised the entire spanse of Accra was bathed in darkness. ‘Light off’ is the affectionate term... A few spots of light here and there, accompanied by the deafening din of diesel generators led our way.br /br /At home we followed the usual procedure, flashlights in hand, switching over to the generator. Only this time the lights danced and whirred and flashed and the a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHK53h6tjI/AAAAAAAABAM/SqFI7d57IkE/s1600-h/fire.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 139px; height: 320px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHK53h6tjI/AAAAAAAABAM/SqFI7d57IkE/s320/fire.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337270128918312498" //abr / generator answered with a few gasps and sighs. And then in a millisecond the flames had lashed out and jumped fast – one of our trusted voltage regulators in the socket had turned into a hot orange melting fire block. JW calmly shouted orders, “Bring me a wet cloth, quick!”, and “Bring me a broom! Quick!”. And Q and I did as we were told. And within a minute the fire was out. The computer room had been reduced to a smoky, stinking grey cell, with a blanket of black ashes everywhere. The white wall, now mostly black, branching out in a fan pattern from above the socket.br /br /We spent the next hour testing what had caused the generator to ‘misbehave’, and then started cleaning away the evidence of the fire. With all the windows and doors open, the smoke had cleared and everything was now in order, apart from the bloodthirsty swarm of mosquitos that had come in, taking advantage of our vulnerable position...br /br /Then Q wanted his hair done – this involves a straightening chemical treatment from a box that I smear on his head every couple months, in the name of his vanity...this treatment tames his wild locks, and we’ve got it down to a science, but as the chemicals involved are actually quite serious, it must be rinsed out at just the right time or... or I just wouldn’t want to know. Visions of hair clumps and singed scalp come to mind.br /br /So as Q headed up the stairs to get the gunk out, the generator started playing it’s tricks again and after a few coughs and spurts it died. And there was Q – up in the shower, in the dark, water having stopped (being powered through a pump it’s dependant on the electricity). Panic. Plan B was put into motion immediately. I instructed him to squeeze his eyes shut and get a towel. Marched him down the stairs, through the darkness and out the front door. We have a water tap that runs out in the garden, under the mango tree and mess of bouganvillia that is not dependant on the power from the house. He crawled under the trees, turned the tap on full blast and proceeded to rinse and rinse, down on all fours, knees in the dirt, the white chemical mixing with the mud, making a greyish sludge out of the garden. With the moonlight as our guide, I passed the special shampoo and conditioner down, one by one, until the job was done. Emergency averted. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJPIGYSoI/AAAAAAAABAE/cbeguG5gMyI/s1600-h/cockroach.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJPIGYSoI/AAAAAAAABAE/cbeguG5gMyI/s320/cockroach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337268295120210562" //abr /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJI_ZxzpI/AAAAAAAAA_8/TeCBxE92iSY/s1600-h/cockroach.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJI_ZxzpI/AAAAAAAAA_8/TeCBxE92iSY/s320/cockroach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337268189706440338" //aa onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJCWHMIII/AAAAAAAAA_0/RzVemqXWS14/s1600-h/cockroach.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHJCWHMIII/AAAAAAAAA_0/RzVemqXWS14/s320/cockroach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337268075543404674" //abr /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHI6-iqxtI/AAAAAAAAA_s/Lg6XojbvwIM/s1600-h/cockroach.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 148px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ShHI6-iqxtI/AAAAAAAAA_s/Lg6XojbvwIM/s320/cockroach.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5337267948957124306" //abr /br /Just then the power came back and the neighborhood came to light and to life. Great. br /Exhausted I headed up to bed, stopping for a well needed shower. But on entering the bathroom, four – yes four – giant cockroaches decided to peek out from under the dark dank hole they occupy under the tub. Instead of my usual scream and evacuation, I decided they needed to simply be dealt with. It was that kind of day. I calmly got my weapon – RAID (Fast Acting) and let them have it. Half a can of it. I left the room feeling quite satisfied with myself and came back soon after to find them writhing uselessly on their greasy brown backs, limbs jerking wildly from the nerve toxins I’d subjected them to. br /br /Another day in the life was over. The next day, Monday – back to work. With the memories of the crisp cool air, German perfectionism and view of the Alps in the distance fading faster than my cockroaches would succumb to their punishment...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-9148709500771307253?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:24
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Holli's ramblings
The Internet continues to amaze me and yet at the same time, it keeps evolving in ways that address our perceived needs.br /br /I remember vividly my teenage years, wanting to know so many things, and being so frustrated by the lack of a resource. From simple debates with friends and family as to whether the actor in the movie we’d just watched was the same actor we’d known from a TV show years earlier. There was just no way to solve the debates. No library resource could help. I was perceiving the NEED even then. br /br /But I was no computer boffin – I couldn’t even figure out the Commodore 64 game my Dad has just bought, and the computer class that had just been introduced alongside typing was my most dreaded course. The flashing square on the black screen, with the robotic font and all that basic programming language was the farthest thing from a usable tool. I would never in my wildest dreams have imagined what the Internet would become. I realize these comments risk me dating myself horribly...br /br /Today I look to the Internet for almost everything! I pull out my iphone around the table at a restaurant with friends and log in to the Web to answer the question everyone is hotly debating. It is so gratifying! This is what I wanted at 16! br /(This statement is REALLY going to date me The kids today are amazing. Their imaginations are in tune with what the Internet has become and what it can become.br /br /They have been creating it, masters of it’s evolution… and some of them have become millionaires for their vision and their dedication to making those changes. Look at the history of A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/History_of_Google"Google/A, or A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Skype"Skype/A or even A HREF="http://iml.jou.ufl.edu/projects/Spring01/Burkhalter/Napster%20history.html"Napster/A. All of them have one thing in common – kids with a vision and the guts to introduce it to the world, with the result of changing our lives through the Internet.br /br /My son has always been a dreamer, a creative soul. He is also an Internet baby. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sfsl4EU2XsI/AAAAAAAAA_U/bqdvm8NBnRE/s1600-h/web20map.png"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 267px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sfsl4EU2XsI/AAAAAAAAA_U/bqdvm8NBnRE/s400/web20map.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330896229087207106" //aHe can talk your ear off about A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Web_2.0"Web 2.0/A (those of you ‘aged’ like me may not know that Web 2.0 is the next phase of the evolution of the Internet). It is what is happening now. Web communities are developing and providing forums for people on every subject, every interest you could imagine, and many you couldn’t. br /br /If you ask him about his friends, he might give you a list of people from around the globe, most of whom he’s never physically met. They are people he’s ‘met’ on the Internet. Yes all the parental red flags go off as we’ve all been brain-washed into believing the Internet is full of pedophiles posing as nice kids… but he’s proven me wrong.br /br /In fact, he has teamed up with some of the kids that are making the changes to the Internet that make the news and enhance our lives in the end. These guys have worked day and night for over 6months on a new website that is a new concept for the Web 2.0 generation. He’s now involved with them on the design of the site and he’s having Skype meetings weekly. My son, ‘working’ at 16!br /br /Questional.com is the site and it’s the brainchild of Robert Newcomb aka ‘Bobbo’, a 21 year old from Philadelphia who has been doing web design since early 2003. He realized that there was something missing in the traditional search engines, in that they are simply designed in an ‘ask a question, get an answer’ format. He decided he wanted to build the frontier website about questions and answers. He created a clean layout (only showing you things you need), easy to use by anyone with an Internet connection, and ensured there was zero spam. He approached his friends with the idea in October 2008. They are now a team of five.br /br /After working 14-hour days, he released the site in February this year to a tremendous reception. The site is called Questional.com. Questional.com has the strength, motive, and the dedication behind it to produce something that will, in time, become the leading source for answers on the web. Despite the site still being early in its expansion, I can see the potential it has.br /br /A HREF="http://questional.com"Questional.com/A is not a search engine, but provides a community, giving you real contact with real people who are willing to answer your questions and give their views. The Googles of the world can look through something that's already been written, but an entire community, devoted to organizing their thoughts one subject at a time, is truly amazing.br /br /Instead of searching all over the web for your information, you can directly ask your questions on the site and get direct answers by other members. When you’re not asking questions, you can then browse around and answer questions that you have certain expertise in. With enough growth, you have a powerful machine at your disposal. span style="font-weight:bold;"Where were these guys when I was 16?!!!!br //spanbr /The site has a true sense of community, and quite a number of regulars. br /br /The team is working round the clock with new upgrades and they are coming out with a tagging system to increase the organization of the questions, and to allow members to be fully enveloped in subject matters that interest them. br /br /To go the way of Google and the others that mushroomed to success, they need some financial backing and some exposure - and what better place to find exposure than the World Wide Web!br /br /I think it’s amazing and I’m proud to have anything to do with it – even if it is living vicariously through my son’s involvement. Go guys!!!br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SfsmRZCqFmI/AAAAAAAAA_c/GaQ6CSRsQZY/s1600-h/Headersearch.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 66px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SfsmRZCqFmI/AAAAAAAAA_c/GaQ6CSRsQZY/s400/Headersearch.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330896664144778850" //abr /br /You can find Questional.com on:br /A HREF="http://twitter.com/Questional"Twitter page/Abr /A HREF="http://www.new.facebook.com/home.php#/pages/Questionalcom/57458456009"Facebook Fan Page/Abr /A HREF="http://www.new.facebook.com/home.php#/group.php?gid=109007910625ref=ts"Facebook Group/Abr /br /And of course, A HREF="http://questional.com"Questional.com/Adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5463306944870762078?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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9:59
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sfl21iIFezI/AAAAAAAAA_M/FUKjwsAdbTg/s1600-h/that-guy-melted-all-over-the-place.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 345px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sfl21iIFezI/AAAAAAAAA_M/FUKjwsAdbTg/s400/that-guy-melted-all-over-the-place.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330422296035556146" //abr /br /Oh what I'd do for a grape popsicle....br /br /After yesterday's heavy post, I just had to put up this adorable light hearted comic - borrowed from the great A HREF="http://nataliedee.com"Natalie Dee/A.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-6867403156697448597?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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22:11
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Holli's ramblings
I’ve been blogging a lot lately about A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2009/03/he-aint-heavy-hes-my-brother-health.html"the perils of the health system, or lack of it, in Ghana/A. Combined with corruption, A HREF="http://ghanabusinessnews.com/2009/04/10/over-1600-ghanaians-killed-in-road-accidents-every-year/"horrendous driving/A (with the resultant high rates of car accident deaths), and a general lack of respect for life, Ghana has a serious side that so many of my fellow bloggers choose to ignore or are simply naïve about.br /br /One of my cyber friends, the A HREF="http://irishinghana.blogspot.com/"Irishman in Ghana/A, recently took a trip from Accra to Kumasi – which is generally known as one of A HREF="http://www.asirt.org/portals/0/Reports/Ghana.pdf"the most dangerous roads in Ghana/A He was in a tro tro at night. BAD idea.br /br /His blog post A HREF="http://irishinghana.blogspot.com/2009/04/when-ghanaian-driver-does-hit-and-run.html"HERE/A is worth a read. I of course chimed in on the comments section with my jaded reply. br /br /As a foreigner it is a common reaction to assume a car would stop if it hit or ran over a person! And an equally normal assumption that someone should call emergency services. In this case however, the tro tro he was in kept driving, and to his amazement all the passengers were fine with that. When he reported the incident to the police later, nothing was done about it (except for the police no doubt bribing the driver). br /br /The next day when he asked his fellow colleagues who were Ghanaian what he should do about it, they told him to drop it. Today I shared his story with some Ghanaian friends and colleagues, and people laughed. Not a happy laughter but once of futility and despair. Their responses were all along the lines that he was naïve to think anyone would care. br /br /Over the weekend in Accra, a man was hit at about 4am by a taxi which did not stop. By 6am the body had been run over by no less than 3 other vehicles. That means no one stopped – and even once they had crunched and bumped over the mass of a body under their tires, they carried on. This article was published in the local paper, but when I tried to find it online today, I realized it wasn’t important enough to make it to the online news in Ghana.br /br /Recently a friend of mine came to me to tell me that his 36 year old brother was missing after having a minor argument with a fellow tenant in the compound where he lived. It was discovered that three thugs had ‘beaten’ the man and since then he’d not been seen. Two weeks later, thanks to an article the family had run in the newspaper about their missing brother, his body was identified at a local hospital. They had been about to bury his body in a mass grave. No investigation, no questions asked. Luckily the family had closure. But now there was a murder case to follow surely??br /br /You would think so, but then you would be a naïve foreigner. In fact, the three people responsible were taken reluctantly into custody, but bailed out within a day. Now the family is being asked for installments of money to ‘help the inspector’ with his investigations. Yet nothing is happening. No one shows up at the court for the case. The family is not wealthy or well connected and they cannot afford the bribes... the case will die. And that is the sad fact. A 36 year old man beaten to death – no repercussions for the perpetrators.br /br /We went to the funeral and across the crowd, who sat on the rented chairs straddling the open gutter in the heat of the midday sun, fanning themselves with the funeral pamphlet, I made out the dead man’s mother. I saw the genuine grief in her eyes. A grief I know too well. A parent should never outlive their child. I realized though, as I watched the neatly dressed men load the coffin into the ambulance, as they do here (ambulances being used for bodies as opposed to the sick but alive), that in Ghana it happens all the time. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SfiB0kkFCXI/AAAAAAAAA_E/FDKTsIQM_Wc/s1600-h/funeral+pic.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 110px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SfiB0kkFCXI/AAAAAAAAA_E/FDKTsIQM_Wc/s400/funeral+pic.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5330152899161164146" //abr /You could be a toddler in a village and catch malaria, or an unfortunate cyclist on the road to Kumasi at night. You could have an argument with the wrong guy or stumble out in front of a car. In Ghana you will probably die. And there will probably be a funeral and Ghana will move on. br /br /My Irish friend likened the reactions of his fellow passengers to fear, assuming that it was this fear that stopped them from forcing the driver to stop and assist the person he’d hit.br /br /But I’ve been thinking and come to the conclusion that is the opposite that is true. What happens in society when there are no consequence for our actions? When we have nothing to fear from authority and also nothing to gain. No welfare from the government, no protection from the authorities. It makes people lawless and also concerned with themselves only. Why help an accident victim on the road if you will be asked to pay his hospital bill or watch him be ignored? Why stop to help someone you’ve hit when the police don’t care and will not persecute you in any way?br /br /I guess I’m the A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/State_of_nature"Thomas Hobbes/A in this discussion, with Ghana representing humans in a state of nature - in a 'war of all against all', without a controlling authority… I'm definitely thinking far too much, far beyond my reach… br /br /All these sad events have made me a backyard philosopher. Time to indulge in some soft fleshy mango and slices of the sweetest and best pineapple in the world – and remember some of the things I love about Ghana!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2257504458140542210?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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11:49
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Holli's ramblings
The most inspirational thing I did this weekend was manage to leave my computer in it's bag, while we took off to a friend's beach house for some family time (read: lots of Scrabble, walks on the beach and over indulging)...br /br /On my return to 'civilisation' I got a mail from a friend who is also one of the greatest teachers at my son's school (sadly he'll be leaving next school year, but that is the nature of International schools!). It appears some people accomplished a wee bit more over the Easter holiday!br /br /I figure everyone can appreciate the inspirational value of a true story like this - of a regular guy with the right amount of determination and positive energy - achieving a lifelong dream! Excellent - have a read below. Go Johnny!!!br /br /blockquotespan style="font-style:italic;"Friends!br /br /Years ago, I swore that I would run a marathon before I turned 40. Well, I never really got around to it and I never really pursued this dream, partially because I don't really enjoy running. I've always liked running after a ball or a frisbee but simply running for the sake of running always seemed a little futile to me - and boring. And, if I'm honest, I've had a standing policy to avoid pain at all costs (which explains my steadfast reluctance to get any tattoos or piercings) and running for such a long distance looks and sounds painful to me. br /br /Then I heard about the Two Oceans Marathon in Cape Town, which is not really a marathon at all. It's two races: a half marathon (21.1 km) and an ultra marathon (56 km). The idea is that one has the opportunity to run by two oceans, along the Cape Peninsula, which features some of the world's most stunning scenery imaginable. I decided to try my luck at the half-marathon, which seemed like a happy medium: not too long and hopefully pretty enough to warrant some reward beyond simply finishing. I had wanted to do it last year, but got sidetracked in my planning. Then, I wanted to do it this year but it turned out that I would be taking 14 students to Cairo the previous weekend, which seemed like a difficult combination of trips to make (Cape to Cairo in reverse, Rhodes must be turning in his grave). And yet, almost in the last moment (mid-February to be exact), Amber and I talked once more and decided that it might be worth spending our Easter holidays in Cape Town, a town we've always loved for its climate, scenery, amenities and friends. I registered for the half-marathon and suddenly I was faced with the daunting task of getting into running form in less than 10 weeks. br /br /As I mentioned before, I've never run before and it was a whole new experience for me. But I conscientiously got up before sunrise three times a week and ran before school. At first, I ran for 20 minutes, then 40 minutes and finally I actually ran for 70 minutes a few times. All in all, I only ran on 16 occasions and only once in the two weeks leading up to the race because I was traveling. According to my estimates, the longest distance I had run in training was 10 km - about half of the distance of the race. But I started to get better and actually felt OK about trying this insane experiment (I still maintain that running makes little sense unless you have a destination in mind or at least the possibility of scoring/preventing a goal). Nonetheless, I arrived here in Cape Town full of great ambitions: the cut-off time for the half-marathon was 3 hours and according to my calculations, I was hoping to complete the race in about 2 hours 45 minutes - just enough to qualify but not so fast that I would hurt myself.br /br /A couple friends of mine had also registered for the race and they had each run several full and half marathons, so they were clearly well ahead of me in many respects. I had no idea what to expect and the 24 hours preceding the race, I became increasingly withdrawn and pensive, as the anxiety of attempting (and possibly failing at) this challenge approached. On the morning of the race, we woke up at 4:00 a.m., ate some granola bars, drank lots of juice and water and headed off to the start of the race, which was scheduled to kick off at 6:00. By 5:15, there we were, with 10,000 other contestants, in the pre-dawn dark, eagerly awaiting the start of the race. When the gun finally sounded (in the distance, because we were a good 500 meters from the starting line), I was almost bursting with anticipation because I simply had no idea what to expect from this crazy endeavor.br /br /The start of the race was a bit hectic, as everyone jockeyed to establish their position in the line-up and within minutes I lost sight of my friends. From then on, I was on my own and it was a strange type of solitude, among thousands of strangers, both in the race and along the side of the road, cheering us on. At first, the only ones cheering us on were the volunteer marshals showing us the way, a few prostitutes plying their trade in the early morning hours and quite a few homeless, who rubbed their sleepy eyes in disbelief as thousands of panting athletes intruded upon their sleeping quarters. But as the sun rose over Table Mountain, providing us with a majestic view of this stunningly beautiful natural monument, the first spectators stumbled out from their homes, many still in their pyjamas, clutching their coffee cups and breakfast croissants, nodding approvingly and perhaps offering a word or two of encouragement to this or that runner. But as the sun rose steadily and the day began in earnest, the streets started filling with an increasing number of spectators and soon the roads became alive with the sound of cheering people, bands playing music and open barbecues roasting bacon and eggs. The race numbers pinned to our chest and backs had our first names printed on them, so every now and then, I would be spurned on by the seemingly random call of a "C'mon, Johannes!" or "Lookin' good, Johannes, keep it up!", which was truly encouraging. I could usually barely muster more than an acknowledging nod and a smile but it really made you feel special to be recognized - even if it was temporary and fleeting. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SeR_kfocgOI/AAAAAAAAA-s/aSmS2cGNELE/s1600-h/ocean+race.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 308px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SeR_kfocgOI/AAAAAAAAA-s/aSmS2cGNELE/s400/ocean+race.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324520924401926370" //abr /br /I am not a fast long-distance runner. Literally thousands of people passed me and I was astounded at the various body types that participated in this race. Normally, when one thinks of runners, one thinks of lean, thin and diminutive statures; you know, the stereotypical Ethiopian or Kenyan athletes, who are little more than bones, sinews and aerodynamic calves. But every single type of body was visible in this crown of runners - and most of them were significantly faster than me. But that didn't matter because my goal was to not stop to walk at any point in the race, even if it meant running at a snail's pace (which was definitely my speed going up the hill on Southern Cross Drive, which in my mind will now always remain synonymous with the term "hell"). But I kept running, even passing some other runners, much to my (and their?) surprise. By the time I reached the finishing straightaway, I was more tired than I had ever felt before and felt pain in parts of my legs (and biceps, strangely enough) that I had never even knew existed. br /br /But as I approached the final 100 meters or so, I could not help laughing out loud, pumping my fistin the air and clapping exuberantly because I was so extremely proud of what I had accomplished. Granted, there had been thousands of people finishing before me and people probably thought I was a little pathetic in my childish joy (and maybe I was) but I couldn't care less because I had made it! I cannot describe the feeling I had crossing that finish line and I don't know if anyone will ever understand but for me this was a great personal triumph. I couldn't contain my happiness and went around patting other runners on the back, simply because I had this irresistible urge to share my joy with others. We congratulated each other and I simply could not stop smiling, despite the throbbing pain in my legs and the aching in my entire body. I was rarely as proud as I was when I was filing by the race officials handing out the bronze medals that all finishers receive, even though I was one of thousands. Oh yeah, my finishing time was 2 hours and 33 minutes, faster than I had expected, which was also cool - but totally secondary to the achievement of reaching the finish line in under 3 hours. br /br /I soon ran into my friends, who greeted me with a great big hug. We exchanged high fives, congratulations and soon found the beer garden to celebrate with a cold drink. We then watched the winners of the ultra marathon arriving (only 30 minutes after me, even though they ran almost thrice the distance!), which was inspiring as well. But in the end, it was simply a great experience to have been a part of. I don't know if I'll ever run a full marathon because I don't think I would have the discipline necessary to train for it. Then again, I still have another 20 months before I turn 40, so perhaps I'll get crazy again and feel the urge to embark on such an adventure. For now, I'm basking in the glory of having completed this task and that is plenty of gratification for me at this point. br /br /Now I gotta put my feet up and do something really unhealthy, so I can feel like myself again. Yours,br /br /Johnny Enzianbr /Irreverent Reverend (Johannes Schwerk)br /blockquote/blockquote/span/blockquotebr /A toast to you Johnny - a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SeSBjEx75QI/AAAAAAAAA-0/1hrZg_5d70Y/s1600-h/Toast1.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SeSBjEx75QI/AAAAAAAAA-0/1hrZg_5d70Y/s320/Toast1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5324523099037361410" //abr /br /br /for giving us all a kick in the proverbial butt - what are our dreams? Live them!!!!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8560912896641931310?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:59
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SdS0YKXMn3I/AAAAAAAAA-k/QcIdbvIbuRM/s1600-h/OprahWinfreyEPA_468x622.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 301px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SdS0YKXMn3I/AAAAAAAAA-k/QcIdbvIbuRM/s400/OprahWinfreyEPA_468x622.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320075387022909298" //abr /br /Oprah’s infamous South African School A HREF="http://www.huffingtonpost.com/2009/03/31/oprahs-south-africa-schoo_n_181161.html"in the news again for a sex scandal/A…. Just makes me wonder… as I do… why the Hollywood heavy hitters get involved in all these ‘aid’ and good will projects by throwing heaps of money at the problems and taking snapshots for the press with semi-starving, but eternally grateful looking poor kids – when they are clearly in over their heads. There are cultural and systematic problems of epic proportions that they could not hope to understand when they ‘reach out’ in their naïve self congratulatory efforts to raise the quality of life of the poor in the ‘developing world’. br /br /Oprah Winfrey has quite an impressive CV – according to her A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Oprah_Winfrey"wiki profile/A, she is an American television presenter, media mogul and philanthropist. Her internationally-syndicated talk show is the highest-rated talk show in the history of television. She is also an influential book critic, an Academy Award nominated actress, and a magazine publisher. She has been ranked the richest African American of the 20th century, the most philanthropic African American of all time, and was once the world's only black billionaire. She is also, according to some assessments, the most influential woman in the world. br /br /And yet, the most important philanthropic project of her life is an absolute disaster. Since it’s inception, A HREF="http://www.telegraph.co.uk/news/uknews/1568410/Oprah-Winfreys-school-in-child-abuse-scandal.html"the Oprah Winfrey Leadership Academy for girls, has been riddled with scandal and controversy/A.br /br /What Oprah hoped would be a leading school in the country, with state of the art facilities, at a cost of $45m, has been exposed as a shady den of sexual misconduct both by matrons, charged in late 2007 with various indecent acts on the students, and now the students themselves. br /br /Yes, I’m on Oprah’s case again. I covered A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2007/02/another-look-at-oprah-winfreys.html"the earlier story/A in 2007 with my usual skeptical perspective, but this new scandal just throws the whole concept up into the light once more. br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SdSyYUfUjvI/AAAAAAAAA-c/J-gjYDYQh3I/s1600-h/OprahSouthAfrica2.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 214px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SdSyYUfUjvI/AAAAAAAAA-c/J-gjYDYQh3I/s320/OprahSouthAfrica2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5320073190718082802" //abr /Oprah can be, and definitely has proven herself, as the hero of middle class women in developed countries who stress about their self esteem, yoga vs. pilates, low fat or low carb, and what book to read next. br /br /Time has proven that despite her supposedly valiant efforts, she CANNOT be the hero of the poorest, most vulnerable girls in the world, who live halfway across the globe - who’s problems range from possible starvation, lack of water and electricity and the Aids epidemic - to physical, sexual and mental abuse in a crumbling increasingly corrupt country with a dubious future. Even the walls around her bright Academy couldn't protect them....div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7630847437620240445?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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15:25
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Holli's ramblings
I stumbled upon a well written A HREF="http://blogs.nyu.edu/fas/dri/aidwatch"blog/A today, from NYU called Aid Watch. They actually have an objective perspective, which is quite refreshing.br /br /Scrolling down I came upon this:br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScugPLyPbGI/AAAAAAAAA-M/vDQJOh0it9c/s1600-h/U2.PNG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScugPLyPbGI/AAAAAAAAA-M/vDQJOh0it9c/s400/U2.PNG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317519967763000418" //abr /br /Album cover from a recent compilation with the following inscription below it:br /br /span style="font-style:italic;""Not sure what to make of this, so I just state the facts: an African-American record producer arranged to have well-known African singers do U2 songs for this album. U2 obviously had to sign off on an album in which Africa thanks U2 with U2 songs, due to copyright laws, and in fact the producer thanks U2 band members."/span There is a great debate in the comments section below it, which can be accessed A HREF="http://blogs.nyu.edu/fas/dri/aidwatch/2009/03/did_u2_have_africa_celebrate_u.html"here/A.br /br /I think it's pathetically self indulgent for the U2s of this world to gloss over the a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScuhUfwi_UI/AAAAAAAAA-U/RgaGDSM0mWs/s1600-h/330283JpRO_w.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 258px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScuhUfwi_UI/AAAAAAAAA-U/RgaGDSM0mWs/s320/330283JpRO_w.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5317521158535576898" //aissues facing Africa, to glorify themselves and pretend to be making any sort of abr / difference. Aid has not been working for decades and there are many reasons for it. Bono was not an economist last time I checked, but he knows that being the poster child for Aid to Africa has revamped his popularity as a pseudo mother Teresa of the popular media, and now he's taken it even further with this new album of African singers doing U2 songs in commemoration of their valiant efforts. br /br /Well Bono, since A HREF="http://lyricwiki.org/U2:One"you asked/A, Yes you've disappointed me and left a bad taste in my mouth.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4048753717399670505?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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15:34
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Holli's ramblings
One day in a bank semi-recently, waiting impatiently, I saw this bizarre music video on the flat screen up on the wall, meant to distract you from the extra long and tedious wait. It worked - I fell in love with the song and the video. I became obsessed with finding who the group was, the song name, and ultimately getting the video in my hot paws so I could watch it again.br /br /Well through the help of my son and other Internet sleuths (namely his online friends forums)I found it!!! This wasn't easy, given all I could explain was that it was a video of a girl on a horse in a forest... br /br /Music makes me happy - but finding a song I've been yearning for makes me even happier.br /br /What do I love about this song? The bizarre scene of the girl on a horse in front of an ominous forest, with the awkward sideline dancers... I guess I just can't explain it. Music is one of those things.br /br /I might be the only one who likes this song... who knows! I wouldn't be surprised. br /br /Over the years I've loved some pretty bizarre things (and people - but that's another story!). One of my fav movies is A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gummo"Gummo/A (everyone I know questions my sanity on that one). There are obscure little known movies I LOVE like A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Gummo"Chocolat/A, set in the Colonial 1950's in Cameroon and A HREF="http://movies.nytimes.com/movie/30475/The-Lunatic/overview"The Lunatic/A about a sex crazed German and a local madman in Jamaica. One of my all time muses is Grace Jones. You gotta love her, or at least I do! But hey - br /br /Today I share my weird found video - enjoy!!! (or not) :)br /br /SANTOGOLD - Les Artistesbr /br /object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/kCeZzW54a2ohl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/kCeZzW54a2ohl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /Turns out I don't like much else the group or singer has done, so I won't be looking for the album, but just wanted to pay my hommage to them for this one!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-823042744772708821?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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16:09
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Holli's ramblings
I’ve been reminiscing about the good ol’ days, during my first few years in Ghana, when I lived an entirely different life… The days of the compound of 54 people, all Ghanaian except me, all living in single rooms surrounding the common space – a concrete square that at one time had a big tree growing out of the centre for shade. (That was hacked down in the rage of one of the adult sisters in the family along the way, no doubt getting back at others for some or other trivial dispute). But that is another story.br /br /We had quite motley crew of family members and random tenants among the 54 of us, and there are definitely stories enough to fill a novel… maybe one day!br /Today I remember Sistah Konadu. A sweet and well-meaning girl in her mid-twenties, with a large frame and a tiny voice, she wasn’t actually living full time with us, but apparently had problems with some other members of the family who lived elsewhere, and sought refuge with us many times.br /br /Konadu was slightly ‘mad’ as the family affectionately described her. I found out later, mostly from observation, that she was clinically a schizophrenic. I imagine the medicines in Ghana are expensive or not available, had there even been a proper doctor to make such a diagnosis in the first place.br /br /One afternoon as we sat in our little room, bathed in sweat, fanning ourselves, there came a big noise from the compound. A woman’s voice shouting frantically, “You! Think you can hide in a chicken disguise?! You are the devil! I see you! Evil chicken!” We peered through the dusty slat windows to see Konadu, dressed in her best cloth and jewelry to match, running in circles, chasing some benign neighborhood chickens with the fury of an exorcist. The children were running behind, jostling and poking each other, falling in tiny clumps of laughter. Some of the adults poked their heads out into the yard and called for Konadu’s mother to fetch her to the asylum. It seemed the illness had reached some sort of peak and she was dragged, warning us all of the dangers of the little devils among us, with the help of some strong guys around the area, into a taxi and off to what they called the Asylum. Sounded pretty scary to me. Little did I know.br /br /Konadu disappeared for a few weeks. When she came back she was dull, thin, her skin grayish and the corners of her mouth sagged. She looked highly drugged. The fire in her eyes was gone.br /br /What we didn’t know at the time was that she had been chained by her ankle to a large heavy metal ball on the floor in what constitutes a cell. Some patients are chained to car batteries or any other heavy unmoveable objects. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sce1dnPkRuI/AAAAAAAAA98/8iay4HuBkj0/s1600-h/Asylum+accra.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 263px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sce1dnPkRuI/AAAAAAAAA98/8iay4HuBkj0/s400/Asylum+accra.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316417405489268450" //abr /This is rehabilitation?! The conditions in Accra’s only Psychiatric Hospital – the Asylum – make the horrors at Korle Bu and others look like a hotel. There is even less funding for these hospitals around the country, not to mention a huge stigma. The patients are fittingly referred to as inmates and as I read in an article published on A HREF="http://allafrica.com/stories/200808080984.html"AllAfrica.com/A, the regional director of CHRI (Commonwealth Human Rights Initiative) explained:br /br /“the treatment includes chaining, denial of food, verbal and physical abuse, isolation and forced medication. According to her, their research revealed that the incidence of chaining up the mentally disabled constituted a feature of the healing process.”br /br /What is equally disturbing is what I read on the front page of the Daily Graphic (whose website is currently under construction), Ghana’s largest newspaper TODAY. Ghana’s ‘Mental Health in Crisis’. The article goes on to explain that for the 22 million people in Ghana, of whom they figure 30 -40 % will suffer some form of mental health problem during their lives, have 2 – that’s TWO qualified and practicing Psychiatric doctors to attend to them. Statistically that is one doctor per 11 million people. Do I need to write how dismal that is? Apparently there are actually 4 doctors in the country, but two are lecturing at Universities rather than practicing.br /br /So what happens over at the Asylum to the thousands of ‘inmates’? No doubt they are guarded. Doubtfully they are fed, (unless family members come to visit and bring meals to them), but no chance are they being treated by a doctor. And that is sad.br /I haven’t seen or heard from Konadu in ages. She had a baby and got married and was on her ‘medicines’ that last I knew. God forbid she relapse and need medical attention. br /br /With all the hue and cry about the atrocities of slavery during the early colonial days, here we are in modern Africa, where citizens are being enslaved, in their minds and by the literal chains that bind them. The treatment of the mentally ill in Ghana is one of those dirty little societal secrets, on the bottom of anyone's list in terms of making changes, and in the dark ages in terms of cultural attitudes. God help them, those who cannot help themselves, for no one else will.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sce1viIJVjI/AAAAAAAAA-E/m5HNIinS2o0/s1600-h/asylum3.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 260px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sce1viIJVjI/AAAAAAAAA-E/m5HNIinS2o0/s400/asylum3.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5316417713353610802" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5329710251923530262?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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11:12
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Holli's ramblings
The health care saga continues in Accra… So after his horrible ordeal in the North, our engineer flew down to Accra yesterday morning with multiple breaks in his arm, and was admitted to the 37 Military Hospital, which is close to the airport and was recently A HREF="http://biclgh.com/projects.htm"renovated with German government donations and expertise/A.br /br /Our engineer is a professional with money and a company supporting/backing him. (Which is very important in seeking service at a hospital in Ghana). Yet it is not enough. He does not ‘know anyone’ who works at, or has clout with the hospital.br /br /What does this mean? Even though he has money to pay for any treatment he would need – like immediate x-rays and a long overdue plaster cast, they have refused to serve him as of this morning, and he sits on the bed, with his mangled arm hoisted above his head in a ridiculous sling. No medicine, no cast. Meanwhile the bones are healing over, without having been reset and the long term implications will be evident. Imagine he had needed surgery, or that his injuries were more life threatening?br /br /We are making arrangements to take him now to the main and largest government hospital. But I don’t hold out much hope for that. I’ve seen many people die there with my own eyes, all completely preventable. One vivid example comes to mind.br /br /Years ago in the late 90's, during my wild and free days as a volunteer in Accra, when I was the ‘obruni with the blue motto (Vespa)’, a friend and I were mugged one evening and dragged along the road by thugs in a car who wanted my friend’s bag. Only the bag was slung across her body and it was difficult for them to pull it off, while driving alongside us in a car, the passenger’s torso hanging out of the car… br /br /It must have been quite a scene actually – me concentrating quite hard on the handlebar/steering wheel as the car bumped and nudged my little motto from the side, with a huge open gutter on my other side, my friend holding onto my waist for dear life as her bag was being torn from her, until finally they yanked hard enough to pull her to one side, my balance thrown, we skidded into the gutter, the Vespa cracking as it slid out from under us, and the two of us grinding along the gravel as the car tore off ahead.br /br /Once we’d semi-recovered from the shock and picked ourselves up, we hobbled towards a nearby restaurant to assess our wounds and make some calls to get us to the hospital. My hubby came immediately and we headed to the infamous Government hospital. Emergency ward. We were pretty bloody but luckily it was all surface wounds that just needed cleaning out. br /br /On arrival at the place, (I was still a bit new and naïve in Ghana) and I have to a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScD6mIIa93I/AAAAAAAAA90/RxZmPVG-mtE/s1600-h/korle120.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 200px; height: 200px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScD6mIIa93I/AAAAAAAAA90/RxZmPVG-mtE/s200/korle120.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314523093221963634" //aadmit I was just stunned. It was dark, a few fluorescent tube lights flickering here and there, the rest dead. Dirt and dried blood everywhere – on chairs, benches… thick grime on the windows and corners and dirty, grimy walls. You couldn’t tell what colour they once had been painted. It was night and there were only a few people around, but from the moment we walked in we heard screaming. Loud, high pitched screaming. After a nurse gave us some forms to fill we came around a corner into the hallway. br /br /On a metal guerney there lay a woman in complete and utter agony. Blood was soaked through her wrap cloth and pouring literally down the metal legs of the guerney and had started pooling on the floor. She was the screamer. Being the 'nosey obrunis' that we were, we could not bear to watch her without knowing why no one was helping her, and what had happened etc., so we rounded the corner to ask the nurse. Conversation went about like this:br /br /Us: Please, the woman in the hall, what happened? Why is she screaming? Can you please come and see if anything can be done for her?br /br /Nurse: (Looking up very slowly with a look of extreme annoyance) Don’t mind her! She is shouting too much but doesn’t want to give out the coins in her cloth. We told her! Here, you buy the medicines. You don’t pay, we won’t mind you. br /br /Us: But what is wrong with her? She is bleeding!br /br /Nurse: She is an orange seller. They shot her driving by. In the leg. But she is stubborn! Since they brought her here, only screaming. We tried to collect money from her for the drip, but she only holds tightly her cloth, greedy with the coins. We ask her if she has family. Nothing. We are not paid to fight the people, oh! So we are not minding her. The family will come soon. Now come, here is your list for the pharmacy.a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScD6eSZur4I/AAAAAAAAA9s/ua5ZhDFQVb4/s1600-h/korle25.thumb.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 150px; height: 150px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/ScD6eSZur4I/AAAAAAAAA9s/ua5ZhDFQVb4/s200/korle25.thumb.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314522958539960194" //abr /br /With that she sent us down another hallway to buy gauze and sterilizing solution etc.br /After a very rough treatment of scraping all wounds and scrubbing the both of us through a few silent tears of our own, we were sent off. br /br /By the time we came out to the main hallway the screaming had stopped. The lady on the guerney lay silent and lifeless, crumpled bright designed Ghanaian cloth around her, soaked dark with blood, her one leg limply hanging from the side… I just knew she was dead. br /br /I came around the corner to look where the nurses could be, and there they were. Two of them, sitting at an old brown desk, eating something. They gave me the ‘what-do-you-want-now look’.br /br /Me: The lady in the hallway? Who was screaming?br /br /Nurse: The boys are not in yet. They will bring her to the morgue.br /br /With that they turned away, back to their chat and their snack. And we hobbled out, bandaged, clean and devastated.br /br /The road is longbr /With many a winding turnbr /That leads us to who knows wherebr /Who knows whenbr /But I'm strongbr /Strong enough to carry himbr /He ain't heavy, he's my brother.br /br /So on we gobr /His welfare is of my concernbr /No burden is he to bearbr /We'll get therebr /For I knowbr /He would not encumber mebr /br /If I'm laden at allbr /I'm laden with sadnessbr /That everyone's heartbr /Isn't filled with the gladnessbr /Of love for one another.br /br /It's a long, long roadbr /From which there is no returnbr /While we're on the way to therebr /Why not sharebr /And the loadbr /Doesn't weigh me down at allbr /He ain't heavy, he's my brother.br /br /He's my brotherbr /He ain't heavy, he's my brother.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-345550179927333180?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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15:17
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_D7gvPjPI/AAAAAAAAA9U/9f1GtEKEHJQ/s1600-h/Ghana+Ruru.png"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 276px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_D7gvPjPI/AAAAAAAAA9U/9f1GtEKEHJQ/s400/Ghana+Ruru.png" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314181512488258802" //abr /The only gift they'll get this year is life... (Bono and the Live Aid Band chiming in)... That's if they're lucky. The A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Northern_Region,_Ghana"Northern Region of Ghana/A, which is about the size of that state of Louisiana or the entire country of Czech Republic HAS ONLY ONE AMBULANCE. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_FMihgeBI/AAAAAAAAA9c/uIqz-X3G6sw/s1600-h/ghana_large.gif"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 142px; height: 200px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_FMihgeBI/AAAAAAAAA9c/uIqz-X3G6sw/s200/ghana_large.gif" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314182904536922130" //a The population of Ghana’s Northern Region is roughly two million people. Honestly, this is insanity. We came face to face with the dismal reality of the non-existent health care system of Northern Ghana this weekend.br /br /Despite years upon years of development projects catering to the North, and many specifically at building the capacity of the hospitals and clinics (one only has to Google Aid Northern Ghana to see), there is absolutely NOTHING there. On the ground, in the district towns and capitals, let alone the villages. Nothing. No skills, no supplies, no knowledge or any care at all for the value of human life.br /br /On Sunday one of the drivers from our office managed to ‘kill’ a seemingly unbreakable and reliable Nissan Patrol, on route with some of the company engineers to do a customer installation at a site in the North. From Accra, with the bad roads, this drive can be 17 hours. They called from the side of the road with the bad news that they were now stranded in the middle of nowhere with a massive hunk of non-functioning metal and rubber. And all their equipment. The plan was to find a tow truck, which they miraculously did within an hour, and they set off again.br /br /Within an hour we had a call that they had hitched up the company 4x4 to the tow, and then had ever so brightly gotten right back into our car, with no brakes etc. and embarked on the next few bumpy hours journey being towed along.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_DOw5dvzI/AAAAAAAAA9M/jCtdR2bxSLg/s1600-h/n888255610_3252539_6142.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 300px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_DOw5dvzI/AAAAAAAAA9M/jCtdR2bxSLg/s400/n888255610_3252539_6142.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314180743731986226" //aExcept not. Disaster struck. The story, like many Ghana stories, seems unfathomable, yet the outcome pretty disastrous. Apparently a group of motorcycles (somehow I just can’t picture a gang of menacing Harley riders up on the roads of the North, lined by mud huts, shepards and families of emaciated cows and goats…)br /br /The motorcyclists abruptly drove into the lane of our tow truck driver, who swerved violently in reaction. Somehow both the tow truck and our Patrol rolled three times and landed in the bush upside down. Interestingly car accidents are one of the main causes of death in Ghana and fatalities A HREF="http://www.nrsc.gov.gh/statistics/docs/National%20Trends%20in%20Traffic%20Accidents%20and%20Casualties.pdf"(from a 2006 survey)/A are A HREF="http://www.safecarguide.com/exp/statistics/statistics.htm"double of that of South Africa which has double the population of Ghana, and over 4 times that of Canada which has a third higher population/A. (I’m guessing a big reason is the way the injured are dealt with after the crash).br /br /When the dust settled our guys all climbed out of the vehicle and it was discovered that one had suffered some facial injuries, while another of our engineers had a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_CkQB0QMI/AAAAAAAAA9E/YhkFH8oYovM/s1600-h/hospital+ghana.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 369px; height: 311px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_CkQB0QMI/AAAAAAAAA9E/YhkFH8oYovM/s400/hospital+ghana.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314180013354139842" //abroken his arm in numerous places. Both needed medical attention immediately. But there was none.br /br /They were taken presumably by a taxi to the closest ‘hospital’ (I use this term VERY loosely), in a town called Bole. On arrival they were told there were no doctors, no medicines, nothing to build a cast for a broken arm, and no equipment at all to test for anything at all. Just a dirty, dusty concrete building with some women sitting at a table. I can just imagine the treatment rooms, where the women and children lie on mats on the floor, no beds, no services… just a place to die.br /br /Eventually – a few hours later – despite the extreme pain and suffering of our engineers, they were brought by taxi to Wa – the district capital, for treatment. It was 8pm on a Sunday night. No doctors. Without doctors, the nurses claim they cannot deliver first aid… So the guys waited it out until morning.br /br /Only when morning came there were still no doctors, and once again they were told – nothing with which to cast a broken limb, no medicines, no supplies. They waited all day Monday, while down in Accra we called frantically around for a solution. They needed to get the 100kms to Tamale – the bigger town, where they could fly on a commercial airline back to Accra to be treated. By this time we had heard that the engineer with the broken arm could not sit (possibly due to internal injuries), and we needed to find an ambulance to bring him to Tamale. Apparently there was no ambulance available. This is when we discovered the hideous truth about the one ambulance for the whole region, which was ‘busy’ in Tamale. Knowing Ghana, it was being hired for a funeral… go figure. What we discovered was that there was not even a vehicle in the town of Wa that could take them… br /br /So in our desperation, knowing the dangers of internal injuries, and the very real possibility of the bones in his arm healing in the wrong shape, we tried to find a way to fly them back to Accra. We called a local aviation company who said they could charter a flight for USD $12,000. Only they couldn’t get the plane organized until Saturday – 5 days away!!! We called on a foreign owned and run medical rescue company operating in Ghana that services International companies who are members. We are not members. They responded that they could send a fully medically equipped plane first thing in the morning. It would cost Euro14,000!!!!br /br /Eventually they did manage to find a car and made the bumpy journey, all their injuries notwithstanding, back to Tamale and this morning they caught the commercial flight to Accra. They are now both admitted to a local hospital. Even these Accra clinics and hospitals pose serious questions about the quality of health care.br /But the question is – what do the locals in Northern Ghana do in these cases? And the sad but true answer is that they suffer and they die.br /br /Billions of dollars in Aid has poured in… Where has it gone? Why is there nothing? br /br /Why doesn’t the government stop building palaces and start building real hospitals? Why did they spend over A HREF="http://ghanabusinessnews.com/2009/01/23/ghana-50-spends-60m-and-still-owes/"$60 million in largely unaccounted for sums on the 'Ghana @ 50' Independence Celebrations/A when the real needs are ignored completely? What exactly are we celebrating? What indeed.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_GD0dwz9I/AAAAAAAAA9k/9pvOBc0uKQQ/s1600-h/ghana50.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 264px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sb_GD0dwz9I/AAAAAAAAA9k/9pvOBc0uKQQ/s400/ghana50.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5314183854245859282" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3384040301023966817?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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9:54
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Holli's ramblings
Today my baby turns 16. I got up early with him this morning and hugged him as he was gathering his things at the door. I watched him walk away, out the gate and pictured him on his way to school. He's nearing 6 feet tall and his voice is getting low and he corrects me on so many things these days, but he is still my baby. br /br /There was a time when he and I made up a family on our own, and despite the many changes that have happened, siblings that have come and gone and relationships, spouses and various others who have touched our lives, some days I still feel that special bond between us - the feeling that it's us two against the world. br /br /He has always made a great companion. From the time he was born he observed so much around him and had a sense of calm that comforted me. He has always been comfortable in his skin and I admire that. Now, in the middle of adolescence, when kids struggle with identity, he knows exactly what he likes and what he doesn't and he has his own moral code which no one can compromise. All very admirable to me.br /br /There comes a time in kids' lives when they finally see their parents as human beings, with faults and weaknesses, and can admire them for their true talents instead of the blind love that a child gives. They also say that parents will always see their child with the eyes of blind and unconditional love.br /br /Between my son and I, I believe we've always seen each other clearly - faults, weaknesses, strengths - everything. And maybe because of this, I feel we share a love that is honest and open and real.br /br /I am so proud of him.br /br /He's been 'into' graphic design in a way that I could only imagine passion, dedication and patience in myself. He can put in 10 straight hours on an art piece - forget to eat or drink or speak. He thinks this is what he wants to pursue and judging by his talent and enthusiasm, I think he's on the right track. I'm still amazed though. Who knows at 16 what they want to be when they grow up?! Hell, I still don't know what I wanna be...br /br /I've decided to share here one of his recent 'pieces' - he used two stock photos (below): br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbeOppHsn-I/AAAAAAAAA8s/lh2VZiVsFXU/s1600-h/959022_75540741.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 266px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbeOppHsn-I/AAAAAAAAA8s/lh2VZiVsFXU/s400/959022_75540741.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311871131570708450" //abr /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbeO5wPg3KI/AAAAAAAAA80/umIKQCpcbYg/s1600-h/1093986_80007689.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbeO5wPg3KI/AAAAAAAAA80/umIKQCpcbYg/s400/1093986_80007689.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311871408360447138" //abr /br /And came up with this:br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbePLWkQEeI/AAAAAAAAA88/Yn4Nc8j_6Is/s1600-h/GONNA-KICK-JAKES-ASS!.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 289px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SbePLWkQEeI/AAAAAAAAA88/Yn4Nc8j_6Is/s400/GONNA-KICK-JAKES-ASS!.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311871710705750498" //abr /br /Excellent if I do say so myself. Happy birthday Q!!! Love you.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4371112181670970863?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:28
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sbaqn6-ngaI/AAAAAAAAA8k/kpGSqqUDVB4/s1600-h/corruption+in+africa.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 310px; height: 400px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/Sbaqn6-ngaI/AAAAAAAAA8k/kpGSqqUDVB4/s400/corruption+in+africa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5311620413353591202" //abr /Well it seems there is no end - the floodgates are open and the Aid money continues to pour into Ghana. I think I will try to keep a running tab of publicly announced International donations to Ghana...br /br /For the week of March 8th, 2009, donations covered by the mainstream media are as follows:br /br /1. A HREF="http://www.peacefmonline.com/index.php?option=com_contentview=articleid=20495:spain-to-provide-4436m-debt-relief-to-ghanacatid=16:economic-newsItemid=18"Spain donates $44.4m/A for the 'socio-economic development of the country' with no specific projects or areas in mind. Looks like a windfall for the new Government. What will be the accountability and follow up of the allocation of nearly fifty million US dollars?? br /br /2. A HREF="http://gbcghana.com/news/24941detail.html"Japan continues to fund Ghana/A, this week through a grant of $3.5m, under the loose title 'Multi Donor Budget Support' - again no specific projects targeted...br /br /3. A HREF="http://appablog.wordpress.com/2009/03/10/badea-extends-loan-worth-us-6-million-to-ghana/"The Arab Bank for Economic Development in Africa (BADEA)has today signed a 'loan' agreement for $6m with the government of Ghana/A 'at a gala' in Cairo. No doubt there was no expense spared in sending the government delegates from Ghana to the event... This money is targeted at "financing Radiotherapy and Nuclear Medicine Treatment Services project". That is pretty ambitious considering we are talking about a country where the main government hospital has troubles with rats chewing newborns sleeping on the floors in the maternity wards, due to the fact there are not enough beds... br /br /That comes to a grand total of approximately $53million this week. I would expect that in a year or even 6 months we should be reading articles about how these monies have been put to good use, and full transparency about the allocation of the funds, and ultimately the success of the projects, measured through benefits to the citizens of Ghana.br /br /Are you holding your breath?br /br /Stay tuned...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3148077171007120103?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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14:45
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaavkyzWhdI/AAAAAAAAA8c/raTQBtKHPzU/s1600-h/afr-ica+toon.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 376px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaavkyzWhdI/AAAAAAAAA8c/raTQBtKHPzU/s400/afr-ica+toon.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5307122257550018002" //abr /Finally a voice is being heard, speaking out against Aid to Africa, and against the trivialization of Aid through the Hollywood circuit. And this time people will listen because it is an African voice. I read with interest in the Sunday Times Magazine a few weeks ago, and again last week about the upcoming release of the book A HREF="http://www.amazon.co.uk/Dead-Aid-working-another-Africa/dp/1846140064"‘Dead Aid’/A by Zambian Lawyer Dambisa Moyo. Some out there in the blogosphere, like A HREF="http://www.africaunchained.blogspot.com"Africa Unchained/A also highlight the issues, and wrote A HREF="http://africaunchained.blogspot.com/2009/02/dambisa-moyo.html"THIS/A excellent post highlighting Moyo's point of view. Angel at A HREF="http://www.womanhonorthyself.com/?p=5079"Woman Honor Thyself/A has a pretty strong view as well... have a read!br /br /I have been sounding off for years about everything from the pathetic Aid campaigns headed up by ‘Bono and the league of Hollywood Heros’ to the MAC AIDS fund, with spokespeople L’il Kim and Mary J. Blige, and the warm fuzzy feeling it gives girls to buy $20 fire engine red lipstick for their crazy boozy nights on the town, while still feeling like they’ve done their bit to ‘help the poor in Africa’. br /br /All my cynicism is highly disregarded as the jaded perspective of a long term expat, and the complicated issues are glossed over by most. The truth is that Aid does not work. It is an industry that perpetuates itself with no end and no solution in sight. I am so happy that an African scholar has vocalized the issues and hasn’t been shy to point the finger at the culprits as well as looking at viable solutions for Africa – from within.br /br /Below is an interview and an excerpt from Moyo’s A HREF="http://www.nytimes.com/2009/02/22/magazine/22wwln-q4-t.html?_r=2ref=magazine"interview with the New York Times/A:br /br /object width="480" height="295"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/gBH47mByATchl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/gBH47mByATchl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"/embed/objectbr /br /span style="font-style:italic;"span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: As a native of Zambia with advanced degrees in public policy and economics from Harvard and Oxford, you are about to publish an attack on Western aid to Africa and its recent glamorization by celebrities. ‘‘Dead Aid,’’ as your book is called, is particularly hard on rock stars. Have you met Bono? /spanbr /A: I have, yes, at the World Economic Forum in Davos, Switzerland, last year. It was at a party to raise money for Africans, and there were no Africans in the room, except for me. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: What do you think of him?/span br /A: I’ll make a general comment about this whole dependence on “celebrities.” I object to this situation as it is right now where they have inadvertently or manipulatively become the spokespeople for the African continent. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: You argue in your book that Western aid to Africa has not only perpetuated poverty but also worsened it, and you are perhaps the first African to request in book form that all development aid be halted within five years. /spanbr /A: Think about it this way — China has 1.3 billion people, only 300 million of whom live like us, if you will, with Western living standards. There are a billion Chinese who are living in substandard conditions. Do you know anybody who feels sorry for China? Nobody. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: Maybe that’s because they have so much money that we here in the U.S. are begging the Chinese for loans. /spanbr /A: Forty years ago, China was poorer than many African countries. Yes, they have money today, but where did that money come from? They built that, they worked very hard to create a situation where they are not dependent on aid. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: What do you think has held back Africans? /spanbr /A: I believe it’s largely aid. You get the corruption — historically, leaders have stolen the money without penalty — and you get the dependency, which kills entrepreneurship. You also disenfranchise African citizens, because the government is beholden to foreign donors and not accountable to its people. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: If people want to help out, what do you think they should do with their money if not make donations? /spanbr /A: Microfinance. Give people jobs. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: You just left your longtime job as a banker for Goldman Sachs in London, where you live. What did you do there, exactly? /spanbr /A: I worked in the capital markets, helping mostly emerging countries to issue bonds. That’s why I know that that works.br / br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: Which countries sought your help? /spanbr /A: Israel, Turkey and South Africa, primarily. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: Why didn’t you get a bond issue going in your native Zambia or other African countries? /spanbr /A: Many politicians seem to have a lazy muscle. Issuing a bond would require that the president and the cabinet ministers go out and market their country. Why would they do that when they can just call up the World Bank and say, “Can I please have some money?”br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: I keep reading about a new crop of African presidents who are supposedly free-market guys, including Rupiah Banda, the president of Zambia. /spanbr /A: There are lots who are nominally free market, but they haven’t been aggressive about implementing those policies. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: What do your parents do? /spanbr /A: My mother is chairman of a bank called the Indo-Zambia Bank. It’s a joint venture between Zambia and India. My father runs Integrity Foundation, an anticorruption organization. br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Q: For all your belief in the potential of capitalism, the free market is now in free fall and everyone is questioning the supposed wonders of the unregulated market. /spanbr /A: I wish we questioned the aid model as much as we are questioning the capitalism model. Sometimes the most generous thing you can do is just say no.br //spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8695060570437329059?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:03
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Holli's ramblings
Over the past few days I’ve read two blog entries from fellow foreigners in Ghana. Both concern the serious betrayal and incredulousness they have felt as sentimental things have been stolen from under their noses by the Ghanaians they know and trust. My close friend was also over a couple days ago and told me the same thing. The most disturbing aspect of these stories is that each person had demonstrated time and time again that they were happy to share and if asked would give the shirt off their backs for the people they share their personal space with.br /br /The first blog entry I’m referring to was by A HREF="http://ghanabarbz.blogspot.com/2009/02/larceny-petty-and-otherwise.html"Barb – an American married to a Ghanaian, living in Ghana with her husband and kids/A. The second entry was by A HREF="http://wesfinger.blogspot.com/2009/02/issue-of-honesty.html"Wes, an American secondary school student who is spending a school year in a village in Ghana/A. br /br /Both people are quite open-minded and trusting. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaWFfPIoTEI/AAAAAAAAA8U/zDCbwyzPGYs/s1600-h/trust.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 239px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaWFfPIoTEI/AAAAAAAAA8U/zDCbwyzPGYs/s320/trust.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306794507611163714" //abr /br /Both have the very best of intentions in Ghana, and neither have flaunted wealth nor treated their Ghanaian families with anything less than respect and love. Yet both are finding themselves reeling at the ability of the people around them to steal and lie, straight faced, with no remorse. br /br /Both stories are so sadly familiar to me. They reminded me of the story I posted a year and a half ago, regarding the ongoing theft of diesel from our house by our trusted A HREF="http://hollisramblings.blogspot.com/2007/11/guard-and-gardener.html"gardener Eric and the guard/A who represented a highly respected and trusted security company. During that whole fiasco our gardener defiantly protested the accusations and insisted he was innocent. He counter accused our cook, who has since been let go. br /br /The whole thing was sad for me. He had been someone I had a soft spot for, and I commonly gave him cash advances which we both knew would never be paid back, as well as clothes, food etc etc etc. Once he was gone the letters started. First was a letter in his broken and pleading English, asking for his job and housing back. He insisted that God would redeem him and one day we’d regret accusing him. Next came a letter from a lawyer’s office in Accra, threatening us with legal action for dismissal without cause. That we laughed off, but I took the time to write to the lawyer to explain that we had witnesses etc. and they backed off. br /br /A few months later Eric came back with a vengeance, waiting at our gate as we left for work in the mornings and leaving letters with the (new) guard. These letters continued with the theme that he saw us as his family, as his mother and father, and that he would never have betrayed us in the way we accused him. He wrote that he had been praying every day that we would one day see the truth of his innocence and let him return.br /br /Now in our relationship, JW is the softie at heart. One of the letters got to him and he called for Eric to come and see him. The next week Eric was back. Smiling as ever, ready and willing to help with anything, assuring us it had all been an ugly misunderstanding with the evil, jealous woman who had been our cook. He assured us God would bless us for seeing the truth and giving him this new chance.br /br /I was skeptical, given what I’ve seen happen in Ghana, but yet I went along with it, and to this day, he is back at the job and staying in a room at the back. I still give him little presents etc.br /br /Yet a week after his return a friend of mine who has a gardener that had filled in at my house during our months without Eric, casually mentioned that Eric had admitted to the other gardener that he had indeed been stealing the diesel, with the guard, just as we’d suspected, for over 2 years. He however told the guy he was happy we’d taken him back and wouldn’t do that again… a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaWBbeZp4KI/AAAAAAAAA8M/IvOBC392I3c/s1600-h/Hear-No-Evil-See-No-Evil-Speak-No-Evil-Posters.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 350px; height: 262px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SaWBbeZp4KI/AAAAAAAAA8M/IvOBC392I3c/s400/Hear-No-Evil-See-No-Evil-Speak-No-Evil-Posters.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5306790044943114402" //abr /br /So where is the deterrent to stealing again? How does a Christian who references God and the bible and uses his religion as a tool, then live with the lies? Is it simply a matter of poverty? br /br /As both Wes and Barb's stories corroborate, this is not always the case... Is it a cultural acceptance of dishonesty? Why is it ok to betray people who trust you? Where is the remorse? How can we expect anything less than corruption at a national level when this is the behaviour you find inside homes? Who is brave enough to talk about it, to confront it? To change the culture that expects and condones it?br /br /It’s a case of honesty in Ghana – or lack there of…div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7303678943999336766?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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19:08
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Holli's ramblings
I am a bit obsessed with A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arabic_music"Arabic music/A and A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Arab_cuisine"food/A as well as Indian, so I was really looking forward to sampling both delights on last week’s impromptu trip to Dubai. As far as the music goes, I’ve had a healthy obsession for Asian music of any kind, ever since I was a WASPy kid in the suburbs of Ontario. Sunday mornings would find me entranced in front of the TV, watching shows like A HREF="http://www.asiantelevision.com/atnzeep.htm"‘Asian Horizons’/A that would showcase Indian movies and live musical performances. The sound grated on my parents’ nerves but enthralled me from the first time. When I first heard Im Nin Alu by A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Ofra_Haza"Ofra Haza/A as a teen I realized that music from the Middle East was something I loved. br /br /object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/O2xNTzlFSk0hl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/O2xNTzlFSk0hl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /It was soon mixed into numerous dance and extended mixes, and finally featured on American rap team Eric B. and Rakim's 80's hit 'Paid in Full'. br /br /object width="425" height="344"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/3dicC5HHGIghl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/3dicC5HHGIghl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="425" height="344"/embed/objectbr /br /Middle Eastern music has been making it's way into mainstream pop music ever since...br /br /Anyway, I'm sure my grouping of Israeli, Arabic and Indian music into the same category would have some people writhing at my stupidity - not to mention the political implications, but hey. I am am who I am, and in my little mind these musics are grouped together, and I love them all. There is also an undeniable history that links them...br /br /All these years later, during the ‘courting’ year with JW, realising he had the same feeling about this music was one of those moments where you click on a deeper level. One of those - it was meant to be - feelings. I'm almost sure we are one of the only non-Arabic couples with the full discography of A HREF="http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Amr_Diab"Amr Diab/A... We’ve built up quite a collection since then, and love to listen to the eery, powerful songs at full blast while driving, or on the house stereo on Saturday afternoons, with the walls shaking and no doubt the neighbors perplexed. It’s a good thing we have a big yard with high walls. Sometimes JW’s music fetish overcomes him at 1am and it’s time for stereo full blast… but I digress.br /br /Dubai. We got the chance to hear Indian dance music because I booked us at a restaurant that promised a ‘conversion into a nightclub’ at 11pm, with the DJ playing Asian dance hits. We ate at 10pm (as most people do in Dubai) and stayed till 2am. We were the only non-Indians in the house and the house was ‘pumpin’ (as they say). It was excellent. Made me feel alive and possibly 21… br /br /The next night was Valentines Day and we really got our fill. We stumbled upon a live Arabic band at a private party and managed to soak in about an hour of the performance before they packed it in. This was after a romantic supper in a restaurant/sports bar that featured an England-Wales rugby match (yippee – NOT), followed by a live trio of Brit girls singing pop love songs…We ended up doing the nightclub circuit, along with a few hundred others, and felt our hearts pounding to the Arabic/techno mixes. We left at 3am, only because the lights came on and the crowds were ushered out. We didn’t even embarrass ourselves the whole night… well except maybe the time I asked the DJ to play my newest span style="font-weight:bold;"obsession/span - Paper Planes by M.I.A. from the Slumdog Millionaire soundtrack – br /br /object width="480" height="295"param name="movie" value="http://www.youtube.com/v/mV912uiRM_Ahl=enfs=1"/paramparam name="allowFullScreen" value="true"/paramparam name="allowscriptaccess" value="always"/paramembed src="http://www.youtube.com/v/mV912uiRM_Ahl=enfs=1" type="application/x-shockwave-flash" allowscriptaccess="always" allowfullscreen="true" width="480" height="295"/embed/objectbr /br /and proceeded to punch my arms in the air, squeeze my eyese shut and nod incessantly in true comraderie… only to open my eyes near the end of the song (and my rapture), and peer around at the entire crowd, who had not known the song, and abandoned the dancefloor, and were now just looking at me with odd curiosity…br /br /The truth is - I don’t want to get old. Actually, when it comes to music I don’t think I have the capacity. It’s one of those things in life I cling to so I can feel connected, alive, in touch with the rhythm of the world.br /br /We got back to Ghana with a new found enthusiasm for music. I LOVE MUSIC! It gives me energy and always has the ability to make a bad day great, a down mood deep, and take me from bored to inspired. So thank you for the music Dubai. For giving it to me.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3637820697417954588?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:17
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Holli's ramblings
Today I decided not to post another intriguing/thought provoking photo or try to come up with anything profound. I’ve realized that what that does is simply hold me back from blurting out and sharing here – for fear of not coming out with a memorable post.br /br /I’ve been thinking that I really created this blog to share my life, and the unique perspective of living as a long term expat in Africa, and all the trials and far more tribulations that involves. Not all of it is profound. By far!br /br /The thing is thatI haven’t been sharing most of it. From week to week I am traveling all around the world, experiencing, tasting, enjoying, and not sharing all of this! Shame on me really.br /br /What visiting other countries does is allow a new perspective on what you have around you - the good and the bad. Even the ridiculously indulgent.br /br /I had the opportunity last weekend to take off to Dubai for shopping, eating, exploring, dancing, shopping, did I mention shopping? The trip romantically fell over Valentine’s Day, which was coincidental, but as I was going off to meet JW, it served as a ‘dirty weekend’ too! And we tagged it on to a business trip of his, conveniently.br /br /I’ve had a desire to see Dubai for a few years now, after hearing all about it being the shopping Mecca of the world, and considering the only shopping offering in Accra is the new (and only) mall, located in the worst possible traffic centre of the city, with only ONE exit for cars…. It can take an hour and a half to get out of the parking lot. Dubai on the other hand sounded like shopping heaven. And it was. Sort of.br /br /Dubai, in it’s very conception and roll out, is a contrived city. It is made of oil money, extravagant dreams and the arrogance of Arabic Sheikhs. The result is an Arabic Disney World.br / br /There were over 10 shopping malls. Each with a theme. One had the world famous ski hill right inside A HREF="http://www.malloftheemirates.com/en/"the mall/A, with a full glass enclosure so the shoppers and diners could gawk freely at the spectacle. From the outside of the mall, the building looks like a strangely stacked chute. It’s quite the gimmick. Another A HREF="http://www.thedubaimall.com/en"mall/A has a full Olympic size skating rink as well as a 4 storey aquarium amidst the usual stores. Everything has the wow factor. Each mall trying to ‘out Disney’ the other. And then there are the hotels. The Hotels! There were just too many to mention. All with themes and perfectly stuccoed walls. Some had Venetian copy waterways, with tourists on small boats, passing through. They had simulation ‘souks’ which were supposed to be replicas of the authentic old markets at the centre of town, trading gold etc. However, no surprise - the hotel souks were more like extravagantly expensive boutiques. br /br /Gold is just not my thing anyway, so passing window after window of ‘over the top’ yellowy gold didn’t do much for me. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZ2XM1Etw7I/AAAAAAAAA78/971iuI0owFw/s1600-h/ringdubai.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 300px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZ2XM1Etw7I/AAAAAAAAA78/971iuI0owFw/s320/ringdubai.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304562182773392306" //aI did however discover that there is one fancy jewelry shop where I practically love everything! This is very unlike me for those who know me. Having said that, despite the fact that this shop is quite upscale - like where the lady brings out the ring you are asking to look at, and places it on a little velvet mouse pad thingy… (I felt very out of place!) - the actual jewelry was funky, bright coloured, distinctive, vibrant. The store is called A HREF="http://en.frey-wille.com"Frey Wille/a but JW has given it the name FREE WILLY which will no doubt stick. It is German but has outlets around the world. Well, some part of the world. Read - not in Africa…br /The ring I chose and now sport around like a peacock, is from a collection (yes, a collection!) honouring a famous Austrian Artist called Friedensreich Hundertwasser (no, I can’t pronounce it). Here it is in all it’s glory. Little Arabic looking houses! Apparently he’s famous for the little onion top houses, which a friend told me is a Russian and not an Arabic thing, but hey, artistic license should trickle down to the end user right? br /br /So she proceeded to show me the earrings and bangle but I almost fell over when she told us the price, so I’ve settled for my completely self indulgent and glorious Valentines Day present.br /br /And there were other indulgences - eating, drinking, dancing... Though I couldn't help notice that absolutely everywhere around us were A HREF="http://www.menassat.com/?q=en/news-articles/3877-sleeping-giant-foreign-workers-dubai"workers from Bangladesh, Pakistan, Filipino nannies/A. The backbone of the whole society. Paid poorly and treated like second class beings. But the sad thing is that they come in droves, because the their opportunities back home are far worse. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZ2Zol6Iw0I/AAAAAAAAA8E/vOuRw_T8X9A/s1600-h/DubaiLaborers.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 218px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZ2Zol6Iw0I/AAAAAAAAA8E/vOuRw_T8X9A/s320/DubaiLaborers.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304564858762085186" //abr /The forex bureaus in the malls all have Western Union pay-in points, set up specifically for Manilla and Mumbai - to send home money "for your child's school fees" etc. With the back drop of pure opulence all around, it's a bit unsettling to say the least. There is a clear distinction between the locals, who cruise around town in long flowing white suits with the traditional headress and fancy phones/jewelry, and all the labourers who are seen at all hours of the day in dirty uniforms, walking, queueing, working in the streets, malls, restaurants, hotels... There is no denying the 'them' and 'us' attitude that prevails in Dubai.br /br /This week it's back to the grind. Back to the hot messy reality of Accra and my real life where shopping is a weekly trip to the crazy supermarket or occasional trips to the REAL African market.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-281510612296478161?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:59
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZxNktGvAUI/AAAAAAAAA70/jCMdpS2XruE/s1600-h/louis+vuitton.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 296px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZxNktGvAUI/AAAAAAAAA70/jCMdpS2XruE/s400/louis+vuitton.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304199754114072898" //abr /Today's photo entry comes from a Darfur awareness campaign on a great site called A HREF="http://images.google.com.gh/imgres?imgurl=http://osocio.org/images/uploads/arrive-driving-4_thumb.jpgimgrefurl=http://osocio.org/message/arrive_alive/usg=__XdADj-0bexPoYUGsS7WYzv1xolI=h=698w=468sz=57hl=enstart=191um=1tbnid=As9AVVPxzNvcsM:tbnh=139tbnw=93prev=/images%3Fq%3Dafrica%2Bdrawing%26start%3D180%26ndsp%3D18%26um%3D1%26hl%3Den%26safe%3Doff%26client%3Dfirefox-a%26rls%3Dorg.mozilla:en-US:official%26sa%3DN"Osocio/A. Not much needs to be said about this one either. I just appreciated the visual image and the way it throws Hollywood extravagance out there as absurd, when paired with the starving African boy...br /Comments??div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7443105117733288617?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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20:13
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZwz4-ndLfI/AAAAAAAAA7k/3MtW7OCtmQ4/s1600-h/fail_28.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 309px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SZwz4-ndLfI/AAAAAAAAA7k/3MtW7OCtmQ4/s400/fail_28.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5304171515109780978" //abr /Whenever I see a great photo or picture of any kind on the Net I download it, thinking, I'm going to write a great post one day and that will be the accompanying photograph/picture/comic etc...br /br /Last night I almost lost my whole blog in a procedure I'll explain another time, when my nerves have calmed... But what it made me realise was that I have a great database of interesting pics and I thought I'd just post them from time to time, whether or not there's great text to accompany them.br /br /Today's submission - a photo - probably photoshopped, on a funny site called A HREF="www.failblog.org"FAIL/A...br /br /It speaks for itself really.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2684047717182456589?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:21
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SYx11NvQFZI/AAAAAAAAA7E/jI-VIeeLAfs/s1600-h/Shimmer_Satin.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 360px; height: 360px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SYx11NvQFZI/AAAAAAAAA7E/jI-VIeeLAfs/s400/Shimmer_Satin.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5299740418589595026" //abr /There are some friends we have that form part of our being. They define and comfort and better us in ways that our souls know best. We just float along for the ride...br /br /One such friend wrote a poem about me that I had to share. It's excellent and defines the way we know each other. She rocks. Real friends, so few and far between, really make life worth living...br /br /span style="font-style:italic;"span style="font-weight:bold;"Holli seems like she is chocolate brown dotted about with silver feathers yet her heart beats poor man’s clothbr /br /Holli seems like she is air-conditioned monster car yet her shoes are pink trotro shouting repentbr /br /Holli seems like she is red wine and chocolate martinis yet her hair is kasapreko and juicebr /br /Holli seems like she is pink and lime green yet underneath she is all the shimmeressent colors of an abalone shellbr /br /span style="font-style:italic;"/span/span/spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-4976500982639456978?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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17:52
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Holli's ramblings
It seems what happens in Ghana stays in Ghana. At least when it comes to controversial news. The global media along with hundreds of personal blogs have been extolling the virtues of Ghana and it’s democratic process. A lot has been said about how Ghana has triumphed – not only for democracy as an institution but for it’s people as a whole.br /br /This being said, I find it quite disturbing that the international media has not bothered to poke it’s nose back into the Ghana ‘scene’ to document the current uproar over what has been called ‘an outrage’ locally – I’m referring to the exit package of ex-President Kufuor.br /br /Just as the dust settled after the run off elections here in early January, a package for Mr. Kufuor was pushed through hastily by parliament and without any regard for the frivolity and absurdity of it all.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SYc4oDUIBjI/AAAAAAAAA68/dbYBhOkYEqw/s1600-h/Kufuor+and+Bush.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 399px; height: 291px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SYc4oDUIBjI/AAAAAAAAA68/dbYBhOkYEqw/s400/Kufuor+and+Bush.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5298265747360319026" //abr /br /I found a A HREF"http://news.myjoyonline.com/news/200901/25376.asp"very interesting article/A written locally, comparing the retirement packages of the American president and our very own Kufuor. I just had to borrow the details here:br /br /span style="font-style:italic;"span style="font-weight:bold;"United States (Per Capita Income: $46,000): President Bushbr //spanbr /* US$191,000 for his pension;br /* Life time secret service protection for president spousebr /* Official travel expenses with 2 members of staffbr /* 0 carsbr /* 0 housesbr /* No end-of-service gratuitybr /* Private funds for presidential library (tax exempt)br /* Presidential widows receive a lifetime pension of $20,000 per year. br /br /source:
[www.senate.gov] /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Ghana(Per Capita Income: $1,400): President Kufuor/spanbr /br /* Lump-sum (thought to be worth $400,000)br /* SIX fully maintained comprehensively insured, fuelled and chauffeured-driven cars to be replaced every four years. The fleet comprise of three salon cars, two cross country cars and one all-purpose vehicle.br /* TWO Fully furnished residences that befit a former president at place of his choicebr /* 60 day overseas travel with 3 staff members each yearbr /* 18 months consolidated salarybr /* Million-dollar seed money for the setting up a foundation,br /* Security - 24 hours security servicesbr /* Budget for entertaining each year/spanbr /br /It is too typical to be an outrage. Too much of this gluttony of the powerful in Africa is the status quo. Where will it stop? When will it end? Who cares enough to make the changes Africa needs?br /br /I have noticed a plethora of new missionaries and their blogs in Ghana lately. This means there are more and more people focused on the country.br /br /Christianity is fully entrenched here. Surely there are barely any more 'souls to win over', so what is the interest in Ghana? The truth is that it is believed to be a safe place for foreigners, yet a place you can still ‘make a difference’. A country where aid is still poured in for project after project. br /br /Yet at the top sit the people like Kufuor, who flew around the world in his private jet to find donations, and who now at the end of his tenure, leaves with a whopping package that is tantamount to outright theft from the people of Ghana. br /br /I have read that a leader is the reflection of his people – especially in democratic societies. Where then does that leave Ghana in this new democratic era? A shining example for Africa or a new twist on corruption, where the rich get richer and the poor simply stand by...div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-6356268694297790037?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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22:05
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Holli's ramblings
The new year has begun in earnest in Ghana. I missed it, being away in the cold calm of Canada, but the New Year was ushered in with the dawn of a new political era here. br /br /The whole world has been looking to Ghana as A HREF"http://sofawarrior.blog.com/2009/1/"the beacon of democratic hope for Africa/A, and indeed it might be. But on the ground I just can’t help rear my skeptical head.br /br /The elections were very tight this year, which is nothing new, the two main parties in Ghana,A HREF"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/New_Patriotic_Party"the NPP/A (who’d been in power for the past 8 years), and A HREF"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/National_Democratic_Congress_(Ghana)"the NDC/A (the party of JJ Rawlings who secured victory many years earlier in multiple bloody coups, but had surrendered power after losing the first democratic elections in 2000). This year however, the difference was that oil has been discovered off the shores of Ghana, and with Nigeria as the neighboring role model, this means lots of cash for the boys at the top once the oil giants start pumping…br /br /The process of democracy in Africa, when it works, cannot be compared to anywhere else really. Just like A HREF"http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Haitian_Vodou"religions that are adopted by different cultures and are adapted and molded/A, so it is with democracy in Africa. br /br /From far off Canada, we eagerly tuned in each evening to the news to hear the progress of the process back in Ghana. After the first elections held on December 7th had produced an inconclusive result, there was a lot of concern in town that the second round would be quite contentious.br /br /Indeed there was tension, and even warning shots fired one day A HREF=http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7804212.stmwhen a mob stormed the electoral commission/A. Not to mention the hoards of election day poll workers who stormed the Electoral Commission when they had not been paid... a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SW0XZEwPd9I/AAAAAAAAA48/LGiCJ5hqHac/s1600-h/mob1.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 226px; height: 170px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SW0XZEwPd9I/AAAAAAAAA48/LGiCJ5hqHac/s320/mob1.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290910856770451410" //aThis and other incidents were described by the international media as 'pockets of violence' in an otherwise peaceful process. The democracy I grew up with, learned from the Americans and the Brits, for all it’s faults, definitely did not include any pockets of violence. And to be fair, we were wary of returning to Ghana for a few days there…br /br /Back here in Ghana, a local radio station was broadcasting war songs and urging the NDC supporters to come ‘in their numbers’ if the ‘wrong result’ was announced. The NDC crowd were the same group who descended on the EC…br /br /Both parties accused the other of results fixing and on the day of the run-off election on the 29th, it was widely reported that NDC ‘strong men’ kept the NPP would be voters ‘at bay’. Not all Ghanaians on the ground A HREF:"http://allafrica.com/stories/200812300822.html"were so proud of their leaders, over the course of the proceedings/A...br /br /In the end, the victory of the NDC, the opposition, was announced. The numbers still hovered within 1% and the margin quite tight – could have gone either way. The NPP leader conceded the victory for the safety of the country. I think every Ghanaian will agree that had the result gone the other way, there would have been mayhem, chaos, a civil war. Luckily the ‘guys at the top’ took the route of peace.br /Whether ‘democracy’ has won, and whether ‘better policies’ were chosen is not an issue here. br /br /The $38million presidential palace A HREF"http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/7720653.stm"has been inaugurated/A and the new Prez will move in ASAP. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SW0YRIPs-sI/AAAAAAAAA5E/G7zbWIqADFs/s1600-h/PRESIDENTIAL+PALACE.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 240px; height: 160px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SW0YRIPs-sI/AAAAAAAAA5E/G7zbWIqADFs/s320/PRESIDENTIAL+PALACE.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5290911819780389570" //abr /Back in November before the elections, A HREF"http://www.voanews.com/english/archive/2008-11/2008-11-11-voa3.cfm"there was public concern about the fact that Ghana, as a developing nation, where the majority of people live on less than $2 a day, went ahead to spend $38 million on a palace for the president/A. In fact, the opposition leader at the time, Prof. Atta Mills of the NDC openly criticized the building. But he has no problem moving in now that he’s taken office.br /br /I’ve heard that $30 million of the money was provided by the Indian government. I’ve never heard of such a huge donation to Ghana from another developing nation before? But then the population of India is now about 1 billion, and resources will be very important in the upcoming years, and as they’ve recently discovered a huge oil reserve off the Ghanaian coast, this is as good a time as any to make friends….div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-301960593119583489?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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23:49
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Holli's ramblings
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SWfjqN2KNCI/AAAAAAAAA40/_w4wZxGsXbA/s1600-h/PB040617.JPG"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 294px; height: 400px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SWfjqN2KNCI/AAAAAAAAA40/_w4wZxGsXbA/s400/PB040617.JPG" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5289446601780769826" //abr /My amazing boy Shiloh died 4 years ago at 6 years old. What a statement, yet it's true. Today he would have been 10 years old. I can barely believe it. br /br /I am crushed at times by the bitter sadness of not having him around us everyday.br /br /But there's nothing better than celebrating those you love, and today I send all my love out to the universe for Shiloh.br /br /A very special person sent me some words to live by today, that I share below:br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"Death leaves a heartache no one can heal, love leaves a memory no one can steal.span style="font-style:italic;"/span/span ~From a headstone in Irelandbr /br /span style="font-weight:bold;"When you are sorrowful look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth you are weeping for that which has been your delight.span style="font-style:italic;"/span/span ~Kahlil Gibrandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-2658064871330751997?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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21:36
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Holli's ramblings
The poll results trickle in uneventfully. The day awaited with a wary enthusiasm has arrived in Ghana. Election Day 2008. The third democratic election, the first time since the discovery of oil. Local and foreign media have been obsessing about Ghana and it’s chance to raise the image of Africa in terms of the democratic process, and the ability of an African nation to face it with calm and organization as opposed to violence and mayhem. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STxChziXkWI/AAAAAAAAA4U/Fx9FFTNlBoU/s1600-h/election+2.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 300px; height: 400px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STxChziXkWI/AAAAAAAAA4U/Fx9FFTNlBoU/s400/election+2.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5277166011908854114" //abr /br /We stayed home today, taking it easy and keeping a low profile, as we’d been advised. I listened for gunfire or sirens but I heard roosters and birds chirping.br /We tuned in to the local media stations and watched a relatively calm if not highly organized day at the polls for Ghana.br /br /The most shocking thing to happen today is balloting materials turning up late at the polls and people being forced to break into two or three lines after having queued for hours in one line… Not earth shattering stuff.br /br /Maybe Ghana will pull through tonight’s results like a fully democratic country, and accept the winner fairly. br /br /There is a lot at stake though, and judging by the numerous posters and music videos by local artists, along with pleading commercials from pastors and politicians alike, begging the nation for peace, it seems that most are very afraid of something untoward happening.br /br /I noticed today that the overwhelming message was peace. Is this the best an African democracy can hope for? That people do not tear into others with machetes, for supporting another party? Tribalsim plays a big part here in terms of who votes for which candidate and what party. This morning voters were told not to wear any partisan clothing or paraphernalia to the voting polls. One man didn’t heed the warning and was ‘almost lynched’ according to the local TV station, Metro TV.br /br /Supporters of one or another of the two main parties take things quite seriously. We were caught up in a cavalcade of NDC supporters last night, and delayed over an hour on a short stretch of road. Buses and cars and motorcycles waving the NDC flag enthusiastically, surrounded us completely. There was a palpable frenzy in the air as the people swayed and sang and rolled their arms in the NDC campaign sign, indicating the need for change. One taxi stuck beside us for a long period caught my eye. It was an old station wagon, with three jubilant supporters waving flags and in the back seat a cow. Yes a live, full grown cow. Curled around itself in an impossible space, they would tap her head each time she tried to raise it… (these are the Kodak moments Ghana offers, when you just don't have your camera on hand!). Seemed like EVERYONE was out for the party. I guessed the cow would be part of the feast, either for the post election party or for the Eid celebrations which take place tomorrow for Ghana’s muslims.br /br /For us visitors it’ll be the fourth day of a four day weekend. By the end of tomorrow we should know the winner. As we weaved along the road among the campaigners, I noticed as darkness fell on us last night in the car, each village we passed through, had no lights. No electricity yet. In 2008. The people came out of the dim lit rooms, paraffin lamps glowing within, to shout their support as we passed.br /br /I wondered whether the new party would do more than maintain peace. I wondered if they would bring the basics to their people. Light in villages, schooling for the children, hope for the future.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-5907675574171229175?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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11:47
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Holli's ramblings
Or, The Expat Experience, or 'An Exercise in Frustration'...br /br /So my friend and interior decorating inspirational counsellor and I conspired to revamp my son’s bedroom and bathroom recently.br /br /In our attempt to do it all on the cheap in a company provided, 70’s throwback style house (which was incidentally the Libyan Embassy in Ghana before we lived in it…), one of the aspects of our clever plan was to paint the en suite bathroom walls gold (to bring out the best in the hideous tiles). I mean, seems natural enough? No? Well, you’d be surprised how difficult it is to find gold paint in Ghana. Or maybe you wouldn’t…br /br /So, as we do, we picked a Saturday when we were feeling particularly brave and energetic, and headed into ‘the Market’, the infamous neverending rolling squalor of Makola…There is a saying that anyone who has traversed the pathways of Makola knows, ‘You can find anything in that market!’ … but you might not find your way back out!!br /br /So true to it’s legend, as we trudged through with green solid slime gutters underfoot, chickens and goats skirting around, and a constant flow of hot pulsing bodies surrounding us under the oppressively beating sun, we poked in and out of crowded alleys and deeper and deeper into the abyss, and alas we stumbled upon some sellers with.. wait.. GOLD SPRAY PAINT!!! So I bargained and bought two tins. The seller assured me this would easily cover a small bathroom. (All the walls are tiled halfway up).br /br /We found our way out of the maze, after walking the ‘gauntlet’ of used clothes sellers, and buying more than a few “Selection, Madam!” items…at about $2 each..br /br /And as things go in Ghana, we didn’t actually plan to do the dirty work ourselves! br /We’d have Eric, the house help do it… Therein lies the ultimate Ghanaian experience. You want something done. It seems simple and straightforward. You convince yourself you are too busy etc. and ask the ‘helpers’ to do it. What could go wrong???br /br /Silly question, really. Monday morning I armed Eric with three week’s worth of old Sunday Times, an industrial roll of tape, and the two spray paint cans, with strict and precise instructions – cover all the tiles, ceiling, sink, toilet etc. with the papers…br /br /Monday I arrived home from work and opened the door of the bathroom… drum roll please… a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STbHEl8zFmI/AAAAAAAAA38/e-OOVB1Ngok/s1600-h/frustrated.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 388px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STbHEl8zFmI/AAAAAAAAA38/e-OOVB1Ngok/s400/frustrated.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275622895231637090" //abr /br /The two empty spray cans tossed on the floor caught my eye first. Then the white walls... What’s wrong with this picture? br /br /Then I opened the door further and there in the back corner behind the door, on a 2 x 2 ft. section of the wall, was gold.spray.paint. Newspaper was taped to the tiles below, about a half inch below where the tiles begin (hence the top of the tiles is now gold spray painted), and every few inches a piece of tape, placed vertically, right into the spray painted area of the wall. So that when you remove the tape, there is a tape shaped white rectangle on the gold portion of the wall.br /br /Question to self: Where is Zen when you need him? Deep breaths. This is funny, right? Cute even... Don't snap, just avoid Eric for the day...br /br /Really I should just leave it. What did I expect when I said, tape paper over everything? That it was assumed the REASON for this was to create protection from the gold paint? And how else would one tape up the paper, if not with thumbstrips of tape?! You mean you wanted the paint to be uniform?br /br /I looked up at the ceiling – a fine mist of tapering gold…br /br /When I asked Eric, determined to stay calm, about all these absolute F^%^ ups, not to mention the fact that he didn’t bother to spray across the wall but over and over on the same spot until both cans were completely empty… he shrugged and said “Oh Madam, the paint wasn’t plenty, o. The man who sold it to you was cheating… And I forgot about the paper for the ceiling. Also, I don’t know how to put paper up on the ceiling. Madam, please, it will fall. …” a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STbG2Lcw8tI/AAAAAAAAA30/EhSBP9sm1a8/s1600-h/only+in+Africa.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 271px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/STbG2Lcw8tI/AAAAAAAAA30/EhSBP9sm1a8/s400/only+in+Africa.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5275622647599788754" //abr /br /I’m tempted to give up, just as is and leave the mess that is there. After all, TIG (like “This Is Africa”, but my more dear to the heart version, ‘This Is Ghana’…). But I just can’t. So I will painstakingly explain what I REALLY meant the first time about the tape and then describe how one goes about spray painting, and send Eric himself into the market to find more of the paint…br /br /I’m a glutton for punishment and Eric may never find his way out of the market…div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-7623907162399347983?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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9:24
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Holli's ramblings
Birthdays, like New Years Eve are always anti-climactic. Everyone wishes you the best, and says have a great day! But what if it isn’t a particularly good day? Afterall, anything could happen. You could get your period and feel like a ten ton truck with a couple extra water filled tires hanging heavily around your waist, for example. You could get up, look in the mirror and see the dark circles of life settled deeply under your eyes.br /br /You might just be facing a work day that is particularly stressful and have a pounding headache, and not enough time to grab a sandwich even for lunch.br /It might just be that you find yourself completely alone on that particular day with nothing to do but contemplate all the far flung well wishes and your own self pity. br /You might come home to a quiet house with yesterday’s chili in the fridge and reruns on TV…br /br /Happy Birthday! I’d like mine postponed this year, and while you’re at it I’d like the number adjusted by 10 years.br /br /I’d like a big surprise party so I could blush and feel special and then diamonds and other extravagant unnecessary luxuries to prove I’m loved. I’d like a chauffeur to pick me up and whisk me off to a spa for a day of full pampering and self indulgence. br /br /But I’d settle for good health and savings in the bank. Uh oh, both those are in jeopardy this year as well. br /br /Probably a good idea to skip the cake too, as the number of candles needed at this stage could crush the cake and start a fire!br /br /Birthdays put so much pressure on you to be happy, be honoured and be remembered. br /br /But what if deep down you know that you have a great family and friends who love you all the time and that you might get a random gift on an off day when no one is expecting you to, and won’t ask if you got spoiled on the big day?br /br /Isn’t it just as good to have a great child, be in an amazing relationship, have a challenging job and dreams that are forming into tangible future plans? Is it not good enough to wake up to sunshine and warmth and two fried eggs on a plate?a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SS1vmYNGTPI/AAAAAAAAA3s/RmC8GcGm1Bo/s1600-h/Champagne.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 229px; height: 320px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SS1vmYNGTPI/AAAAAAAAA3s/RmC8GcGm1Bo/s320/Champagne.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5272993443843820786" //abr /br /Birthdays should give you a chance to reflect on how the year has disappeared and ask yourself what special moments you can remember. And then keep them with you. Birthdays should remind you that time is short and precious and irrevocable and that every minute, day, month, year you have should be filled up with your best. Loving those around you and laughing as much as possible.br /br /I think I’ll dust off that bottle of champagne at the back of the liquor cabinet, pop it open and celebrate near 4 decades of an excellent life, and toast the effort to make the next 4 decades even better.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8577042689851111649?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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9:15
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Holli's ramblings
Yesterday in my response to an article on the virtues of Ghanaian schools, (or lack thereof), I received quite an earful/screenful from Anonymous. br /br /I took a step back, digested his/her comments (highlighted below):br /br /span style="font-weight:bold;""I have read the article you quoted and to be frank your posting is much more biased and highly exaggerated in comparison.br /br /In your hasty attempt to rebutt an article which, I suppose, does not conform to your idea of "Ghanaian education", you intentionally come up with half-truths and complete falsehoods to justify your entrenched perception.br /br /That is a shame!br /br /I am a Ghanaian. I, like many Ghanaian children, received my elementary and secondary education in an unimaginably poor rural area of Ghana, but I had a good foundation which enabled me to gain admission into an ivy-league college in the States.br /We may not have had the very best of what money could buy, but certainly we did not recieve an inferior education judging by my grades in class.br /It is totally false to claim that "students are not asked to write 'in their own words' about topics they read".In fact, we were taught never to copy from others but submit our own independent work every time.br /Since when has teaching children to keep their environment clean become an abuse? In America, they have the money to hire peple to take care of the schools' environment, in Ghana the children help to clean. There is nothing superior about the American approach.br /At least, we are not confronted with the issues of shootings and violence in many of the schools in the west. And the reason for that, if you care to know, is:Ghanaian children are taught to respect authority and not fear them,as you claimed.br /Reading your post will not help the reader, because it is not only full of exaggerations, but outright antagonistic in nature.br /br /Have a nice day!"/spanbr /br /And then I came to the conclusion that my experiences and observations have not been imagined or exaggerated. Nor am I the only one to observe the things I noted. I realise that exposing the harsh truths about what really goes on in Ghanaian schools is something that many Ghanaians (especially those abroad)are not happy about at all.br /br /There is a perception among many westerners that corporal punishment is negative, despite the circumstances, and therefore the truth of it being at the core of the Ghanaian school system is something often breezed over or brushed under the carpet.br /br /I was then alerted to another article called A HREF="http://en.epochtimes.com/n2/world/west-african-journal-ghanas-school-of-hard-knocks-1072.html""Ghana's School of Hard Knocks"/A, in the Epoch Times, dated earlier this year, which could be considered biased by my anonymous reader, as this is written by a Canadian who teaches in Ghana, with a stepson attending school here. It's worth a read. Here is an excerpt:br /br /" span style="font-style:italic;"From the first moment of junior kindergarten, at the tender age of four, the cane enters the life of Ghana's school children. How else can teachers manage with classes ranging from 40 (the smallest I've heard) to 62? Teachers, breathe deeply.br /br /The environment in schools is punitory. If a class does poorly on an exam, all the students may be caned. If a child's clothes aren't neat, his nails aren't trimmed, or he comes to school without a handkerchief, he may be caned. If he is late, it's the cane for sure./spanbr /br /" span style="font-style:italic;"Having taught school here, I quickly noticed that the children are addicted to the cane. Without one in your hand, they feel it unnecessary to listen to you. They are like convicts in a prison, going wild when the guards are off the range.br /br /I have noticed that children here often lie to avoid the harsh punishment. There is no emphasis on "goodness for goodness sake," or on internalizing moral reasoning—the moral code is governed by the cane. I worry that this focus on external may be the tiny seed from which corruption springs, and the popular idea that "if you're not caught, it wasn't wrong." br //span a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSLjsbKhbiI/AAAAAAAAA28/qWeMdQVvfx8/s1600-h/caned.jpg"img style="float:left; margin:0 10px 10px 0;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSLjsbKhbiI/AAAAAAAAA28/qWeMdQVvfx8/s320/caned.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5270024866322542114" //abr /br /The trouble is that her observations are not false - I can relate to most examples she gives.br /br /The question becomes whether corporal punishment is truly as bad as westerners believe, whether it hampers education and self confidence in children, whether it instills fear and develops the habit of lying, whether it is wrong morally and tramples the human rights of vulnerable children ... not whether it in fact occurs daily in Ghanaian schools. That answer is a resounding YES.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-8612826077577748125?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
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14:10
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Holli's ramblings
I read an interesting A HREF="http://www.desmoinesregister.com/apps/pbcs.dll/article?AID=2008811170312"article/A today by an American grant consultant, called 'span style="font-weight:bold;"Ghana offers some lessons in discipline, teacher quality'/span, where he compares Ghanaian schools with those in Iowa, USA. With children having passed through both the public and private school systems here in Ghana, I found the lighthearted and naive assumptions and conclusions of the author to be disturbingly superficial.br /br /The intention of the article was to stress both discipline and higher educational standards for the folks back home, but to praise both of these aspects of the Ghanaian educational system, without placing them in their context, with all their pitfalls, is also a dangerous stand to take.br /br /There is a passing comment about the paddle that is present in the corner of every classroom. This American author would be no doubt suing the school board if his children were beaten with any of the implements used commonly in Ghanaian schools for ‘discipline’. He glances over what would be considered by western standards as a culture of child abuse in the educational system across Ghana. br /br /Children are caned on a daily basis. The acts of indiscipline warranting the caning include being part of a class of 52 children, where one or two have not completed their homework or memorized a certain passage to perfection. My own son attended a semi private Ghanaian school for five years and came home with welts, having been beaten for this very reason, despite having completed the tasks himself. a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSHSt40v-qI/AAAAAAAAA2k/Xuy1jXwZHkc/s1600-h/canes.jpg"img style="float:right; margin:0 0 10px 10px;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 266px; height: 400px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSHSt40v-qI/AAAAAAAAA2k/Xuy1jXwZHkc/s400/canes.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269724724789770914" //abr /br /When I confronted the teacher and principle I was told his skin was too soft and hence marks were left, and they could not be blamed for that. There is no guilt or shame among educators in Ghana for beating children. It is an integral part of the curriculum and culture. Students from as young as five years old are tasked daily with chopping grass with machetes and cleaning out gutters on the school compound. This again would amount to using children for manual labour by American standards, and again, not completing these tasks to the teacher’s satisfaction also attracts stiff beatings. The respect he commended in classrooms can be rather attributed to fear. Students may call their elders ‘Sir’ and “Ma’am’ but unlike the system in the west where often teachers are close mentors, in Ghana teachers and students have a relationship closer to dictator and servant.br /br /I also came across an interesting article on the TimesOnline site, A HREF="http://www.timesonline.co.uk/tol/news/world/africa/article2800904.ece""African cane tames unruly British pupils"/A. A teacher is interviewed at a Ghanaian school, "Children must be taught. You don’t sit down and discuss directions with a child – you tell them where to go,” he said. "Children are beaten for misbehaving or failing to do home-work, but not for poor results".br /br /One of the students sent from the UK by his immigrated parents, Sienam, admitted that he had been caned “many, many times” by his teachers in Ghana. “Any time you do something you know you shouldn’t do or step out of line, you get caned.” It is the reality of the system.br /br /Secondly, with regard to curriculum, the Ghanaian standard is modeled after the British system of the 1950s and 60s. The author must have seen on his many visits to Ghanaian schools, some of these textbooks taken directly from 1950s editions from the UK. The focus is on memorization and many times regurgitation. Essays which evoke the child’s imagination are not part of curriculum, and students are not asked to write ‘in their own words’ about topics they read about. What results, as a close American friend of mine teaching at the University of Legon currently experienced, is that 50 out of 60 students will submit THE EXACT SAME PAPER. She is now at a loss as to what recourse to take. I am not sure that American schools should encourage a return to this type of learning, when the school systems in the west have intentionally moved away from these methods, after realizing children gain irreplaceable skills by applying their knowledge outside textbooks.br /br /I have yet another concern regarding the author’s assessment of the quality of teachers in Ghanaian schools. Constantly during my son’s five years at a prominent and well respected Ghanaian elementary school, I was shocked by the lack of basic grasp of English grammar amongst the teachers. They constantly marked wrong grammar as correct or even worse, corrected proper grammar with complete mistakes. The problem was not concerning only one teacher but many, and I can guarantee it is not an isolated problem with this particular school. The average pay for an elementary school teacher in Ghana is less than $200 per month, which does not attract the most talented pool. The wages and living conditions in the rural schools are even worse, meaning these schools suffer an even worse fate in terms of their faculty.br /br /Kofi Annan, illustrated in the article as a typical example of the products of Ghanaian education, is the child of Ghanaian Royalty, having graduated from the then highly elite boarding school ‘Mfantsipim’ back when the British system resembled the contemporary curriculum of the day in the UK, is definitely not representative of the average Ghanaian child, with comparable opportunities. Especially in today’s Ghana.br /br /In fact, he states that education is ‘mandatory’ in Ghana, and indeed it may be, but the reality on the ground is that the streets are lined with children hawking goods during school hours, and estimated figures are closer to 60% of urban children are actually attending school on a regular and consistent basis. The rural areas are nowhere near this figure. Many villages have no schools to attend, let alone the money for the fees.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSHTWd7vpwI/AAAAAAAAA2s/438J3jtB2DU/s1600-h/Ghana_Classroom.jpg"img style="display:block; margin:0px auto 10px; text-align:center;cursor:pointer; cursor:hand;width: 400px; height: 285px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_DnXDQGcPK04/SSHTWd7vpwI/AAAAAAAAA2s/438J3jtB2DU/s400/Ghana_Classroom.jpg" border="0" alt=""id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5269725421945988866" //abr /br /Though I do agree it’s a good idea to get people in western countries with developed economies to stand up and re-evaluate their school systems and the lack of respect among the youth of today, I don’t believe that exonerating the educational system in a poor country like Ghana, with it’s lack of infrastructure and a culture of corporal punishment, is fair in the context given.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/8851511451028936152-3206093186874373090?l=hollisramblings.blogspot.com'//div
