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6:20
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
In exactly one week’s time – give or take an hour or so – my children and I will be touching down at Dulles International Airport in Virginia for the start of a long-awaited, well-deserved 6 week vacation.
Now, I’ve said time and time again to visitors and travelers that are thinking about coming here that Ghana has everything you could possibly want, albeit at a price. But some things, well, some things just don’t have a price, if ya know what I mean.
So here for your reading pleasure (and maybe some food for thought) I give you some 25 of the things that I will relish when we arrive in the United States next week, after not being home for more than 3½ years.
• Drinking Diet Coke, icy cold straight from the can, one right after another simply because they’re so cheap, and because I can.
• Lighting the stove with the mere turn of a dial, and not the turn of a dial and the pfffft of a wooden match.
• Waking up to the sound of a lawn mover cutting the grass instead of the scree, scree, scree of a straw broom sweeping up the previous day’s rubbish.
• Flipping the channel and finding a baseball game on it instead of a soccer match.
• Hearing the children cry out that they want pizza for dinner and ordering one or two for delivery, instead of groaning about how long it will take for me to make them from scratch (that’s if I have all of the ingredients in the first place).
• Buying gasoline in gallons instead of petrol in liters and having the ability to pump it myself if I want.
• Drinking real coffee and not instant.
• Walking into an air conditioned room and needing a sweater instead of turning on the ceiling fan and removing yet another item of clothing.
• Eating pasta with a sauce from a jar of Ragu rather than homemade (you really do get sick of homemade after a while).
• Having mail delivery come right to the house and not having to go retrieve it from the post office weeks after it’s been mailed.
• Eating fast food that really is fast as opposed to waiting 30 minutes for fried chicken and chips at a local “fast food” restaurant.
• Dialing an 800 number at any time of the day or night, even if I get a recording, and knowing that my call is important to them and it will eventually be answered.
• Working on my tan with people who are doing exactly the same thing and no one raises an eyebrow or questions my sanity.
• Speaking in my normal cadence with my New Jersey accent and everyone will understand me.
• Being called Barbara or “miss” or “lady” as opposed to “obroni.”
• Scarfing down a sack full of White Castle hamburgers instead of the single burger that I cooked and which the boys didn’t eat (only because I hid it).
• Not worrying about coming home to a defrosting fridge or freezer because the power is out or because my prepaid meter ran out of money.
• Enjoying the night air and the dance of fireflies instead of running inside as quickly as possible to avoid the mosquitoes.
• Having access to a clothes dryer and not just a clothes line.
• Listening to rock and roll or oldies music instead of gospel or high-life.
• Paying with a credit card if I want to and not worrying that someone has just copied down the number to try to buy a computer online later.
• Relaxing on beautiful sandy clean beaches instead of ones used mainly as a latrine.
• Having my choice from among dozens of magazines bought for a few dollars rather than just Oprah magazine for $25.
• Visiting my friends and family in the real world and not just the cyber one.
• Saying goodnight to my mom with a hug and a kiss rather than a whispered prayer.
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6:30
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Wondering where I've been? Let me just say (before I start rolling with my next diatribe) that I am the type of person who doesn't talk (or write) just to fill up an uncomfortable silence. There really wasn't anything that I hadn't already said. :D
But today, today is different. I'm still a little ticked off from the experience we had yesterday at the U.S. Embassy in Accra. Up until a few years ago, the Embassy was located in an ugly little building within a tiny run down compound in Osu R.E.; there was no air conditioning, no waiting room, an abundance of supercilious security personnel and the usual bureaucratic inefficiency.
Well, it's different now. The U.S. Embassy is now located in Cantonments, in a big ugly building (or as my friend Leanne calls it, "U.S. penitentiary in Accra) on a huge compound with cold, conditioned air, and a fairly large waiting room. There's even a working television broadcasting VOA. That's the good news. Unfortunately, there remains an abundance (even more so, now) of supercilious, arrogant security personnel who apparently are contagious to the point that even the groundskeepers have serious attitudinal issues.
We needed to do the passport renewal thing, me and Mike, and as a minor, it is a requirement that both parents be present to "swear an oath" so poor Sly had to take time off from work to come with us. Naturally, Alexandra had to tag along for the ride (not that I could have or would have let her stay home alone, nor would she have permitted it). Hours for consulate related activities for American citizens are 8:30 am to 12:30 pm. Now, I was familiar with how it used to be at the old embassy, so I made sure that we got there at 7:30. There was already a long, long line of Ghanaians waiting to enter the consulate for their visa appointments. We whipped out our American passports and showed them to the security guard at the front. With hardly a glance, he responded simply, "8:30," and turned his back on us.
We walked away a little and huddled. Should we go to the car? Find a place to sit? What? And do we come back and have to stand in that line? Sly suggested I go over and ask the other security guard, the one who was guarding the entrance door. So, I walked along the cordon (you didn't think I'd be able to get that close, did ya) and yelled out to him, "Excuse me!" He glanced my way, frowned and gesticulated that I should see the other guard (the one who couldn't be bothered from before). I shouted out, "I only want to know do we have to wait in that line at 8:30 or should we just go to the front?" Again, he pointed at the other guard. "No, I don't want to see him, he couldn't be bothered with me... I just want to know where do we go at 8:30? Do we have to wait in that line?" Finally, finally... "No line. Just come to this door." Seven friggin words. Could he spare 'em?
Our van is parked around the corner and down a bit. The building is surrounded by an ocean of grass, and I begin to tromp across it to get to our van. A groundskeeper is yelling at us to get off the grass. A couple of things crossed my brain just then: 1) Had he never heard of the Pythagorean theorem? (which I actually yelled out, much to Sly's chagrin -- and, in retrospect, he's a groundskeeper, of course he hadn't heard of the Pythagorean theorem); 2) there were no "Keep Off the Grass" signs anywhere; 3) How hard would it be to put a couple of paving stones from the building to the street; and 4) It.Is.Only.Freaking.Grass (and pretty pathetic looking grass, at that)!!!
So 8:20 arrives (I am anal about punctuality -- that' s the American in me, I guess) and we're at the entrance door; there are a group of Ghanaians in front of us, all bearing American passports. He let's them in and signs to us that we should wait (cannot figure out this no-talking rule of his -- maybe he's aspiring to become a Queen's Guard!). After a few minutes, he opens the door and waves (!) us in.
Here's where it gets fun... we sign in, indicate we have no phones on us and walk through the metal detector. Sly and I get to put our jacket and bag on the x-ray machine. My bag sets off all kinds of concerns. Despite the signage that says no phones or cameras, now, all electronic stuff is banned inside the consulate. So into a little pouch go the Nintendo DS consoles I brought for the kids, as well as Mike's MP4 player. My bag goes for another ride through the x-ray machine.
"Madam, you have a pen drive in your bag." Um, no, I don't. I do have Alexandra's glucose meter and insulin pens, but other than that, nothing electronic. I pull out her glucose kit and show him. He shakes his head, "that cannot go into the consulate" he says. I say, "it has to go, I don't know how long I will be in there (understatement of the year!) and I have to be able to check her blood sugar if she feels low." He refuses, and tells me I need to put it in the pouch.
Momma bear's hackles are up at this point. "No," I insist, "I want to speak with your supervisor." Eyebrows raise here, but that's my right (as is bringing Alexandra's glucose kit into the Embassy itself). A few minutes later and I'm talking to Carol, an American who claims she is familiar with type 1 diabetes and knows that the meter is important, but she's got to defend the stance on the electronic ban so she'll have someone come and "inspect it." I was really ready to whip out the Americans with Disabilities Act, if necessary... I mean, an Embassy is American soil isn't it?
We're directed to sit and wait, though one guard tells Sly he should proceed and Sly basically scoffed at him and sat down. Truth be told, I had expected Sly to suggest I give them the meter (he's really not big on confrontation in situations like this), so I was very (happily) surprised when he backed me 100%.
A few minutes later, another Ghanaian security agent comes through the door -- I'm pretty sure he's in charge, because everyone hops to attention and yells out, "Good morning, sir" to this guy. The security agent at the desk, in a local tongue, must be telling him about the "machine" and how it "measures sugar pressure." I assume this means Alex's glucose meter.
I indicate that it is for Alexandra, and he wants her to use it so he can see. No problem, she does this nearly a dozen times a day so what's another, even for an audience. Everyone is watching. She does her thing in about 10 seconds and the meter reads a 9.7 mmol (not good, but she did just eat granola and apparently the insulin hadn't kicked in yet). Even though he sees what the meter is for, he still has to ask, "Do you really need to bring this in?" (Can you picture me rolling my eyes -- well, I didn't -- but, oh, how I wanted to!) I can't even imagine what would happen if Alex were on an insulin pump.
I relinquished Alex's juice boxes to the pouch (no liquid inside, either -- I wasn't gonna argue), and once inside the consulate it was a relatively smooth process, in air conditioned bliss. And within an hour we were on our way home.
Ghanaians are generally the most pleasant, helpful, friendly people you'd ever want to meet. What's the saying? "Absolute power corrupts absolutely?" Yeah. Yeah, it really does. But here's the thing -- I can board a plane (of course, only once I've dealt with the ineptitude and attitude of the Kotoka Airport security agents over the same glucose meter and insulin) and fly to America. And those Ghanaian embassy guys, can't.
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2:49
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
In honor of World Diabetes Day today, I'd like to ask you... have you hugged a diabetic today? Whether they have type 1 or a type 2 (or something in between), are pre-diabetic, have gestational diabetes or LADA or MODY or whatever... let's show all of the people we care about a little compassion, sympathy, understanding and love, today and every day.
And in special recognition of a brave young soul, our sweet girl Alexandra, who has thus endured thousands of shots and finger sticks since her diagnosis with type 1 diabetes little more than a year ago (1 year, 4 months and 20 days, if you're counting) I'd like to share this letter with you, and maybe you'll share something with us in return...
====================
Open Letter to Our Friends
Those of you who know me well know that I am one of those people who, as a child, was always in search and support of a good cause… I trick-or-treated for Unicef, raised money for “Jerry’s Kids” with Muscular Dystrophy by knocking on doors, walked 20 miles with Christine or Josie for a pledge of 10 cents a mile in support of the March of Dimes. As I grew older, I did my bit with United Way and Salvation Army, too. It seemed there was always some needy kid who I was compelled to help or research group to be funded. There was always a cure on the horizon for lots of horrific diseases and disabilities.
But I did that without any real personal involvement. I didn’t know any of those kids. I was sympathetic to their plight. But I had no had no real feeling for what they endured.
Now, I have a new cause. And this one I embrace with all my heart and soul and every single fiber of my being, because it affects my youngest child. Some of you may not know this, but a little more than a year ago, our daughter, Alexandra who was 7 years old at the time, was diagnosed with type 1 diabetes, or what used to be called juvenile diabetes.
Now, I didn’t know anything about diabetes. I knew Mary Tyler Moore had it, but couldn’t figure why it was called “juvenile” diabetes – certainly she was no juvenile. I knew diabetes had to do with sugar and sweet stuff, but I didn’t know anything else.
Boy, what a difference a year makes.
I’ve learned that type 1 diabetes is an auto-immune disease; that a person’s body basically attacks itself – in this case, the pancreas – and that nothing a person did or didn’t do could have prevented it. No one knows why some people get it and others not. The pancreas no longer produces insulin, a hormone needed to convert the sugar and carbohydrates you eat into energy.
Without insulin, plainly speaking, Alexandra will die. But insulin – as wonderful as it is – is not a cure.
The only cure is a cure.
But there is hope on the horizon, and it takes the form of Dr. Denise Faustman of Massachusetts General Hospital. Dr. Faustman has actually cured type 1 diabetes in lab mice, with an FDA-approved drug that is already on the market. The problem is, because the drug is already on the market and widely available, there’s just no financial incentive for the pharmaceutical companies to embrace Dr. Faustman’s efforts.
I won’t bore you with the details. Suffice to say it’s something I’ve researched, and I am more than hopeful that within my daughter’s lifetime there will be a cure.
But the cure won’t come without funding. The Lee Iacocca Foundation has contributed $10 million to jumpstart the human trials, and money is trickling in through grassroots organizations such as one I’m happy to be a small part of –
Help Cure Childhood Diabetes.
So, if you’ve stuck with me this far and you knew me as a child, you know where I’m going with this… please help. Your donation toward research for a cure would be appreciated more than you can ever know. This
link will take you to Alexandra’s web page and from there you can link to the donation page at Massachusetts General Hospital.
And if you just can’t make a donation right now – times are tough here, too, I understand – I’d appreciate your prayers instead.
With thanks from the bottom of our hearts…
Barbara and Sylvester
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5:34
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Ya know, basically I'm a nosy person. I'm easily intrigued, my curiosity gets piqued and I just have to know. I'm not one of those people who are obsessed with wrapped packages, though, so don't get me wrong... that would be my sister. But, I'm just mildly interested in learning where you're from? You see that little ClustrMap to your right, there? Yeah, that's it. Did you ever click on it just to see what happens? Where it goes? There are a lot of dots on it, from all over the world, it looks like (though my geography sucks, probably only 1/4 of all the countries in the world are represented).
But, I'm curious, and I want to know you better. So, don't be shy, leave me a comment and just say where you're from. I promise I won't write and ask for money or anything and I won't sell your email address to some online marketer, it's just that I'm so happy to have friends from all over the world, that I want to know where in the world you are. Kind of like Carmen Sandiego, but in reverse, ya know?
So, please, leave a comment if you will, and you can do it anonymously. If you've got a blog, let me know. I'm always curious to read what life is like outside of the jungle. ;-)
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12:21
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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As a sometimes writer/editor, I know that in the uptight, too politically correct land that I know and love, we stuffy Americans prefer to call it “tidbits” – publicly eschewing any reference to tits as somewhat crass. But when in Rome (or in Ghana), you’ve got to do as the Romans (or Ghanaians) do… so, this posting is all about our summer “titbits.” It’s a potpourri (pronounced pot pouree here, by the way, at least by one television sports journalist who shall remain nameless because I can’t remember his name) or a compendium of our goings on (or not, as it often were) here in Ghana over the past two months. And while I’m on the subject of spellings and pronouncements, I just can’t allow this one to get away… “As Kwame Nkrumah put it so succinky…” Yes, this was the tag phrase on a commercial for a popular African television show, Africa Today, as uttered by the beautiful television show hostess having the African equivalent of a blond moment.
Moving on….
The kids were on summer vacation from mid-July through just yesterday (and hopefully that will go a long way to explaining my absence from this blog). Ah, sweet relief and blessed silence. For the most part, it has been a long, hot, somewhat uneventful summer. But there have been instances and days of emotionally charged activity. For example:
Our Day
The last official day of school is “Our Day” and meant for one thing and one thing only: Fun. Unlike last year (b-oring!), this year’s Our Day celebration had trampolines, balloon bounces, face painting, horseback riding and lots and lots of food. Sean chose not to go – he is 14 after all – but Mike and Alex had no intention of letting this day pass them by. They took full advantage of having Mommy (and her purse) who was on standby holding onto Alex’s diabetes kit. Mommy made sure she was prepared, too, with a fully charged phone battery, 5 GHC in top up phone credit, her Nintendo DS lite, a good book and a Diet Coke.
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You might be wondering where Mike was in all of this… did I mention that there was lots and lots of food on Our Day? He could be found hovering (perhaps hoovering is the better choice) near the kebob and sausage seller on the other side of the school, only a few feet away from the Lucky Dip seller. Now, Lucky Dip, for those of you not in Ghana, is a game of random draw. You pay your money to the lady, reach into the bag and pull out a scrap of paper on which is your prize. Michael was desperate for an iPod, which was why he spent a small fortune in Lucky Dip attempts. At the end of the day, all he had to show for it was half a dozen rulers, some erasers, a string of Pepsodent toothpaste in disposable pouches and a bottle of Frytol cooking oil. Total cost of attempts (don’t tell my husband): approximately 20 GHC. Total value of goods: approximately 5 GHC. I am thinking about signing Mike up for Gambler’s Anonymous because the warning signs are all there. I’m also thinking of never returning to New Jersey. Note to self: Research which state does not have legalized gambling?
Score one for Mom
Normal0 falsefalsefalse MicrosoftInternetExplorer4 One of my pet peeves is incorrect pricing. No, I’m not talking about obroni pricing; I’m talking about overcharging at the register simply because the “computer” reads differently than the sign. I’ve argued over lots and lots of things – even kite string in MaxMart – who ever heard of 10 GHC for kite string! Ridiculous.
Unfortunately, I’m usually the loser in the fight. I often forget this is not America. But, occasionally, I win.
Case in point: A trip to Evergreen supermarket and a purchase of a can of Dr. Pepper soda. The register says 1.60 GHC. But, the sign says .90 GHC… see?
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After a quick glance at my cell phone camera, an even briefer chuckle by the cashier and a lengthy dash to the manager, I got three cans of Dr. Pepper for .90 GHC each. Ha!
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Thanksgiving
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My husband’s sister who lives in Maryland has been battling colon cancer for the past year and has undergone surgery and chemo with (knock wood) very good results. Early in the summer, she and another sister came home to Ghana after Paulina had been given the okay from her doctor. It’s natural, then, for her to thank God for his mercy and, in the traditional Ghanaian way, a Thanksgiving service was arranged. Paulina had requested that we attend the mass, all of us dressed in the same special fabric. Now, some of you may be aware of this already, but I don’t do church. None of us in this branch of the family “do” church. But we planned to go and so we all dressed in the special cloth; kaba and slit for Alex and me, and dress shirts for the guys.
I have to admit, I’m not really a fan of everyone dressing alike, but the fabric was really beautiful and of the best quality you can buy in Ghana. The kaba and slit outfit that was made for me, on the other hand, was, um, interesting. Our tailor, Kofi, came over and took the measurements, and he had very explicit instructions from Sylvester not to make anything too small; Sly believes that Kofi, our quite small in stature tailor, suffers from some strange complex, because truly, everything he sews is too tight. Anyhoo, the day before the event the clothes come to the house and we all try them on. Everything fits as it should. Except that’s not necessarily a good thing; the kaba and slit fit me like a glove and I can hardly move about in it. Interestingly, inside my very tight skirt and top is a 5” inseam of surplus fabric. I point that out to Sylvester and he makes a very astute observation which I will relay to you here, but not before I apologize in advance for offending anyone – sorry, if you’re offended – he says that the reason they do that is because typical Ghanaian women only get bigger, never smaller. And in this way, when they’ve grown from a size 10 to 14 to 18, 20 and 22, there’s no need to have new clothes made – you simply have your inseam let out. Oh, and before you think my husband’s observation is in jest, just let me tell you that all of his 6 sisters, with the exception of Paulina are, um, pretty sturdy Ghanaian women.
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After the Thanksgiving celebration we all went back to the family house for a while. It was a good time to meet up with Paulina’s sons whom we hadn’t seen in a while. The younger of the two, Bob, brought his girlfriend – didn’t catch her name at all and not sure she’s still in the picture anyway, but that’s another story. Actually, that’s the point of this story. You know Alex, my often too-friendly, gregarious, sometimes charming daughter? Well, unbeknownst to any of us that day, Alex caused a little brouhaha. It seems she was chatting with Bob and nameless, and Bob was teasing her about something. Alex doesn’t respond well to teasing, so in defense mode, she teases back. What happened here is that they were teasing her and Alex told nameless that she shouldn’t marry Bob because he was a witch.
Here’s where the story doesn’t end. “Witch” has entirely different connotations in Ghana than it does in America (at least this particular century in America – I read the history books). Anyway, when I call someone a witch, I mean that they are being difficult to deal with. Alex is often called a witch (alright, I admit I call her worse than that under my breath sometimes) and so that is what she understands. In Ghana, calling someone a witch is tantamount to calling someone Hitler or Osama Bin Laden or Satan, himself. It just isn’t done in polite company. Nameless took great offense on Bob’s behalf and brought the topic up to Paulina after we’d left.
The next day, Sly was summoned for a family meeting to discuss Alex. I was not invited, and I’m just as glad I wasn’t. I would have taken great offense on Alex’s behalf. I don’t know what exactly was said, but Sly did call me for confirmation and I said it was quite possible she called someone a witch. I also pointed out to him that Alex’s definition of “witch” is not a juju person, but one who is troublesome. I also pointed out that Alex is 8 years old.
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Alex now knows not to call anyone a witch, except me. This is a picture of the witch, er, I mean Alex, stirring up her fire.
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Akosombo Revisited
We also went to Akosombo for two days just to swim, fish and relax. The boys wanted to take a paddle boat out to the middle of the river to fish from there. They built up their leg muscles but caught nothing. We noticed that the hotel had a couple of new creatures in their mini zoo. See if you can spot the lizard.
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While we were there, we bought 10 GHC worth of amazingly fresh caught shrimp to take home, which I had the pleasure of cleaning. And then the distinct pleasure of eating. All 120 pieces of shrimp (eat your heart out, it was delicious!). While there were a couple of little guys, the majority of them were at least as big as the one Alex is (grudgingly) holding.
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Teshie International Airport
As far as I know, Ghana has only a single international airport. Haven’t found this one yet, but there is a free urinal for anyone interested.
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The Pirate’s Life for Me
Sometimes, when you’re bored, you just need to get out of the house and enjoy a little Vitamin D and the great outdoors. And that’s just what Mike did. Except he didn’t get farther than our yard but he was well prepared: Pirate hat (check), pure water sachet (check), cell phone (check), Nickelodeon magazine (check).
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Queen Sheila
Around the corner from us is Queen Sheila, a local drinking spot with cheap beer, cold minerals (soda), loud music and great spicy kebobs and sausages. There’s not much to it, nothing at all fancy – plastic tables and chairs, dead plants in broken planters, ripped canopy overhead and flapping in the breeze. But, boy, what a breeze. Reason enough to head over there for a quick Star beer.
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The Gutter Ball
There is a single bowling alley in all of Ghana, and I’ve been dying to go to it for many years. But, I’ve come to the realization that dying is not all its cracked up to be, and neither is bowling. We all trooped over to Harbin Entertainment Center one fine Sunday morning, everyone with a clean pair of socks at the ready to go bowling. My friend Leslie had been there a few months ago and she really enjoyed it, as she said in her blog post. I guess I didn’t read her blog post too closely though – got caught up in the great pictures – because I’d have noticed that she said something about how expensive bowling is in Ghana. I vaguely remember reading 8 GHC but not the specifics. Let me tell you, it’s all about the specifics. We get to the bowling alley and there are a dozen lanes all unoccupied. The Chinese guy behind the counter wants to take down our names for the computer because it’s all computerized. Cool. Sly (thank God for Sly) asks the guy, “So how much are the games?” And the Chinese guy says 8 GHC. Each. “So,” I say, “excuse me, don’t you mean for each game?” And he says, “No, each person is 8 GHC for each game.” Now, I’m not a math whiz, but I can tally up 4 people at 8 GHC pretty quickly to get my answer: NO WAY IN HELL!
I really felt bad – the kids so wanted to bowl, and poor Mike had to hand back the shoes (he already had his sneakers off even), but I just could not justify 32 GHC for a single game of bowling. I even argued that the internet “said” it was per game, but he said no they’d changed that. No wonder there was no one bowling. No one can afford it! I’ve bowled at Madison Square Garden and it was less money than that.
So we headed out the door, with three very sorry kids in tow. Then, out of nowhere, Mike spots flashing lights and hears bells. He goes to investigate. Ta da! A game room! Just like in America! Well, not really, but enough to hold their attention for a while and distract them from the pain of not being able to bowl. Sly breaks a 10 GHC note and gives each of the kids the special coins to play. Sean heads straight to the driving game, Mike is shooting hoops and Alex is on one of those dancing thingamajigs.
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I walk over to the other side where there are some casino-type one-armed bandits. Only these have funnier names than the boring old Lucky 7s machines; how about Crazy Monkye (sic) and Lucky Haunter (Hunter? I didn’t see a ghost or a gun anywhere, but there were some guys drinking beer and wearing lederhosen on the front)? I’d have thrown a coin or two in just to test my luck (yes, Mike gets the gambling bug from me, I’ll fess up here) but it was minimum bet $10. If I wasn’t going to pay GHC 8 for bowling, there’s no way I’m going to fork over $10 for a single bet. If I want to bet I’m going to La Palm where the one-armed bandits take American dimes and the maximum bet is ninety cents!
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So, after playing in the games section for nearly an hour, the kids blew at least 32 GHC, but they didn’t complain when we left that it wasn’t enough. They were satisfied and happy, and that’s enough for me.
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9:50
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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Ghana television has come a long way since my first visit to Ghana, back in 1990. Then, there was only a single television station and it only broadcast for 3 hours, from 7:00 p.m. through 10:00 p.m. or thereabouts.
Over the years, broadcasting has grown in Ghana to the point where we now enjoy 24 hour television, and have access to BBC, CNN and recently, Aljazeera. We’ve also got a lot more channels – we’ve got GTV, TV3, Metro TV, Crystal TV, TV Africa, Net1 and Viasat 1.
It’s really wonderful (to some extent) that we can watch television sitcoms from the U.S., the U.K. or South Africa, including perennial favorites like the Cosby Show, Everyone Hates Chris, the Bernie Mack Show, Hanging with Mr. Cooper (sensing a theme again, eh?) and Friends (we are a diverse people, after all). We also get “newer” shows like CSI Miami and Las Vegas (which sadly, just ended – I so prefer Grissom to that Caine guy, ever since David Caruso dropped his drawers and bared his butt to the world on NYPD Blue I’ve disliked him – what a sorry looking ass that was! And no, I won’t post a picture. Even I’ve got my limitations. But if you’ve got a strong stomach, follow the link). The more recent forensic crime drama Bones is on every Saturday night, which my boys beg to stay up and watch (though try as I might I can’t get them interested in the Kathy Reichs books – which the television show can’t hold a candle to, in my opinion).
And, of course, we get nature shows with David Attenborough and reality television shows like American Idol (season 5 just finished out) and Sports Science (the boys LOVE this show) and historical documentaries from the U.S. about civil rights and from South Africa (Shaka Zulu).
Soap operas fit into a whole ‘nother category. We get them from all over the world – China, Japan, Mexico, South Africa, India, Nigeria – even from Ghana. And not all of them are in English, nor are they dubbed, so you better be really quick to read the captions. Oddly, even on some American or English movies they’re captioned. And let me tell you, in some cases, the captioning is absolutely hysterical. I don’t even listen to what’s being said, just because it’s too much fun watching the interpretation.
It’s also funny, and a bit odd, that a lot of the movies that are being broadcast seem to be the same ones that we’ve got in our DVD collection. The kids swear that someone is stealing our DVDs. Even our crappy movies (Popeye with Robin Williams, for instance) are being shown on Ghana television. But there are also good movies, recent releases and lots of old Hollywood favorites.
Take today, for instance. I turned on the television at about 11:45 and spotted Gene Kelly’s face staring out at me. Now I’ve been a Gene Kelly fan since way back, and there was no way I was gonna switch him off. So I waited a few seconds to try and figure out what it was – an American in Paris! I love that movie! Granted, I haven’t watched it in probably a quarter century, but really, Gene Kelly is timeless. So I hunkered down and watched only to realize that it was essentially the finale – you know the scene where Gene imagines he’s dancing through the streets of Gay Paree with Leslie Caron, even though in actuality she’s traveling with her fiancé (whom she doesn’t love) to get married. Now, I happen to know that the movie ends on a happy note, when a car horn blows and Gene comes out of his reverie to find Leslie Caron returning to him.
Sadly, the Ghanaians watching An American in Paris for the first time will never ever ever find out that this movie had a happy ending.
“Why” you ask? That’s a very good question. I wish I knew the answer. Almost without fail, the last five minutes of every single movie are cut off for a station break and then the next television program begins. Talk about frustrating! In fact, I think it’s nothing short of evil.
Perhaps the programming director doesn’t understand the importance of those last five minutes of a movie, when everything is finally made clear. When you learn who the killer was or whether the guy got the girl or the lost dog found his way home or the whale was finally freed or the little girl was adopted.
I’d like to show them how important is the final minutes with an analogy. Say the Ghana Black Stars are playing in the World Cup finals against Brazil. After the second half the score is tied 2-2. Injury time has been taken and the score remains unchanged. They go into extra time. After 30 minutes the score remains 2-2. So there’s a shoot out.
Ghana goes first… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes wild.)
Brazil goes… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd groans.)
Ghana takes their second kick… MISS! (The Ghanaian crowd gasps.)
Brazil takes their second… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd starts praying.)
Ghana takes their third shot… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes wild again.)
Brazil takes their third… GOAL! (The Ghanaian crowd goes into shock and starts praying anew.)
Ghana takes their fourth shot… ♪♫♪ Drink delicious and nutritious Healthilife, Healthilife Grow! ♪♫♪ Tom and Jerry theme music begins to play. ♪♫♪ (The Ghanaian crowd gets ready to stage a coup.)
Five minutes. That’s all I ask.
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4:35
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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By now, the President and Mrs. Obama and children are nestled, all snug in their beds, with visions of dancing Ghanaians in their heads. What a whirlwind! Twenty-four hours in Ghana and I’m amazed at the Obama family’s energy. I’m exhausted just watching them.
And watch them we did. Yesterday morning, we left Tema for Osu at 6:30 a.m. to get the bird’s eye view of the presidential motorcade. Even at that early hour, the police presence along the route that the president was expected to take was serious. It seemed every few feet you’d see another stern-faced cop. It was rumored that more than 10,000 police would be available for this event. I think they were all in Accra. This picture with 5 Ghanaian police officers was taken before 9:00 a.m. but the number of police grew as it got later.
I had expected that we would have a front row seat and I was wrong. The U-turn that takes the president to La General Hospital (formerly La Polyclinic, but upgraded to hospital status over the past few years) is not beyond our Osu family house. There’s another U-turn first! I forgot completely (since we always take the second U-turn to get to the family house). Oh well, it’s only a 100 feet or so.
But that’s a problem for the old lady, aka Zerb, aka Sly’s 89-year old mother. Sly did his best convincing that she should come and watch history in the making. She hasn’t been out of her house in decades I think (only kidding, she comes out every few months or so for church and every few weeks ago for doctors appointments) so she took a lot of convincing. But finally, with the decision made for Sly to drive the first 50 feet, and Sly's sister Paulina to help her along the other 50 feet, here came Zerb.
Zerb, Paulina and Alex
We had already talked to the police officers (that's Officer Oppong above) along the route where we intended to stay and told them we’d be bringing grandma to watch, and they were very sweet to suggest a place to park her, and shooing others out of her way when they blocked her view.
But we weren’t privy to exactly when the president would be coming, so we moved into position at 9:15 and waited. The crowd was non-existent when we first walked over, but grew in dribs and drabs. Perfect chance for a family photo.
Me, Paulina, Alex, Sly, Mike and Sean with Zerb seated
People were wearing Obama tee shirts (some of which were really stretched to the limit), or wearing special Obama cloth made into kaba and slit or simply carrying American and Ghanaian flags.
Ghanaian with an Obama shirt (stretched to the max)
Finally, the hawkers were around selling their Obama-wear souvenirs; I convinced Sly (not too hard, the wallet was freely opening) to buy handkerchiefs with both presidents printed on it. The ladies (except for me), all used it as do-rags, and the boys all used it bandito-style.
Do-ragged Alex, Zerb, Paulina and Comfort
Banditos Sly, Mike and Sean
At around 10:00 a.m. the activity picked up, we heard cannon fire in the distance – it was a salute for President Obama at the Osu Castle, about a mile away. Then Black Hawk helicopters began circling the area, with a strategically placed watchers (dare I say it, gulp, snipers?) in the open door. Then secret service-driven vehicles with sniffer dogs arrived and the agents let the dog out for a quick sniff (pee?) and they were back on their way. We were situated right at the point where the Beast would be U-turning, so it would have to slow down a lot. Maybe that’s why the dog came out. No problem, it was only seconds before the dog was back in the end, and my dim-witted fingers weren’t quick enough to take a shot of the German Shepherd before he was back in the van; all I got was the tail end (literally and figuratively).
Black hawk helicopter (with sniper?)
Tail end of Secret Service dog
The crowds continued to thicken, and more and more hawkers came by with their wares, generally food or Obama-related. We bought American flags for the kids to wave (made in China, by the way) at 1 GHC each, as well as a bunch of bananas and some ice cream.
Obama shirts for sale, coming and going
Banana picking
One Cedi each!
Alex made up a sign on the back of a piece of paper that said BARACK OBAMA, WELCOME TO GHANA in washable marker. And grandma got into the flag waving act.
Welcoming sign
Patriotic Grandma
Finally, a Ghanaian police officer in a Jeep drove by and signaled that the motorcade would be coming momentarily. Then another came by and yelled at our police officers to push us out of the way that we were too close to the U-turn. Hell, we’d been here for 2 hours and I was not giving up this space easily. I saw the owner of the property behind us (certainly a Bangladeshi if I ever saw one), and asked him if we could stand in his easement to avoid eviction. No problem. He was as excited as us. But not necessary, because the motorcade was coming and there was no time for movement of any kind. My fingers were ready to shoot. Sean had the other camera set in video mode and we were both anxious to go.
First the Ghanaian motorcycle escorts with their sirens blaring, then a Ghanaian police patrol, then a limo with Secret Service, and then, at long last, the Beast!! It was slowing down right in front of us. And there he was! President Obama was waving at us and smiling through the tinted windows (which, alas, you can’t see from the pictures – but believe me, he was there. He was there!). People were shouting and screaming and waving their flags.
Ghanaian motorcycle escorts
Ghana police patrol followed by Secret Service car
The Beast (get out of the way, lady!)
It was the most awesome 10 seconds I’ve spent in a long time. It was sooooo cool.
And then he was gone.
But man, while he was here, was it ever neat?
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6:46
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
In a few hours time, Air Force One will touch down at Kotoka International Airport and President and Mrs. Obama and the Obama children will walk down the steps into the history books. I know, I know… what’s the big deal? We’ve already had two American presidents here before. Both Clinton and Bush made forays into Ghana during their respective terms of office. But this visit by an American president is different. Because this is one my American-born children can relate to, in more ways than one.
We would love for our children to get a glimpse of history in the making, and we are going to try our darnedest to be somewhere close to where the President will be while he is in Ghana. We have learned that he will be paying a visit to La General Hospital in Accra, a few blocks away from the Zigah family residence in South Labadi Estates in Osu. The family home is situated directly on the main road, so you can bet your bottom U.S. Dollar (or Ghana Cedi, for that matter) that we will be outside of that house waiting for the Beast to roll by. Even if it means that we have to wake up before God to get there (and before the roads are closed, of course).
We will wave and yell and cheer when the presidential motorcade passes, and hope that he may notice out his window the three children who are “different” than the rest of the people surrounding them (but certainly, not different from President Obama). Let me tell you something: One of those children is destined for the White House. I can feel it. Remember the picture of a young Bill Clinton shaking the hands of President John F. Kennedy? What were the odds? Well, this will be that kind of photo opportunity, so if you’re anywhere nearby Osu, have your camera handy.
Sean C.K. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2032
Michael P.K. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2036
Alexandra G.A. Zigah, U.S. President-elect, 2040
(she can actually run in 2036, but let's give Michael a shot, eh?)
All this, of course, is provided that we can even get to Osu. You see, Ghana is still Ghana. The visit by POTUS is not going to change that. We’re still going to have all of the problems that face a developing country – crumbling infrastructure, corruption, illiteracy, child abuse, health-care issues, etc., etc. Today, the problem – at least as it applies to us – is a fuel shortage. There is absolutely no gas (petrol, they call it here) to be had, anywhere in Tema or Accra. I can’t even back my car out of the gate to hang my laundry much less drive the van into Osu.
So, there may very well be no opportunity for our children to see history in the making. At least, not in person. Thank God for television and the internet. Of course, that only works if there’s electricity coursing through the lines. Lights off, anyone?
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11:08
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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Yesterday, I was tagged by a friend on Facebook to read an article in the Daily Guide, one of Ghana’s newspapers. The article reports the death of an 8-year old girl who died, allegedly, from a caning she received from her teacher for doing poorly in a mental exercise.
I am at once saddened and angered that these kinds of things still continue to happen here in Ghana. I just did a google search and was horrified to learn that the Ghana Education Service has never “officially” banned caning in schools. Headmasters are allowed to use their discretion to administer 6 lashes of the cane.
My children, all of whom attend a quasi-private school here in Tema, have a fear of the lash or the cane or the “black beauty” as one teacher quaintly referred to a hard lengthy piece of black rubber. Sean has been caned, and I came to know of it after the fact, when he reported that the headmistress of the school (his previous one in Accra) caned him and another student for playing football on the balcony. He told me that he protected himself by wearing “armor” beneath his school shorts, i.e. several pairs of underpants and boxer shorts. Funny, right? Not at all.
One of the questions we always ask when we apply to a school is about their position on caning and corporal punishment. Invariably, they all deny that they use it as a means of discipline. Granted, my children have not been “caned” at SOS. They have, however, been subjected to various other forms of punishment including being made to kneel down on gravel with their arms upheld over their heads for an undetermined length of time, having to clean the (absolutely disgusting) bathrooms or the gutters or having to march in the hot equatorial sun.
Gee, I know it was a long time ago that I was in public school – 1966 through 1979 – but I can’t recall ever being punished in any manner such as these. Yes, I had to stand in the corner or wear a piece of gum on my nose or write lines over and over again. I was no angel – a goody-two-shoes, perhaps – but certainly not an angel. Nonetheless, no teacher ever laid a hand on me, or forced me to do manual labor (other than cleaning a blackboard, of course).
Caning a child because she was doing poorly in her dictation and mental… I still can’t believe that. What if she wasn’t feeling well? Perhaps she was malarial, or had slept poorly the night before, or hadn’t eaten and was merely hungry and distracted? Or what if – shocker – she was just not a good student?
Herein lies the crux of the whole caning issue. The continuing misguided belief of ignorant people that discipline and punishment is the only way to ensure that a child excels in school. Nothing about reward or encouragement or nurturing or empowerment. Nothing about doing your personal best. It’s all about being “the” best. Being number one.
News flash! We.Can’t.All.Be.Number.One.
I will probably anger a lot of Ghanaian parents because, if they went through the school system here, it may be what they continue to believe. They all feel that they lived through it (relatively unscathed), and so should their children. Heck, my husband still believes it, and it is probably the primary cause of stress in our marriage.
Not that long ago, Mrs. Anna Bossman, the Acting Commissioner of CHRAJ (Commission on Human Rights and Administrative Justice) visited a public school to talk to children about child abuse. I am sure that this case will be brought to her attention and, knowing her as I do, that she will take a firm stand and bring this matter to resolution. Let’s hope the Ghana Education Service does, too.
Of course, there will be no resolution for a mother and father who are today making plans to bury their child. There may be closure, but that’s little comfort.
Somewhere, not far from here, a mother is crying. She shouldn’t have to be.
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6:36
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
It has been pouring for a long time now. Ghana’s “official” rainy season begins in June and continues through September, generally. Some years, the rain is just a bit of a drizzle or a quick spritz here and there and it’s finished. Hardly enough to write home about. This year, I’m writing home.
The heavy deluge over the past week or so has been more than just an inconvenience to some of us trying to dry laundry on a clothes line. It has been deadly and destructive. Flooding in parts of Accra has caused the deaths of 7 people in the Kaneshie area, one primarily known for its huge marketplace.
I’ve seen the flooding in that area firsthand, when we lived in Mataheko. Traveling on the main road just past the Obetsebi-Lamptey circle, the flood waters came up over the curbs of the street, over the steps of the shops and into the buildings. People were wading in filthy water up to and over their knees. Cars were stalled or crawling through the standing water. Some cars were even carried away by the flooding water; a not-so-funny game of bumper-cars ensued.
Why does this happen every rainy season? I haven’t lived in Mataheko in more than 3 years, and still this is happening? Because there is no city-wide drainage system here. Open gutters are still the norm, and people throw their trash right into them.
We drove through Teshie the other day, not half an hour after a huge thunderstorm, trying our best to avoid the ever worsening rain-filled pot holes (Sly claimed that one of them was actually a well, not a pot hole) that threaten the undercarriage of every vehicle. As we drove, we saw several young boys – 8 or 9 years old – shoveling out the silt from a gutter that was choked. The garbage was snagged beneath a homemade driveway and they were trying to unblock it. I’m not sure if they were aware of the danger but on the other side of that blockage the water was gushing above the gutter. And when I say gutter, I really mean a culvert; these boys were in this culvert and I could only see their upper torso. If the water started flowing, they’d be thrown off their feet from the force. To where? The ocean? Hope they all know how to swim, but I doubt it.
Why are there no drains, you wonder? Because, the government says, there’s no money for them. Yet the government is somehow managing to find $50,000 to give to each and every minister of parliament for a new car. Sure, it’s a loan. And they’ll all repay it, right? What about that car loan they all got 4 years ago? I remember seeing loads of MPs (one who happens to be quasi-related) tooling around in their brand-new SUVs. I'm betting cedis to cassava those loans haven't been repaid. So what happened? Their debt was forgiven. Lucky ministers. Now they’ve all got an old “free” car and a new "soon-to-be free” car on the way.
One minister had the nerve to
suggest that all MPs needed, not just a single new car, but maybe even 3 new cars! I can see a minister from the northern region -- maybe somewhere up near Paga -- needing an SUV, but really, the minister of East Legon? Come on.
Just check out the comments following that!
And really, why $50,000? Aren't there any SUV's cheaper than that?
There's more than 200 ministers... you do the math. But that money could surely be better spent on roads or healthcare. Hey, how about adding glucose strips to the NHIS coverage? That'd be really nice. And cost no where near $50,000.
Okay, done venting.
There’s no one to blame about the rain though. Mother Nature, I guess. But, like all mothers, she does what she wants when she wants. I just wish she’d be more like me... a bit of a push-over when her kids beg for something.
Just in case she’s listening…
Mother Nature, please, I’m begging you. A single full day of sunshine, just so I can dry my clothes and my sinuses, that’s all I’m asking.
I promise, I’ll be good.
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5:41
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
I am a firm believer in the premise that when life hands you lemons you’ve gotta make lemonade. I like to think I express that through my blog. Life in Ghana is different, to say the least. It’s almost always a challenge for someone who has lived the “easy” life of an American. Trust me – we don’t know hardship in New Jersey like we know in Ghana.
But a recent anonymous fan commented that I always seem to find the negative in everything I blog about, and he/she expressed a wish that I write about how wonderful Ghana can be. I have to admit, my first thought was, “does this person know my husband?” Sylvester always says that I only the see the negative.
I look at it like this: How can I not see the negative? The real question is how will that negative affect me? My answer: It’s not going to. I will deal with it, some how or some way – even if it is only by complaining about it; getting it off my chest, so to speak. And I’m from New Jersey; it’s what we do. It’s how we’re raised. We are world class complainers.
If I look at life through rose-tinted glasses – and blog about it in the same way – and a traveler comes to visit here in Ghana expecting a paradise but finding anything but, have I done him a disservice? I believe that I have. I want to be able to say, “Yes! Beneath all of that debris there is beauty. You just have to know its there and keep digging. Have faith!”
Finally, I want to say this. Ghana is my country, now, for all its faults. But, I say the same exact thing when I am in America (though I do seem to say it more if there's a Bush in the White House). There are only two places on earth that I can call home, and this is one of them.
Now, without qualification or disclaimer, here are a few things that I absolutely love about Ghana and its amazing people.
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I love the ingenuity and resourcefulness of Ghanaians; they are truly a people who believe that “where there is a will, there is a way.”
I love the camaraderie of the millions of Ghanaians who, in a single voice, cheer or despair over a football game. You know immediately who is winning or losing, even if you don’t own a television or radio.
I love the school children who start their day with the singing of the Ghana National Anthem; young voices raised in praise of their wonderful homeland never fail to bring a tear to my eye.
I love the lady in the beer store who never fails to have a smile and a kind word (or a free soda) for my children.
I love the Ghanaians who will immediately rally to help someone whose car has broken down, by stopping whatever they’re doing and helping to push the car out of traffic.
I love the craziness of the Makola market; the sights, the smells, the noise and the energy. And there is nothing that can’t be found there.
I love the vendors who roam the neighborhood touting (or shouting) their wares. Need your shoes shined or a hem repaired? Just wait a bit and someone will be along to do it for you, just listen for the rhythmic beating of the shoe shine box or the clinking of the scissors. Need an egg, or toilet paper, crabs or fresh fish. Be patient. The monger is on his or her way.
I love the Fan Ice vendors – especially the one who looks like ex-president Kufuor – who know Alex will have to buy from someone today, so they all ring their bells or honk their horns as they pass by the gate hoping that they will be the chosen one.
I love the weather, whether it’s scorching hot or pouring rain. There is no “bad” weather in Ghana, irrespective of the season. It’s all good.
I love the birds and the lizards. The diversity of the biological life – even in civilized Tema – is amazing. Splash a puddle onto the ground in the middle of a hot day and watch dozens of lizards come out of hiding to lap up the water at the puddle's edge. My own watering hole!
I love the fact that I can buy flip flops for 60 pesawas a pair. And that I can wear them year round.
I love the way Ghanaian women and girls carry babies and children on their back and still manage to do all of the things that they are “supposed” to be doing – shopping, cleaning, cooking, selling, etc.
I love the way the mere presence of a single football (or any sort of round thing that can be substituted for one) can draw men and boys out of thin air and into a pick-up game of football. Anytime, anywhere.
I love the Ghanaian handshake. Even though I stink at it (I never can get that thumb snap thing going) no one ever makes me feel embarrassed.
I love to watch a gaggle of Ghanaian women “teasing” a Ghanaian man for even the tiniest transgression. I may not understand a single word of what it’s all about, but it’s always obviously good natured and never demeaning.
I love the spiciness of Ghanaian food; our tongues have all gotten used to the inclusion of red pepper in nearly everything that anything we eat now needs a little heat, or else it’s too bland.
I love the wax print fabrics; they have the most amazing designs you’ve ever seen. Someone should make a coffee table book out of them.
I love the beauty salon where Alex goes to get her hair corn-rowed for 2 Ghana cedis. They watch this crazy Filipino soap opera on the television there that is weirdly addictive and makes passing the time a cinch.
I love the tiny single serving size of a whole host of goods – juice boxes, coffee sticks, Close Up toothpaste, shito, cookies, crackers, peanuts, powdered milk, Milo, margarine – sure it’s a killer on the ecology, but they sure are cute.
I love the family of monkeys that we see along the road going to Ho, who sit along side trusting that no one will harm them. And no one does.
I love buying 10 fingers of bananas for less than 1 GHC, and finding that the banana lady threw an extra 2 fingers into the bag.
I love having the freedom to express my opinion and perspective, without censorship from anyone or anything, except my own conscience. And my husband, of course.
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8:40
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Every woman needs and deserves a bit of pampering now and again. Despite appearances to the contrary, I’m no exception. It has been ages since I’ve had a decent haircut (I’ve grumbled about that before), but I self-mutilate my hair whenever it needs it – kind of a band-aid approach – and that’s good enough. But I just adore getting my nails done because I just cannot do it myself; I’d be better off allowing Alex to do it for me. I almost never do my fingers, though, they’re far too busy with typing and cooking and a billion other things to be fixed up prettily cause I’ll be too anxious about spoiling them. But my tootsies deserve a soothing once in a while.
Yesterday was the once in a while. I had already decided earlier in the week that I wanted to do this, but kind of hemmed and hawed about money and time for a few days. Then the inefficiencies of Ghana Water Company and Ghana Electric Company conspired to drive me out of the house, so off to Yakels I went.
Yakels is a local beauty salon located in community 11. For a long time, I’d pass by it on my way to the butcher shop and really wanted to check it out. But I have to admit, I was kind of anxious about going in. It’s a great big white building, with blue tinted windows so that you couldn’t see in. The parking lot never had a car in it either, so that kind of made me a bit nervous. Why was it never busy? Was it expensive? Was it crap? I had to find out. The experience was, um, different.
Inside, everything is white, glass and chrome, with scattered bowls of sea shells and candles floating in water. Very pretty. Very American. They’ve even got the beauty salon de rigueur magazines on the table. You know the kind, the ones with the oddly shaped and geometrically-styled haircuts that no self-respecting middle-aged white woman would be caught dead in. In truth, even if I had wanted one of those haircuts, I couldn’t have gotten one there. They still can’t cut obroni hair.
So Belinda takes me back for a pedicure. I was hoping I wouldn’t be sitting in a plastic chair soaking my feet in a plastic basin, and my wishes were answered. It looks just like one of the pedicure chairs you’d find in the U.S. and that’s very comforting. Unlike in the states, though, the controls for the chair are in the hands of the staff. Now, I like to play with the remote, and see what the chair offers – you know, massage or heat. I’m thinking this remote has only up and down and back and forwards. Then Belinda asks if I want the massage feature. “Why not,” I say, I love those magic finger massage things. YIKES!!! It’s like someone stomping a half a dozen bocce balls into my spine! I’m practically jumping out of the seat. Fortunately, Belinda sees my discomfort (how could she not, I was practically jumping into her lap) and turns it off. Who the hell was this chair made for? Put this contraption in a chiropractor’s waiting room and he’s gonna make a fortune!
After I realign my back, I settle in and put my toes on the towel. I’m not really conversant with pedicure procedure, because she’s got to keep telling me what to do. “Please, put your foot in the water” or “put your foot here,” or “bend your ankle” or “your other foot now.” I’m pathetically clueless.
First order of the day is to file down my nails. I have to admit, I let them get kind of long. Instead of clipping them regularly I figure I’m eventually going to get a pedicure and I really want to get my money’s worth. As a result, they’re kind of lunatic long by the time I’m in the chair. This, by the way, is not scary to Belinda. A lot of Ghanaian woman have amazingly long toe nails. Freaky looking toe nails, if you want my opinion.
So she pulls out the nail file and starts filing. There’s no clipping here; if that’s what you want, you have to ask for it. Naturally, the filing doesn’t really shorten my nails, but at least they’re not lunatic long anymore. Once filed down, she gestures for me to put both feet into the basin which has got some of the hottest water you’ve ever felt and she squirts in some Palmolive soap to make it all bubbly. And I’m thinking (guiltily) that Alex would love this. Five minutes of soaking and she has me hoist one slippery foot up.
Then, the torture really begins. Holding firmly to my foot, she grabs a butter knife (you will never hold a butter knife in your hand ever again and think only of food) and starts to scrape the soles and sides of my feet. My tootsies are tender, and this to me is nothing short of an assault. But apparently, its how Ghanaian beauticians are taught to scrape off dead skin. You’re thinking “Ouch and yuchh” (in that order), right? “Have they no pumice?” you wonder. Yes! They have pumice and lava rocks and lotions that slough off dead skin, but apparently there’s a whole gauntlet of torture tactics that has to be run through, and this is just the first weapon.
I’ll spare you the rest of the gory details, suffice to say, it hurt. I’m sure an electric sander would have hurt less.
But then she moved into the next phase and that earlier pain was forgotten for this new pain. This was the torture tactic popularly known as cuticle cutting! Fortunately, she only cut me twice, once on each foot and they did stop bleeding before I left. The pain almost entirely went away, except when she whipped out the nail polish remover to take off the too-thick polish she attempted to put on me.
Finally, the time had arrived for putting on the polish. I had chosen a pretty bright orange, but then I also liked this lighter apricot polish with sparkles in it. I had a bright idea that the apricot could go over the orange polish, like pretty layers.
Only it didn’t work out like that. Belinda was more than willing to try it out, putting the first coat on. Only she discovered the polish was too thick and had to remove it, hence the repeat pain of the cut cuticle. But she came back with a thinned out version and went ahead and painted it the way I asked.
I hated it. It looked horrible; especially when she “cleaned” up the edges. It looked like all of my toe nails were bleeding, because you could only see the orange along the edges. Of course, me being the non-trouble-maker that I am, I told her it was “great.” Then I went home and took the nail polish off. All that fun for only 15 Ghana cedis.
I realize that getting a pedicure is kind of like having children. You don't remember anything about the pain when you see the beautiful result.
This was one ugly baby. I think I’ll let Alex have a go at it. It certainly can’t be any worse.
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3:03
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Water. Electricity. Electricity. Water. It’s a never-ending frustration. The last few weeks have been just hell on the utility front. Water has by far been the worst, with regular outages that last as long as two days. We just can’t seem to get caught up on our laundry because of it, and I am definitely leaning (practically falling over if you want the truth) towards getting a huge stack of paper plates. To hell with the trees and those tree huggers! Our two water barrels outside can only go so far, and I am judicious in allotting it for frivolous uses. “You want to wash your face? Let me look at ya. Ah, it’s not too bad, just let me spit on this tissue and wipe you down.” Oh, yeah, the kids love the rationing. NOT.
I’ve said it before: I love my showers and having the soles of my feet being cleansed of grit, sand and dust. When the weather is this hot, I may shower three or even four times a day, just to rinse off the sweat. (TMI? Sorry.) Ah, you’re wondering if we’re in a drought or something, right? Nope. This is the start of the rainy season, and it has been raining fairly consistently. As far as I know, the Weija and Kpong reservoirs are pretty full, thank you very much. Granted, there’s always a problem with the water lines and mains; they are old and gradually being replaced. But, no, the problem is that the workers of the recently privatized company that runs Ghana’s water system (Aqua Vitens) are having a work slow down. It’s not a Mother Nature issue. It’s a labor issue.
Here’s my opinion: Forget the mediation. Forget the arbitration. Give them whatever they want, for crying out loud. Now!
Oh, if only it were that easy.
Now, as for the electricity... who the hell knows what is going on? Every night, for the past several days, the electricity has been off, sometimes during the day, but more often at night. And when it is off, it generally stays off for between 30 minutes and 2 hours. Coincidentally, the night time outages always seem to occur during the hours when the children are propped up in front of the television watching the Bernie Mack show or Friends. They think it’s a conspiracy. Me, I think it’s just typical government ineptitude. It doesn’t matter whether the NPP or the NDC is in power; the little people are the ones getting screwed. I accept that the government has every right to screw their people. I’m an American, I’ve been screwed (we call it taxes, over there) so I’m not against getting screwed, in principle. I just want to be forewarned that I’m going to be screwed. This way I can prepare for it.
Are we doing load shedding again? I have no idea. They used to publish the dam levels in the local newspaper every day, but stopped when we were out of the danger zone. So, I’d assume that we’re still out of the danger zone. The most recent level I saw (on April 19th) was 10” below the maximum and 10” above the minimum water level. Seems to me we’re pretty okey dokey as far as water levels are concerned.
The load shedding issue was not fun, and a lot of people still have bad memories and continue to point fingers at the NPP administration which was in power then. Usually, those fingers were on the hands of a NDC person. So, you got to wonder, what do the NDC people say about this latest foray into load shedding (albeit “unofficial”), now that it’s happening on their watch? So far, there’s been no comment.
We’ve learned that when “lights off” happens at night, you may as well just give up all of hope of it being a momentary thing and go to bed. Sleep doesn’t come easy. So it’s best to just lie there and sweat in the heat until you become a puddle. Then get up and have a shower. Oh, wait a minute. I forgot. The water’s off, too. Shit.
ETA… I guess Vodaphone didn’t want to be left out; my internet connection has now been off for nearly 24 hours. Oh happy day.
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10:42
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
The other day, I was talking to Eric, Sly’s best friend, who called to see how Mike was doing. The first words out of his mouth were, “Man, and I thought Mike was Superman.” You know, we all did. But apparently, Mike’s kryptonite is a little thing called grass. Well, that’s my opinion anyway. Let me begin the story.
On Monday, May 18th, I went to the kids’ school to pick up Alex. Mike saw me and came running over (to get more money, as usual). He was covered in grass clippings, and explained that the PE teacher had assigned him and some other kids to help rake up the football pitch. He begged me to take him home, even though he still had another 2 hours of school. I wonder now if I had taken him home, if it might have prevented what happened later. Anyway, I didn’t take him home just then, and he kept on picking up grass. Later when he got home, he had a shower and showed me how there were even clipping inside his high top sneakers.
Friday
Fast forward to Friday, May 22nd. The kids don’t have school, and Mike wakes up a bit later than normal but comes out complaining about the mosquitoes in his room, and that “daddy” should spray when he comes home from work. Sure enough, he’s got about half a dozen bites on his back. Or so I thought. A few hours later, I see him squirming in the chair, and the bites have now spread over his back and around to his stomach. Obviously, they’re not bites; it’s a rash of some sort. I tell him to take another shower and give him a Benadryl. The rash gets worse as the day progresses.
Saturday
Saturday comes early, because at 5:00 a.m. Sly is waking me up because Mike’s rash is worse – its up into his neck and face and spreading down his legs and arms – and his hands and wrists are swollen. We decide to take him to our family doctor and head out. Mike’s not his usual jovial self, just sitting quietly in the car. We find we’ve arrived to the doctor’s office too early and we have to go sit somewhere to kill time.
Time killed, we’re back at the doctor’s office and are now second in line to see the doc. But, guess what? This is Ghana, and even doctors run on Ghana time. The office is supposed to open at 10:00 a.m. The doctor finally arrives around 11ish. When we finally go in, it’s a new doctor that we’ve never seen before. He has Mike sit in the chair next to him and without even touching him, or listening to his heart, or asking him to even remove his freaking shirt, the doctor declares: “It’s an allergy.” Let me tell you, it took all of my resolve not to yell out, “No shit.” At that point, Sly comes in to the room and the doctor quickly whips out his stethoscope to listen to Mike’s heart beat. Big deal.
Still declaring the allergy, he briefly interrogates us for new food that could be causing it but really, Mike hasn’t eaten anything different, with the exception of these little coffee creamers that I recently bought (you know, like the kind you get in restaurants with your coffee). He loves these things, and drank one on Wednesday and another on Thursday. He would probably have had more, but they cost me a fortune and I wouldn’t let him. Anyway, doc says he’ll put Mike on something called tab cetrizine and “personally” give him a hydrocortisone shot. Then we’re summarily dismissed. Oh, the doc did mention that if we didn’t see improvement, that we might want to come back on Monday to see the regular doctor. That left us with a warm and fuzzy. NOT.
Twenty minutes pass before we give up on the “personal” touch and beg a nurse to give Mike the injection. Then home we go.
Sunday
Sunday morning is another early day. Mike wakes up Sly because now his face is all swollen (really he looked like Marlon Brando in the Godfather!), his hands and wrists are still swollen, and the rash is red and itchy and spreading to the palms of his hands and the soles of his feet. With a call in to Dr. Renner (Alex’s pediatrician) we’re off to Korle Bu emergency ward.
The stuff that you have got to go through to be seen at Korle Bu is mind boggling. Fortunately, the call to Dr. Renner paved the way, and she gave us the names of the doctors to ask for. Even more fortunate, I spotted one of the residents who is training in endocrinology and she guided us through the maze.
First, you have to buy a folder from the folder man. Cost GHC 3.
Second, you bring the folder to the folder desk, where a woman completes a history and contact information sheet.
Third, you see a nurse who takes your temperature and logs in your weight. Cost 10 pesawas.
Finally, you track down a doctor. We got lucky because Sly was regaling some of the residents with the story of the lazy/apathetic/couldn’t-be-bothered doctor we’d seen the day before, so that set the stage for a very thorough examination.
The diagnosis remained the same: Allergy to “something.” But the treatment was admission, with regular hydrocortisone injections and a drip (because Mike wasn’t eating – surprise surprise!), and continuation of the cetrizine (which I discovered is – ta da! – Zyrtec).
Mike is so not a happy camper. He’s weak, his legs can hardly hold him, his face is fatter and puffier than normal and his rash is itching like crazy. We take him up to the ward and we get our “favorite” room: The Amenity Ward.
The Amenity Ward looks just the same, except for one major improvement: the addition of a television! Yippee! Give Mike a TV and a couple of 40-year old cartoons and he’s as happy as a pig in doo doo. Who cares if he’s got a needle stuck in his arm? “Get out of the way! Tom and Jerry’s on!”
So Mike is on a drip, getting hydrocortisone injections every 6 hours and they’ve given him an injection of adrenaline to counteract the rash. Fun, right?
Now we had not prepared for an overnight stay, and there was no way we could go home and bring stuff back, so we had to make do with what we had. Sly and Sean stayed and kept him company and Alex and I drove back home.
Sly had to do a lot of running around. As I’ve said in my older Korle Bu blogs, the parent is the nurse, and the dietician and the janitor. So Sly had to go up and down the 66 steps at least 5 or 6 times, until Mike was settled in for the night. On the list of stuff to buy: Bowls, spoons, washcloth, toothbrushes, toothpaste, water, juice, snacks, phone cards, etc. By the time Mike was settled in for the night, I bet Sly was ready to fall out from exhaustion.
Monday
Mike’s been off the drip, but continued to get the hydrocortisone shots through the port, and he is feeling better. They are all anxious to go home, and the doctors give the approval, since the rash seems to be subsiding and the swelling has diminished. They give us a prescription for Prednisone to continue at home. At about 4:00 p.m. we’re signed out and ready. But there’s a catch. They don’t have the bill that we have to pay before we’re permitted to leave. And, oh, the billing office is closed. Sly, of course, doesn’t stand for that kind of crap, so he calls Dr. Renner and tells her we’re all leaving and he’ll be back the next day to settle up the bill. The nurse warns Sly that the guards might prevent us from going, and he shoots her a “what are you, stupid?” look. We leave. Unaccosted. We’re home by 8:00 p.m. and hit the hay, all of us exhausted.
Tuesday
Mike isn’t any better. The swelling is back in full force. He can hardly see through his eyes, they’re so puffy and slitted. We drop the kids off at school, Sly off at work and Mike and I head back to the hospital. We call Dr. Renner (who is, by the way, supposed to be on holiday) and she says she’ll alert the ward that we’re on our way back.
Yup, you guessed right. We’re readmitted, and Mike is put back on the hydrocortisone injection and they double his Zyrtec and once he complained of tightness in his throat, but I gave him a puff on my inhaler and that helped immediately. Over the course of the day, he slowly got better, but we still had to stay overnight.
Again, we didn’t plan for an overnight. I had on a long linen dress – not the most comfortable thing to sleep in, believe me. And we had to buy more bowls, more washcloths, more toothbrushes and toothpaste. And this time Mommy had to go prowling through the neighborhood for sardines and kenkey and waakye. I’m sure that was a funny sight – the tall obroni in the heavily wrinkled dress standing in the waakye line.
Wednesday
We’re released. Mike looks better, the rash has stopped spreading and the swelling is no worse than it was the day before. No better either, but no worse. Sly is declaring that the bill better be ready before we go and that we’re leaving at 1:00 p.m. sharp. Well, that spurs them into action, a little bit, but by 1:30 we’re still empty handed. The woman in the other bed with her infant son tells us that another patient who was discharged waited nearly 8 hours for her bill, then went to the billing office, dashed the clerk something and she had the bill within the hour. Sly does not dash. Sly gets angry. Then Sly leaves.
And that’s what we did. We left the building without paying and went home.
Here it is Friday and Mike is still home with us. I’ve gotten on the internet to do my own investigation and I learn that Benadryl is better than Zyrtec, because it works faster and is more “powerful” so we’ve been giving that to Mike instead and it’s helped a lot. We decided to give him the Prednisone last night before bed, and that kept the swelling at bay.
Now, there are a couple of complaints about joint pain in his shoulder and legs, but I’m not taking him back to Korle Bu. We’ve had enough for this year. Let’s hope.
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8:08
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Break down isn’t exactly the right wording. Better it should be called the “break off,” ‘cause that’s what happened. Yesterday, Sly calls to tell me that the SOS school called him because Alexandra forgot her PE clothes. It was just after 1:00 p.m. anyway, and she gets out at 2:00 so I tell him I’ll bring it and just wait for her to close. I hop in the car and she’s waiting there already for the uniform handover.
At 2:00 she’s eager and ready to leave, and I decide we’ll head over to the butcher shop in Community 10 (11? I never can keep track of these communities) and buy some luncheon meat. It’s really mystery meat, but my kids like it and it fries up a little like Taylor ham, so it’s worth the trip. We leave and head home. At the intersection that we’d normally cross, the traffic light isn’t working and the cars on the primary road NEVER give the cars on the secondary road a chance to come through. There’s no such thing as a 4-way stop or all flashing red traffic light. It’s more like every man for himself.
Well, I’m behind a van who is dilly dallying at the intersection, and I decide to make a right turn and go to the next traffic light and then make a left. Normally, I’d go straight across, but this just seemed easier. As I get to the intersection the light is red for me, so I move into the left land and put my turn signal on. Now, I might have mentioned this before, but Ghanaian drivers generally don’t understand the concept of driving courteously. It really is dog-eat-dog on the streets of Tema. But I spot my chance, as a big white 18 wheeler is slowly approaching the light and I know there’s just enough time for me to make the turn in front of him.
And then. THUNK. Make, that a very loud THUNK. And the car doesn’t move. Fortunately, we didn’t move even an inch forward, so I wasn’t in the lane of oncoming traffic, but I was pretty frighteningly close. I couldn’t move the car at all. Another car makes a turn in front of me, and the female driver (who turns out to be an SOS parent with an SOS kid in the back of her car) tells me that something fell off the car. I resist the urge to yell “D’oh!” Another driver in a pick-up also motions that something fell, and I yell out to him, “Can you help me get out of the intersection?”
Miracle of miracles. He stops and gets out. He is going to push me and Alex, in our big-ass mini van, through the traffic light. One thing about Ghanaians, they can really rally to help in an emergency. Within minutes, there were 6 guys helping to push the car through the intersection; one of them ran back and grabbed the thing that had fallen off the car and handed it to me through the open window.
Meanwhile, I’m screaming at Alex to take my cell phone and “Call Daddy!” I know I don’t have enough units to call him for more than a few seconds; I’ve only got about 35 pesawas worth of credit. But Sly picks up and I shout that it’s an emergency and he should call me back. Seconds later, I’m yelling (my adrenaline was really kicking into high gear at this point) that the “shaft” fell off the car and I’m stuck and that a bunch of guys are pushing us to a safe spot.
Sly is somewhat directionally challenged, so it takes a couple of minutes for him to understand exactly where I am but eventually he figures it out. He assures me he’ll send Ekow and call the mechanic and that he’s on his way.
The guys who pushed me are still hanging around, and I know they’re waiting for a tip or something. But the fact is I am flat broke. I’ve got a single cedi to my name, plus half a kilo of mystery meat and 4 melting fruit juice bars. I doubt that that is going to go over big. Instead, I get out and offer firm handshakes and giant thank yous all around and that, fortunately, suffices. They all scatter to the four winds.
Did I mention that Alex was low at this point? We had tested her blood sugar only minutes before, and fortunately, there are a couple of juice bars turning into a puddle, so she’s at least got sustenance. But her diabetes and sugar levels are just another complication to add to my increasing stress level.
Ten minutes later, Ekow pulls up and runs back to the car, heading toward the driver’s side. I guess Sly neglected to tell him about the broken shaft. When he sees that, his eyes roll back into his head and he realizes that the car ain’t going anywhere. A minute later, the mechanic pulls up. He sees it’s the shaft and he’s not happy. You see, that shaft was just put into the car – by him – less than 2 weeks ago. So what happened?
We’re only 10 minutes away from the house (on foot) and Alex has now got a juice bar and a juice box in her system – definitely more than enough sugar – so we leave the driver and mechanic and head home.
Alex, who is definitely wiser than her 8 years, says to me, “It could have been worse.” Yes, it really could have. I could have been on the Motorway doing 65 mph when the shaft broke. Or I could have made that left hand turn in front of the 18 wheeler and stopped dead right in front of him. Or or or or or… there’s a lot of ors to this one.
This intersection appears to have it in for me. It’s the same one we were at when the taxi we were riding in broke down
last year. Apparently, though, my guardian angel was with me, yet again. Thank God.
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9:55
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
I’m a huge fan of X-Men. The movies, I mean, not the comic books. Yes, they’ve all got a great plot, neat-o special effects and terrific actors. But Hugh Jackman just makes my blood run hot. Dang, that man is all of that! You better believe that when I saw that X-Men Origins: Wolverine was listed as playing at the Silverbird Theatre in the Accra Mall (the only real movie theatre in all of Ghana, by the way), I was going to be there! And let me tell you how exciting it is to have actual first run movies playing here in Ghana! Oh yes, we can get DVDs of new movies only days after they’re released elsewhere in the world, but they’ve all got Chinese subtitles and the audio never quite meshes with the video. It’s really not the same.
So, the plan was, me and the kiddies would go on Monday to the 10:25 a.m. showing, because it’s least crowded and then afterward we could cruise around the mall a bit. Early (6:45) that morning, hubby called Ekow, our taxi driver, and gave him instructions to pick us up at the house by 9:00 a.m. sharp. A tad on the early side, I know, but you have to give Ghanaian taxi drivers some leeway, because no matter what time you tell them you need them by, they are going to be late.
By 9:00 a.m., we were all packed and ready and my kids were getting antsy. (They love a good movie, too.) Then at 9:15 (note the time well, please) my cell phone rang.
Me: Hello
Ekow: Madam, it’s Ekow. I’m going to be late.
Me: "You're already late" and "What else is new?" were the two responses that immediately came to mind, but I held back. Ekow, where are you now?
Ekow: Well, I had to take a passenger to Legon, so I’m on the Motorway now. I’m about 15 minutes from you.
Me: Where exactly on the Motorway are you?
Ekow: Well, I’m near the roundabout.
Me: Which roundabout?
Ekow: The Tetteh Quarshie roundabout. (Which is the other side of the Motorway, and I’m asking him this because the Accra Mall – which is where we’re headed – is about 200 yards from the Tetteh Quarshie roundabout.)
Me: So have you paid the toll yet?
Ekow: Well, I’m not exactly on the Motorway yet. I’m in Legon on the road to the Motorway.
Me: Oh.
Ekow: There’s a lot of traffic. (Again, so what else is new?) But I’ll be there in 15 minutes. (Only if he's got a helicopter. Legon is about 35 minutes away from us in zero traffic, so I don’t think so.)
Me: Ekow, forget about picking us up. We had a specific time that we had to be at the Accra Mall and you will not be able to get here in time. Just pull into the mall parking lot and wait for us.
======================
Yeah, I know, I could have waited for him, and we could have gone to a later showing, but really, I am so sick and tired of disappointing the kids because of someone else's indifference. So, we rushed out of the house and flagged down a taxi. Of course, that wasn’t difficult because as soon as we stepped through the gate, taxi drivers started honking their horn (“Oh look, a rich obroni! Beep! Beep! Beep!”). The lucky taxi driver tells me it will be GHC 12 to take us to the mall. I counter with GHC 10, since I had just asked Ekow this question before we hung up. Grumbling, lucky driver accepts GHC 10. Good, because I’m sure there’s some other taxi driver understudy waiting in the wings.
Lucky taxi driver gets us to the mall by 10:00 a.m., so we’ve got a little time to kill before we go up to the movie theatre. Our intent is to not buy at the theatre concession stand, because just like in America, it’s a freaking rip-off. We head over to Shop Rite and buy nice cold sodas that I carry (hide) in my purse. I always travel with a pretty big bag, so at least I don’t look conspicuous.
Up we go to the theatre and pay our GHC 31 – American movie, American prices, my friends. GHC 10 for me and GHC 7 for each of the kids. No bargain matinee deal at all. We’re ready, except for one thing: Popcorn! The machine is being repaired. This is a problem. My kids enjoy the popcorn equally as much as the movie, and without it, it’s just like, well, like staying home! I’m assured by the Ghanaian manager of the concession stand that the popcorn machine will be working any minute now. Oh, boy. I don’t even want to try to interpret “any minute now” for my kids.
We head on up to our seats (popcorn-less) and find that it’s just the four of us in the whole theatre. A few minutes pass and three girls come in (and it turns out that they’re from the same school as my kids – small world, huh?!) Then an older obroni gentleman takes a seat. The 10:25 a.m. showing of Wolverine Origins had all of eight people in it.
We’re sitting there pulling out our (illicit, non-theatre-purchased) sodas when all of a sudden – LIGHTS OUT!! The theatre went pitch black. No lights on the floor to lead us out, no emergency lighting system activated, no nothing. Pitch.Black. After a few minutes, a lantern is brought in and placed on the bottom step. Yeah, that helps. Not.
Alex and I make our way down to the lobby to check on the popcorn progress. Nothing. Because the popcorn machine runs on electric and there’s LIGHTS OUT! Back up into the heat and gloom to our seats. Finally, after about ten minutes, the lights come back on, the air conditioner cranks up and the previews start to roll.
Now, if we’d been in America we would have been treated to at least half a dozen previews, and then, maybe then, the popcorn would be ready before the movie started. As it is, we get only two previews, and then the movie begins. And just as the music starts, the popcorn smell wafts up from the lobby. And the kids start the litany, “Mom, we want our popcorn.” And lucky mom gets to miss the whole first seven minutes of Wolverine's origin while buying 4 little (expensive) bags of popcorn. Oh well, I guess I’ll watch for the pirated DVD version on the streets. Heck, it’ll be cheaper than buying another movie ticket!
On second thought, Hugh Jackman on the big screen, in all his glory (and yes, it was all pretty glorious, especially the waterfall scene)… hmmm… maybe GHC 10 isn’t so much money after all. (Note to self: Next time, remember to bring binoculars for said waterfall scene.) And maybe I’ll still buy the DVD… for the kids.
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3:32
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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My kids and I love pizza. When we were back in the States it wasn’t unusual to order a couple of cheese pizzas every week. It was lovely not to have to cook, and to actually have someone bring something hot and gooey and cheesy right to our front door.
Alas, fast forward 5+ years, and pizza delivery is no more. Ghana has pizza, if that’s what you want to call it, but it’s not the same as a good ol’ Jersey pie – or even a Maryland pie for that matter. One place that we've gone to -- Rendezvous in Tema -- has something that they call pizza and my kids (okay, not Sean, who knows better) will eat it if we order it, but I absolutely refuse to order their pepperoni pizza. A sliced up hot dog (from a can, mind you) is absolutely not a suitable substitute for pepperoni to this Jersey girl.
So, in the interest of gastric satisfaction, I had no choice but to learn to make pizza myself. It has been a lot of trial and error, because while you can get the mozzarella cheese here (at the whopping price of GHC 7 or about $7 for a less than ½ lb. wedge), the sauce has either got to be homemade or a little jar of Ragu sauce (equivalent $3.50) from the local (rip-off) supermarket, Evergreen. Generally, its cheaper for me to make homemade sauce, fresh tomatoes being relatively inexpensive, but some days I just don't have hours to spare and when its like that, I fork over the GHC 3.50 and suppress the guilt over the astronomical expense.
But, as every pizza connoisseur knows, it’s the crust that makes or breaks a pizza. No, we don’t have Boboli here, or any of these ready-made pizza kits that you can buy during fund raisers (what I wouldn’t give for the convenience of one of those, though). You can buy some kind of doughy thing that is supposed to turn into a pizza crust, but in my experience (and my oven), it hasn’t yet become something edible.
So, off I went to the world of recipes in search of a good one for pizza dough. And where should I find one, but in this odd little recipe book from the United Kingdom entitled Great Chicken Dishes! Now, my kids are not much for smoked chicken anything, so the recipe for Smoked Chicken, Yellow Pepper & Sun-dried Tomato Pizzettte wasn't going to go down (figuratively or literally) with them. But the pizzette dough recipe sounded doable and I had all of the ingredients already -- flour, salt, yeast, olive oil and lukewarm water (well, yesterday, at least, we had water). With some modifications – addition of oregano, pepper flakes and garlic powder – it was pretty easy and ultimately delish, if I do say so myself. Throw some sliced pepperoni on top (real pepperoni, not canned hot dogs), and it actually looks like a pizza!
Just wait till I open up my own restaurant here, starring homemade pizza! I’ll have ‘em (the obronis, that is) beating down my door. In the meantime – for those of you in Ghana looking for the “real” deal (as opposed to Pizza Inn), you’ll just have to come on over to my house. You're invited!
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6:05
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Courtesy Google Earth, taken some time in 2008.
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Well, we made it onto Google Earth. Or should I say our Dawhenya house has made it onto Google Earth. Finally.
Dawhenya house, from the front, taken March 22, 2009.
As some of you may know, while we’re living here in Ghana, we’re building our “dream villa” – a 14 room home located in the Tema suburb of Dawhenya or Dawenya, depending on which signpost you're passing. In any event, its a part of the Prampram tribal area. When we first bought the property, oh about 15 years ago or so, we bought each plot for the equivalent of $50. Each plot measures 100 x 80 and we bought 8 plots. Combined, the lot is just shy of an acre of land. About 5 years ago, a developer bought a boat load of land nearby and began readying the property for housing. They started selling the individual plots – land only, no improvements – for $15,000 a plot. That was priced in USD, by the way. You do the math.
So, we’ve been diligently working on our property, but the truth is it’s a very slow process. We do what we can when we have the money to do it. Just recently, we finished putting terrazzo down in the entire house. We figured it was a lot cheaper than trying to tile the property, and it looks pretty nice. It took forever. And it cost about $3,000 (personally, I think the terrazzo guy underestimated his labor costs, but that’s not really my problem).
What will be the front porch, floor unpolished.
What will be the dining room, unpolished floor.
What will be the dining room, floor finished.
What will be the living room, unpolished floor.
What will be the kitchen, unpolished floor.
What will be the kitchen, floor finished.
Our bedroom balcony.
View from our bedroom balcony. This used to be entirely farm land.
In those pictures, some of the floors weren't yet polished, but that was finished just this past week. You'll have to use your imagination to envision how it might look, but you should be able to see from the size of the rooms, that the house is pretty big. Big enough to play soccer in -- for now anyway, but if Sean tries that when its done, he's gonna be sorry.
And I know, its a sad commentary that the windows are barred like that, but no matter what security precautions you have in place, there will always be armed robbery in Ghana. Beside the "burglar proof" we'll have barbed wire on top of the walls (Sly originally wanted an electrical fence -- kikiriki as they call it here -- but that idea fortunately dissipated) but we'll put up bougainvillea to beautify it, at least.
All told, we’ve probably sunk somewhere between $300,000 and $400,000 into the house. That’s in cash. We don’t have any loans or liens on the house. The mortgage loan or home improvement loan sector of this country has never developed to the extent that it has in the United States. And I’m pretty sure that that’s not a bad thing, given the crap going on in the rest of the world. But even if we did want to get a loan, the interest rates here are closer to unsecured credit card rates rather than a secured loan; we’re talking like 25%.
Picture of the back of the house, taken April 12, 2006
Picture of the back of the Dawhenya House, taken May 26, 2007.
Picture of the back of the Dawenya house, taken March 22, 2009.
So, where we are with the work on the Dawhenya house is windows in, floors finished, roof on, burglar proof up, electricity working, water running. Next stop door frames and doors (we used to have door frames, but decided we didn't like the quality of the wood so we pulled 'em all out, that's why the entrance ways look so raggedy), ceiling, plumbing, electrical fixtures. And then we're in. And I'm so ready.
The road in front of our house is a main inter-country highway; it’s supposed to, some day in the future, connect North Africa with South Africa. But it was a red dirt road for the longest time and only in the past 3 years did it finally get tarred. Up until a few months ago, Google Earth still showed a dirt road, and our house was just a vacant lot.
But now, at least you can see the whole lot, house and all, courtesy of our friends at Google and Nasa. And that’s really good news, because I think a lot of my family thought this house was merely a figment of our imaginations.
Courtesy Google Earth. Finally.
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5:58
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Larceny, or simple thievery, is a sad fact of life here in Ghana. I am sure that it’s not particular to this part of the world, and that any and every developing county has its clear division of the Haves and Have-Nots. My husband and I, apparently to the minds of some quasi-socialist-leaning/Robin-Hood-Wannabee Ghanaians, clearly fall into the former category. In my opinion, we’re fast on our way to becoming a Have-Not.
On our very first trip to Ghana, back in the winter of 1990, I recall the first incident when we were “ripped-off,” to put it, if not politely, at least succinctly. I had with me a very nice Sony Walkman (which I had found on a park bench in New York City) to play the dozen cassette tapes I had brought along to pass the time. Remember, this is 1990 and there was only one television station which broadcast only in the evening. I left the Walkman in a drawer in my bedroom. Unfortunately, my (at that time) 13 year old step-son was playing with it and forgot to put it back where he had found it (and what he was doing inside my drawer, I will never know). He left it in plain sight on top of the dresser, or so he said. Later that day, after an electrician had come to the house to repair our ceiling fan, we noticed its disappearance. Easy come, easy go, right?
Sly had forewarned me that theft was very common, and I should always keep my stuff locked up. He told me a very entertaining story of an electrician who was fixing a light switch in his mother’s room who, with one foot wedging the door closed, was able to reach into the dresser and paw through her valuables. This was seen through her bedroom window by her daughter, by the way, so he didn’t get away with the theft. You know, in retrospect, it’s not so funny.
But, alas, that first incident of theft that touched us was not to be the last. There have been many (way too many) cases of pilfering in between then and now. I wish I could say that the thefts were all perpetrated by strangers. I want to say that. But I’m really not sure that would be the truth.
In some incidences, the theft occurred in the house we were staying at. When we moved to Ghana, we shipped all of our worldly possessions here. From the first house (my sister-in-law’s) in Mataheko then to the next house (another sister-in-law’s) to still another (my brother-in-law’s), those boxes have moved around a lot. Now, during each move, I was pretty vigilant about watching for someone rooting through my stuff, so I don’t believe a mover took anything. But I do recall that some things that were packed away – deep inside these big boxes – are the only things that are missing. Who’d have had the time to dig? Was it family, friends of my nephews or the house boy or house girl? All I know is that some things are missing. Actually, a whole lot of things.
The ones that sadden me the most with their loss are the things with sentimental value like the Hallmark Christmas decorations that I had collected when my children were babies – you know, Baby’s First Christmas 1995. Or the electric saw, drill and handmade tool box that my Dad gave me before he died; he said every home needed basic tools and these were his that he wanted to pass down to me. They may have seemed like trinkets and junk, but they were precious to me.
I really don’t know the full extent of the things that were stolen, and that’s because almost all of our stuff is still packed away in boxes. Eventually, when our Dawhenya house is finally finished, I’ll have to dig it all out and put it away and then I’ll have a clearer inventory of what we’ve got left. It doesn’t seem as much as when we first moved, though. Clearly, there’s been some attrition.
Some of the things that were stolen just had me shaking my head. Food from our pantry stock or freezer was always going missing – even food that we’d cooked and left on the stove to reheat later would mysteriously be depleted. We never could pin the theft on anyone until the one time we left the house for a few hours. We were staying in Nungua, at my sister-in-law’s house, where Sly oversaw her pure water business. The live-in “house girl” was a middle-aged woman named Mawuse, who was the sole financial support for her unemployed (and unfortunately, often drunk) husband and three daughters.
We had a large upright freezer in the kitchen, and when we got home from wherever it was we had gone to, I noticed that the freezer had started to thaw, and all of the food inside was defrosting. Then I noticed that Mawuse was sitting in her kitchen (which is a room adjacent to our kitchen), and that along side her was a large bucket of water inside which were several ice blocks – our ice blocks. When she helped herself to them, she failed to notice that our toaster’s electrical cord dropped down, and prevented the freezer door from closing fully.
Now, I know what you’re thinking, “That’s kind of petty,” so why am I nitpicking? Well, it’s the principle of the thing! If Mawuse had asked if she could have some ice blocks, I’d have handed them over. No biggie. I’m really not cheap. I and Sly would often offer her or her kids food that we’d cooked. If we sent her or the girls to the store it was always with a “Thanks, and keep the change.” I also quite often gave her dresses and sandals for her teenage girls that I didn’t wear/need/like. And these weren’t hand-me-downs, because there was nothing wrong with them, just that they weren’t me. But, that! The ice blocks… I just didn’t get that.
After that, we put a lock on the kitchen door, and she didn’t have any access. All of the kitchen cleaning, cooking and dishes were done by me anyway, so it was no great loss.
Speaking of great losses, here’s a list (not all inclusive) of what has (so far) gone missing.
Sony Walkman
Hallmark Christmas decorations
Bed sheets – Sponge Bob (2 fitted)
Craftsman circular saw
Craftsman electric drill
Hand made tool box and miter box
Fisher Price power wheels ride on kids’ car
HP Photo printer, brand new in box, ran on 110 voltage – hope the thief paid a fortune for a transformer!
Electrical outlet boxes and switches (new, never used – $600 worth – from our as of yet unfinished house)
Various car parts – stolen from inside the car and from the garage
Plants in different growth stages, which we were nursing
Clothes – right off the clothes line
Television/VCR combo
Wooden doors and door frames (from our as of yet unfinished house)
Bags of cement and loose gravel
VHS tapes
Dozens of music CDs that Sly burned from friends’ collections
Cell phone – this was taken from Sly’s car while he was driving it
Gameboy Advance plus miscellaneous GBA games – recovered, because we knew the suspect and confronted him at his school with the evidence
And last (on this particular list), but not least (yet probably the funniest): Diet Pepsi.
The Diet Pepsi Saga: We had all gone to Dawhenya for the morning so that the kids could play soccer in the dirt or ride their bikes, which we had brought along with us. We also took a cooler bag with juices, bottled water, beer and a couple of diet sodas. There wasn’t any flowing water on the property yet, but we captured rain water that sluiced off the roof in large oil drums. We allowed the (then) caretaker (see above) to have his workers collect water for their work (block making factory), which was right outside of the property wall. Well, this one worker comes in and he’s pushing a wheelbarrow with a couple of empty buckets in it. I can see him pretty well, as I’m on the upper floor watching the kids play. He’s shirtless, wearing a pair of cut-off shorts and flip flops; on his head is a home-made hat, fashioned out of a cement bag. I don’t want to discuss the health implications of this right now (or ever, for that matter). Anyway, heading toward the house, the hat stayed on his head perfectly well. But as he’s leaving the house, I happened to notice that he’s clutching the hat with one hand, as if to hold it on his head from a strong wind gust and was struggling to push the wheelbarrow with his other hand. Not an easy task, I’m afraid. I really didn’t think anything of it… until we were on our way home. I went into the cooler bag to get my Diet Pepsi from it, and its missing. I ask Sly and the kids if they drank it. Negative, all around. I know no one else was on the property with us. The light bulb blinks on – that worker with the cement hat. That’s why he was holding onto the hat! He had a can of soda hidden under there! I’m prepared to let it go and chalk it up to experience. But not Sly. Sly drops us off at home and goes back and confronts the guy. First the guy denies it. Then, the other workers come out of the woodwork to point the finger at him. Then he admits it, and begs for mercy. This should be straight out of the stupid crooks handbook.
We’ve also been the victim of monetary theft, though not in the “gimme all your money at gun point” sense. Sly is as generous a man as you could ever meet. If he has the money and you need it, he will give it to you. There are several examples of this, where he’s been asked for a loan – 500 Ghana cedis here, a few hundred cedis there and 50 cedi loans more times than I care to remember. The vast majority of the people he’s loaned money to come up with excuses or evasions, but no money. I doubt we’ll see it.
Just some more examples of the Ghanaian socialistic realignment of assets, I guess. I wish it weren’t so. I want to say that you get used to the stealing, but I never do. Should I? Should I have to?
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9:23
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
This past week has been hell here in Tema. On Sunday, near about lunch time, the electricity went out. We have a name for it here in Ghana; it’s called “Lights Off.” During the daytime, it’s annoying, but you can live/deal with it. You can leave the house if it gets too hot, or have a shower to cool you down. At night time, it’s infinitely worse. There’s no ceiling fan or air conditioning, and there’s little or no breeze blowing in. You can only be “comfortable” if you sleep in the absolute barest minimum of clothes, i.e. your tighty whities. Even a lightweight sheet is too hot, and will soon be sweated through. As you’re lying in bed, awake because it’s too hot to sleep, you hear the droning and buzzing of mosquitoes near your head. All thoughts of possible sleep are dismissed. You’re not only hot, but you’re going to wind up with malaria.
We have a portable generator, so we had no intention of suffering with night time Lights Off. Well, that’s what we thought, anyway. Once a few hours had passed, we expected that this problem might be of longer duration than originally anticipated, so we went out and bought gasoline to power up the generator. Except that the battery wouldn’t turn over. No biggie. We jump started it and got it going. Except that the toggle switch wouldn’t work. Yeah, our generator could roar, but only with impotent rage.
So, Monday comes, and the kids trot off to school in wrinkled school uniforms, and Sly and I throw on whatever is not too wrinkled and race out the door soon afterward. No sense staying indoors when there’s no electricity. We head over to Prampram Beach and enjoy the cool ocean breezes (not to mention a couple of bottles of Star beer).
When we get home, we find that the situation has not improved. In fact, it’s worsened; now, not only no electricity, but no water. What that means is that we simply have to bucket bathe and for that we’ve got a barrel of water outside the house. Except that someone forgot to fill it the last time and it’s only half full. That means, absolutely only essential flushing, and no dish washing or clothes washing or non-essential (i.e. cooling off shower as opposed to a get rid of this stench shower) bathing.
Monday afternoon, finally around 3:30 pm, the lights come back on. Thank God for small favors. We can at least watch television and iron our clothes, and I can stop panicking about Alex’s insulin. Water is still off, but I’ve got a ton of clean dishes and we can just all have a quick single bucket bath before bedtime.
Tuesday morning and the water is finally turned back on. Yippee!! I’m up at 5:00 and doing dishes that have piled up in every nook and cranny (it’s amazing how much mess 5 people can make!) and even inside the oven. Meanwhile, I’ve got Sly standing outside in the dark refilling the barrel and a load of laundry running in the machine (school uniforms, natch). I really don’t trust the water company.
Later on, I learn that my distrust in Ghana Water Company is not misplaced. Sure enough, by noon, the water is turned back off. I have got a pile of dirty laundry that is taller than Mike. Around 3:00 pm, the electricity goes off. Again.
One thing that I really hate is not knowing why. I’d still be annoyed, but at least my anger would have a direction and not be so generalized. Sly tells me that he heard that a transformer blew out somewhere in Tema, and that all of Tema on this side of the main road has a problem. I’m not exactly comforted by that knowledge.
Tuesday evening as dusk falls, I figure we’re in for another night of lights off. We tried to reach an electrician to come and fix our generator except that his phone is shut off. We sit outside for a breeze, and watch as a storm comes in from the west which never reaches us. Just before we go to sleep, the lights come back on. Still no water, though, but at least our barrel is mostly full.
And that’s how it’s been all week long. Bouts of lights off, then water off, sometimes both off together – it’s scary if we can have a few hours where both are actually on. Even as I sit here now, Friday afternoon waiting for the kids to come home, the water has been turned off yet again.
As Rosanna Rosannadanna used to say on Saturday Night Live, “If it ain’t one thing it’s another.”
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9:27
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
This past Saturday morning, the kids’ school held a sponsored walk/fund raiser in celebration of the school’s 30th anniversary. Over the past month of so, we’ve been systematically hounded in turn by each child to have the sponsor card filled out. The promise and lure of great big prizes to the kid who brought in the most sponsors was no doubt the reason behind it. Either that, or their fear (truly, more like scared-to-death abject terror) of “Heady” as the kids “fondly” call the headmaster, Mr. Yemoah (behind his back, of course).
But their protestations and begging fell on very deaf (and somewhat poor) ears, so we ignored them until almost the very last minute. Then we quickly added a couple of names to the card just to look like we tried. Of course, we added ourselves in first position for a donation of GHC 10 each. My friend Leslie agreed to sponsor GHC 5 for each, and our other friends, Herbie and Eric, and Sly’s brother Julius agreed (though they didn’t know it yet) to sponsor the kids for GHC 2 each.
Well, that was the original plan. Unfortunately, besides our “donation” we were required to purchase specially made tee shirts and hats for each of the kids, for an additional GHC 9.50 each. Grand total for all 3 kids GHC 57.50. Money being a bit on the tight side, we told the kids to forget the new 30th anniversary tee shirts, and wear their other SOS tee shirts. “No,” they all cried, “it’s compulsory.” Headyphobia.
New plan: Scratch out donation of GHC 10 and bring that down to GHC 2, then we can afford the tee shirts and hats. Hmmm. Now we look like schlemiels, because here these are our kids and someone else is donating more money. I don’t think so. Scratch Leslie and change her to GHC 2 each. She’ll thank me for it, I’m sure.
There. That’s better. Now every kid has the nice round figure of a GHC 10 donation and they can buy the tee shirt and hat. Believe it or not, all of the kids are happy about this plan. Go figure.
So 6:30 a.m. comes for the morning of the walk, and I hustle the kids out the door. Sly opts to stay home, despite all of my pleading. Sean is dressed in his “cool” attire meaning new SOS tee shirt and big black canvas pants worn as Otto Pfisterish as I’ll allow (i.e. below his butt, gangsta style), Mike wears his tee shirt with khaki shorts and Alex wears her tee with a pair of jeans – high water jeans, I’d like to point out (this kid is growing like a weed) that she refused to change – even though I told her it would be hot. Another example of Headyphobia – he (or should it be He?) told them all to wear the tees and jeans.
I don’t have a sponsored walk tee shirt and Mike and Alex both warn me that I’m not going to be allowed to walk. Puhleeeze. I’m not afraid of Heady. Okay, I’m not that afraid of Heady. But there is no way I’m not going, because someone has to be with Alex for entire walk.
Now, our “paper” said the walk was going to be between the school and the Evergreen Supermarket in Community 4. That’s not too bad. That’s really just a hop, skip and a jump, probably only about a mile. I’ve walked that before. And I’ve got my Keds on, so it won’t be too bad. I notice a lot of the other mommy have the same sneakers I’ve got, too. Good, I don’t look like too much of a doofus, then.
At 7:00 a.m. we’re all off on the walk. I’m not really good at guessing numbers, but I’m thinking there are at least 300 kids, teachers and parents. At the front of the “parade” is a flatbed truck from a local radio station which is very loudly playing music. Unfortunately, they’re moving at a snail’s pace and it’s not long before my long legs have carried us from the back of the line to the front of the line. I’m a Jersey girl; we walk fast in Jersey – there’s purpose, not meandering. I’ve got to shorten my stride and even shuffle along, just to stay within the pack.
Then something happens; the hop, skip and a jump walk I was expecting doesn’t materialize. This becomes evident when we all turn off the main road. I want to yell, “That way to Evergreen” and point straight ahead. But, okay, I’m game. As I said, I’ve got my Keds. Ahead of us is Heady, and he’s taking pictures of the walkers. He sees me and Alex and comes to shake my hand, then he bends down and asks Alex, “Where’s your daddy? Is he home sleeping?” Heady and Daddy went to high school together. "Something like that," I tell him and he laughs out loud. That is a first, by the way. Maybe even ever.
Staying at the rear of the pack becomes the norm after only a few minutes. Alex has not only got shorter legs than I do, but she’s incapacitated by a crazily fluctuating blood sugar. About ¾ of a mile into the walk, she’s thirsty. That’s diabetes-speak for my blood sugar is going low. So I hand her a small pineapple juice and a glucose tab. She’s back to normal now. Except she’s got a major league wedgy that needs to be fixed. So, we jump over the gutter and she goes a few steps into the brush to try to ease it out. She’s not hiding the fact that she’s picking her butt crack, but a girl’s got to do what a girl’s got to do.
That holds her for about another ½ mile, and then she starts pooping out again so I give her another glucose tab. There’s a lady up ahead selling ice cream cones, and I hand Alex 20 pesawas so she buys two little ones and gobbles them down. That doesn’t seem to do anything at all, so I hand over the glucose gel that Alex has been craving now for a couple of months and she takes a hit.
She’s still kind of on the shaky side, so I check her sugar. She’s 3.6; she’s supposed to be at least 4.0. Oy, I don’t want to think what it was before the glucose gel and the tab she just ate. I’m pretty sure that the other stuff I just loaded her up with is going to boost her sugar level pretty soon, but just in case, I buy her another ice cream cone for 50 pesawas. Alex is loving this.
Ahead of us is the SOS bus, and its picking up kids that are too pooped to continue. Alex is dying (figuratively, I think at this point) to get on it, but we’re sooo far back, there’s no way we can catch up to it (even if it is crawling at something like 3 miles per hour). So we keep trudging on (so much for my thinking this was a mile long walk) and we buy some crackers and bottled water for me.
We’re passing by a small shop that’s got a table in front of it, and the table is surrounded by about half a dozen of the SOS mothers who are pawing over something. I’m curious to see what’s being sold. Is it wax print cloth? Purses? Costume jewelry? Nope, none of the above. They’re selling chaliwotay, a.k.a. flip flops. I’m quietly chuckling to myself as I pass, but inwardly thinking, crap, I wish I’d worn mine ‘cause my beloved Keds are giving me a pair of twin blisters on the backs of my ankles.
Now, at this point, I think we’ve walked about 3 miles. I’m not that good a judge of distance, but I know we’re walking for well over an hour, even with all of our stops and starts. Alex now informs me she’s got to wee wee. Well, it’s not like there’s a McDonald’s or a Starbucks on every street corner so we’re out of luck in terms of finding a toilet. But there are trees and gutters and kiosks that we can duck behind, and that’s what we do. I knew the jeans ideas was a crappy one; a skirt would have been so much more practical. Anyway, she does what she’s got to do and I do my best to clean her hands that got dirty from steadying herself in the dirt (I know, EWWWW!) and we’re off again.
We’re getting close to Evergreen Supermarket. We’re at least in the same neighborhood. The bus is still in sight, but definitely not catchable (by us, anyway). I’m tempted to flag down a taxi especially since every single taxi driver in Tema has honked at me as it passed by… they just can’t resist an obroni, even one who is obviously walking in a sponsored walk.
We’re now only a few hundred yards from the supermarket and the bus is close enough that with a little effort we could get on it. Here’s the dilemma: Alex needs to change her pants, she’s very cranky from being tired and I’ve got to wee wee myself. Trees and gutters hold no appeal for me, and trust me on this -- no one wants to see my big fat white butt for any reason. I really don’t want to get on the bus.
That’s when Alex spots Michael riding on the bus. He’s halfway back in, sitting in a window seat, waving to us. Alex starts to cry. Mike, who was wearing a great big shit-eating nah-nah-nah-nah-nah-nah grin only seconds before, is clearly dismayed by the sight of Alex all teary. But certainly not enough for him to give up that cushy seat, and off he goes.
The allure of Evergreen is that they’ve got good soda choices, so we go in and buy a Fanta cream soda. When we get back out, we’re the last of the SOS people in the bunch, so we just hop in a taxi and head home. I alert Sly to expect us and ask the driver to wait. Within 5 minutes we’ve changed, washed up, emptied bladders, done what we need to do and off we go back to the school.
We beat the school bus. Michael will forever be chastised for riding that bus. Obolobo (Ghana-ese for chubby) Michael, who could probably stand to lose a couple of pounds, tells us that his legs were cramping up. Meanwhile, his younger diabetic sister and his old fart mom managed to walk all the way to Evergreen.
The next time there’s a sponsored walk, I’m gonna pull a Sly. He was the smart one.
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8:46
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
My kids are freezing. I blame it on Leslie. We picked her up from the airport on Sunday morning, and on the way back into Tema, she asked me how bad the Harmattan has been. I told her, truthfully, it’s been a non-event. In fact, it was one of the mildest Harmattan’s we’ve had in a long long time. Fast forward to Monday, the Harmattan hits Ghana with all its fury; not to mention dust.
The Harmattan, for those of you not familiar is, according to Wikipedia,
[en.wikipedia.org] dry and dusty West African trade winds. Believe it or not, the winds carry fine dust particles from the Sahara desert all the way to our shores. I’m not that good in geography, but I’m guessing it’s more than just a few hundred miles away.
Monday morning, we woke up and the Harmattan was waiting for us. It’s not as pretty as a blanket of snow, and you can’t make snow men or snow angels. The dust coats everything – the cars, the windows, the desktops – it’s a constant effort to keep everything clean. The window screens catch the silt, and then when the wind blows hard enough, it blows straight on through.
It’s most noticeable at dawn and dusk, but even during the day it still looks as though you’re moving through a light fog. Cars have their headlights on in the day time – which is actually pretty amazing since the majority of them don’t even switch them on at night!
You can feel the heaviness in the air. Your skin is dry and ashy, your lips are chapped from the constant licking, and your hair is filled with static electricity. Okay, probably only my hair gets this way, but trust me, I know static electricity and it knows me. I’ve been slicking it down with body moisturizer. Not exactly my best look. Now that I think of it, I really don’t have a best look. I have lots of worst looks, but let’s not go there, hmm?
Alex has been complaining of a sore throat since Tuesday, and her eyes have been itching her like mad. She’s also got the snuffles. All likely Harmattan related. I’m waiting for it to clog up my sinuses as it usually does, but since I’m taking allergy pills maybe I’ll be immune.
One thing I’m hoping not to see is what I call “Harmattan eye.” A couple of years ago, I woke up with Harmattan eye; it was all gooked up and puffy and I could hardly open it. Sand must have irritated the inside of my eyelid and I probably rubbed it a lot in my sleep. It didn’t hurt, but it looked horrible. “Oh, Sister Barbara, what happened to your eye?” I heard that one a lot the first two days or so, before the swelling finally went down. Thinking I might never get an opportunity like this again, I quickly put the blame on my husband. If Sly were nearby, I’d jerk my chin in his direction and say sweetly, “Ask him.” I’m lucky “him” didn’t lock me in the house till I was “normal.”
The wind is what really gets you. You can actually hear it, whistling through the alley ways and stirring dried leaves into a frenzy. But the wind is what the old people hate. My 87-year old mother-in-law is probably wrapped up in two cloths. It’s a “cold” wind, alright. I heard a news broadcaster on the television this morning talk about how cold this winter already is. Yes, they call it winter.
It seems we’ve become “real” Ghanaians; my kids are actually wearing long sleeves and jackets, just like the other kids, to school. For them, this is a treat. They long for long pants and shirts. Jeez, they’d be wearing mittens, if I had any.
I’d like to think Leslie jinxed us, but I know it’s just bad timing. Still, if anyone asks me when the Harmattan started, I’ll jerk my chin in her direction and say, “Ask her.”
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22:55
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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Yesterday, I picked up my American friend, Leslie, and we took off to the environs of Accra for the day. As a Fulbright exchange teacher, Leslie is a quasi-employee of the U.S. government, so she heads out to the U.S. Embassy located in Accra a few times a month to take care of business.
Despite the fact that I and my family have been living here for almost five years now, I’ve never been to the new U.S. Embassy, so I looked at it as an opportunity to check things out. The “old” U.S. Embassy was in a small, crowded dirty building, not easily accessible and certainly, in my opinion, not worth of an embassy, irrespective of which embassy it might be. The fact that it was my embassy only made it that much more disreputable.
First stop before the embassy though, was a detour to Bake Shop Classics, a bakery near the Ghana Trade Fair. Now, I’d never been there before, but I had “heard” that they made and sold “New York Style Bagels.” I haven’t had a bagel, New York, New Jersey or Maryland-style, in almost two years, and I have been dreaming of them. I can stop dreaming, I think. We went in and though they only had a small selection (by U.S. standards, of course) of baked goods, they did have bagels and cinnamon rolls and cheese and fruit danishes. Oh, joy. I have no idea how they will taste, but they sure look good. I buy eight bagels at 60 pesawas each and a cinnamon roll for GHC 1.50.
The morning after my purchase, I can truthfully say, not as good as a New York bagel, but pretty darn close. Add in some cream cheese – no, not Philadelphia but again, close – and it’s a taste of home. I’m wishing now that I had bought more than just eight bagels, since half are gone already. I may have to make a special trip, next week.
From there, we went straight to the Embassy. The Embassy compound is large, with a neatly manicured green grass lawn -- truly a rarity in Ghana. Two security guards stand in front but don’t try to stop us from entering into the visitor’s lounge. Once inside, Leslie puts her bag onto the x-ray machine conveyer belt which scans the contents; no one pays any attention, so no one notices that she carries two phones – mine and hers. I have to fill out a form and show my passport; it doesn’t even get cracked open. Could be my whiteness, my Jersey accent or my “Hi, how ya doing?” is the tip off that I’m an American. Or it could be my entrance with an employee, quasi or otherwise. Perhaps I’m being paranoid, but I actually wish they had looked at my passport a bit more thoroughly; security was just a bit too lax for me.
With a visitor badge strung around my neck and my handbag scanned (minus my cell phone, of course), we’re off to the main building, which belongs to U.S. AID. It’s like being back in any American government office building – open, airy, granite walls, heavy duty air conditioning, and the ubiquitous pictures of G.W., Dick and Condee. Leslie and I joke about how we can’t wait to come back after January 20th and see Barack, Joe and Hillary up there instead. That alone will be worth the trip.
First things first, I have got to check out the Embassy bathroom. It’s just like back home. Doors that lock, toilets that automatically flush, and toilet paper on a roller – wish I had more to do in here, but my breakfast coffee is long gone.
Leslie conducts her business and shows me around a bit. We head to the Community Liaison Office or CLO for short. Inside are some pamphlets and brochures for local tourist sites and hotels. Nothing special, but what is special is a great big wall of books, all kinds of paperbacks and novels; adult books, kids books, every genre you can imagine. We meet a woman there who is the CLO liaison, Kristen from Annandale, VA. She says the books are loaners, “borrow what you want and return them when you can.” Oh, the honor system. I’m familiar with the concept, of course, but the truth is in Ghana it’s hardly ever put into practice. Finders keepers, is more what we’re used to here. Still, it looks promising.
Kristen tells us that they often have community programs and events, but this is the first I’m hearing of it. I’m kind of ticked off about it, if you want the truth. I’m part of the community, I live here and the Embassy knows I live here, since we’re registered. So, why can’t they send me a newsletter telling me about these events? I’d love for us to get out and meet other Americans. Leslie promises to send me the newsletter that she gets from them, as an employee. It shouldn’t really be this hard, should it? The Embassy does more for American tourists than Americans living here. Weird, huh?
The cafeteria is our next stop. And they’ve got specials, just like home – hamburger or hot dogs with fries, pizza, grilled cheese sandwich – I’m tempted, I’ve got to admit, but I make these things at home, I’d want something really different. What I’m really jazzed about is the cold case – there’s Fresca, Diet Pepsi and Diet Dr. Pepper. The doctor is calling my name. Um, not quite as good as I remember. Next time, I’ll try the Fresca.
Yeah, a Fresca, with a bagel and cream cheese, and it will be like home. If only it were that easy.
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3:01
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
This is a shortie... the house phone just rang, and truthfully, I usually don't answer it. It's usually not for me -- Sly, Sean or Mike, but never me -- but I just figured since Sly is out of the house it might be him, even though he'd normally call my cell.
Me: Hello
"Hello, this is Nana Akufo Addo. I am running for president of Ghana. I urge you to vote for me on Sunday, 7th December. Tell all of your family and friends... Blah blah blah"
Hah! A robocall in Ghana. I thought that we'd be immune to that over here; we are, after all, registered Democrats.
Ghana! We are moving forward!
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1:33
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
I miss Thanksgiving in America. I miss the bite of the wind as I’m running from my car into my brother’s house. I miss the smell of sautéed onions and mushrooms that my dad used to cook every Thanksgiving morning. I miss watching the Macy’s Day Parade on television and getting all stupid and gooney when Santa shows up at the end. I miss the apple cider, the walnuts, the football games, the sweet potatoes, the good-natured ribbing of family we haven’t seen in ages. I miss it all.
In an attempt to recreate an American holiday here, I usually have to plan weeks or even months in advance. I kid you not. Turkeys are not that easy to come by here. You can’t just walk into the supermarket and pick up a 22 lb. Butterball and be on your merry way.
Last year, some of the obroni markets were selling turkeys, for about $75 each, just ahead of Thanksgiving and Christmas. Unfortunately, a lot of them didn’t sell -- $75 is steep, even for a rich white person. Up until July, I saw a couple of frozen turkeys in ShopRite, but they looked like they’d been through the wringer, and I think they were really left over from 2007 and they were being passed off as fresh. Not. I wouldn’t want to be anywhere within 15 feet of that thing when the cellophane was unwrapped. Can you say RIPE?
When I want a turkey, I have to put my “order” in for a fresh one with Herbie, a good friend of ours, months in advance. Herbie raises chickens and turkeys and the occasional goat and rabbit. And each time we visit Herbie, he points out our little gobbler, and we watch him grow fatter and fatter.
This year was no exception; my turkey order has been in place since the 4th of July. So, on Wednesday, Sly went to pick up our turkey which was to be plucked and cleaned. It was plucked, all right, but cleaned? Nope, as it turns out.
I like to make an herb butter concoction that I slip underneath the turkey skin, for flavor. But I couldn’t get my hand under there, for some reason. The skin was really thick and it was still attached. Let me tell you, I’ve been spoiled by the turkeys from the U.S., all of which were cleaned perfectly, with a little bag of giblets stuck in its butt, and a thermometer that popped out when it was cooked to perfection.
Fresh turkeys from Ghana are different. They’re walking around eating everything in sight minutes before they’re intended as someone’s meal. I’ve read that you’re not supposed to feed a turkey that’s to be slaughtered, in order to give it time to clear out of its digestive track. I guess Herbie didn’t know that, or wanted to grant the condemned turkey his last meal. But, there was a mess of crap (or soon to be crap, if we hadn’t already killed him) inside this guy’s throat and it was nasty.
Once Sly finishes cleaning this guy out, I scrub him out with some sea salt and get him ready for the oven. Problem is -- it is friggin hot here! It’s about 90 in the shade, and hotter still in our small house. Sly comes up with the brilliant idea that we’ll cook Tom outside on the barbecue grill. Sounds good to me!
We also don’t know how heavy this dude is, since there’s no little sticker that will help us figure out cooking times. So, we pull out our people scale and figure it out that way. As it turns out, he was about 17 lbs, which is way bigger than the one we got last year. Figure about 3-1/2 hours or so on the grill ought to do it.
The turkey is cooking, I’m assembling a bread stuffing like Dad used to make (only crisper and drier, as it turned out, but really the way I like it!), and getting the mashed potatoes and vegetables ready.
Now, all this time, the kids are at school – as I said, it’s not a holiday here in Ghana. Alex gets home early enough so she’s aware of the turkey on the grill. But we decide to trick the boys. I know, we are so mean. But, Sean deserves a trick. Here’s why: On Wednesday, he was teasing this poor exchange teacher at the school who is from Michigan, and who told the kids he was missing Thanksgiving. Sean, the gloater, couldn’t help but announce how his Mom had a turkey for the next day. The poor guy was probably drooling while he had to listen to Sean go on and one about how there’d be mashed potatoes and stuffing and gravy and this and that… So you see, Sean deserves this.
I pull out an empty chicken nuggets box from the garbage and tape it up, so it looks like it’s unopened. When the boys get home from school, there’s no turkey in the oven, as they expect, and there’s general disappointment from the two of them. Sean tells us that he bypassed lunch because of the turkey. Ha! Mike quickly asks if he can have sausage for dinner. Nope. I was able to stretch out this charade for almost half an hour. The pain/pleasure was tremendous!
Finally, in comes the turkey in the blue enamel pan -- brown and crispy and lovely. With all the fixin’s we could fix. The kids went for numerous rounds – Alex had two drumsticks; Mike had two wings and Sean had four servings of everything! Delicious.
The only thing missing was my family. Hope your Thanksgiving was as great as ours!
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1:25
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
I've created another blog devoted to caring for Alexandra, our daughter with Type 1 Diabetes. If you think it's tough in the developed world, you ain't seen nothing yet. If you're interested in reading it, see the link to your right, on Too Sweet Girl. That would be Alex. Not exactly apropos, since she's generally got a disposition anything but sweet, but you know what I mean.
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22:55
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
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When we moved to Ghana, we thought life was going to be all about retirement and relaxation and raising our kids. How wrong we were. Within a few months, we knew that there was no way we could settle down quietly; first of all, it was too boring, we needed the stimulation of the old gray matter, and second, we could use the extra money. Of course, who couldn’t? So, Sly went into consulting and one of his many assignments is with the Government of Ghana. He is the lead counsel for the Presidential Committee on Emoluments. Fancy words for saying that he helps decide the benefits and privileges (money-wise) of the government bigwigs. His boss, a very nice lady named Mary Chinery-Hesse, happens to be the president’s senior advisor. That’s a serious job, some would argue that she’s closer to the presidency than the vice president, and I wouldn’t dispute it.
Anyway, October 29th was Mary's 70th birthday, and Sly and I were invited to a birthday “thanksgiving” service in her honor. We knew that there we would be rubbing shoulders with some of Ghana’s most influential, the movers and the shakers, but we had no idea how close our shoulders would actually be.
What a great excuse for me to get “spiffed” up a bit! I went to a local saloon (no, it’s not a drinking bar with bat wing doors, it’s just that’s what they call it here) and got my nails done (fingers and piggies) and my eyebrows tweezed to perfection – which is truly amazing, I look like I’ve got more eyebrow now then I did before!
Dressing up was fun, but I’m glad I only have to do it once in a while. I got out my pink jacquard silk dress, a pair of pink and white mules from Talbot’s that I never ever wore before and a cute little pink beaded bag. Clothes-wise, I’m good.
But the hair. Oh, boy, what am I gonna do with the hair? I am in desperate need of a real haircut, but I’m still searching for a good place that can cut obroni hair. It’s too late for that now, so I search through the closets for a blow dryer that I haven’t used in ages. Voila! Within a few minutes (I don’t have that much hair), I’m dried and looking more normal than I have in months.
Now, the real challenge is make-up. I am a natural kind of girl, and hardly ever wear make-up – in this climate, it would melt within moments, so I feel like, what’s the point, ya know? Even when I’m in the states, my idea of make-up is a cherry flavored tube of Chap Stick. But, with Alex watching me like a hawk (drooling and desperate to be involved), I start doing the things that girls are supposed to have an innate talent for. Only problem is that my cosmetic gene seems to be defective, so I just take it slow and start light and hope for the best.
Fifteen or so minutes later, I’m as done as I’m gonna get. I put the clothes on, slip on the shoes (no pantyhose, thank God!) and glasses and grab my bag.
The kids are stunned. I guess I don’t dress up often enough. Alex tells me that I look beautiful. Michael wants to keep hugging me. And Sean says I don’t look right. Two out of three ain’t bad.
We hit the road with our driver. My hope is that the traffic won’t be too bad, and that we’ll whiz along at speeds of 50 mph just so that my make-up won’t smear off. I’m not worried about the hair, I’ve got enough hair spray on it that it’s as stiff as a 6 month old corpse.
Less than 15 minutes into the trip, on the Tema Motorway, our van breaks down. I refuse to panic; it’s only 5:30 and we don’t have to be at the church until 6:30. Ekow opens the hood and steam is billowing up out of the radiator… which was supposed to have been fixed today. Now, I’m panicking. There’s a 16 oz bottle of water in the car, half empty -- or half full (depending on how you look at it), but in either event – it’s not enough.
Ekow calls the mechanic, and tells him to bring super glue (!) and two gallons of water. About 30 minutes later, a taxi pulls up behind us and four guys jump up. It is nearing sunset and the skies darken here within minutes, and I’m worried about a semi crashing into the back of us at 65 mph. But if we put on our hazard lights, our battery will die since Ekow has been trying to restart the engine every few minutes. I insist that they put out the triangle… like that will really save us from that crazed semi driver.
Some 45 minutes later, the "mechanics" (and now I am using that term very loosely) have glued what they’ve got to glue and manage to get the car started. The mechanic rides with us (just in case). We only get about 5 miles before the car starts acting up again, so Sly makes the decision that we’ll take the taxi to the birthday celebration and Ekow will take the car back to the mechanics in Tema. Good plan. Cause I’m starting to get really anxious. I hate being late, and we already are. Good thing this is Ghana where lateness is an accepted fact of life – heck, I bet they haven’t even started the church service yet.
Within blocks of the church, there’s no parking, so we walk up to the building. The gates are closed except for a small opening, and there are police patrols everywhere. This must be the place.
Inside, the service already started (!)… it’s only 7:30 at this point; I am in shock that it started on time! The place is absolutely packed, and we have to force our way into a pew. Despite the dozen ceiling fans which are whirring at full speed, the place is like a giant oven. The incense is so cloying that I’m wishing I had remembered my inhaler.
We’ve got a program that the lovely, very well dressed usherettes gave us when we entered. It takes me a few minutes to find our place. Cripes! We’re only on page 8 of a 24 page program! This is going to be a very long night.
I can only take about 30 minutes of the heat and litany and now I need desperately to get outside for some fresh air. Now’s as good as time as any to call home to check on the kids. Fortunately, only a minor glitch – Alex’s high sugar level -- which I’ll have to deal with later.
I use the opportunity to scope out the bathroom and am amazed that it’s not only neat, has running water, but there’s toilet paper!! And for the first time that night, I catch a glimpse of myself in a full length mirror. Holy crap! It’s (a smarter and funnier!) Sarah Palin! I wished I had noticed this resemblance before I left the house, cause I’d have curled my hair instead and wore different glasses. Oh well, I doubt there are too many Democrats (or Republicans, for that matter) here.
I slip back into my seat and try to pay attention, but I’m overwhelmed by the number of dignitaries here. I can’t see or name them all, but Sly can and does. His neck must hurt from swiveling around so much.
When the service comes to an end (finally!), we’re invited to partake of refreshments at the back of the church. But first, we’ve got to find our way out of here. We follow the crowd, a few feet ahead of us is the President and Vice President of Ghana. Sure, I could follow them, but I’m gonna chase down that guy carrying the huge solid gold staff with the elephants on it belonging to the Paramount Chief of the Ga State! “Is that really gold?” I ask Sly, who assures me that it is. At about $730 an ounce, that staff is probably worth gazillions! Where the heck are his security guards?
I cling to Sly’s hand because if I lose him, I will NEVER find him in this crowd. Instructions are clear – if we separate, he is to look for me! I don’t tend to “blend” as much as he does, so I’m pretty sure he’ll track me down quicker.
The crowd is something fierce and we can hardly move. I’m trying with all my might (and what little grace I possess) not to fall into the open gutter on my right. The crush of people behind me is massive (and they're all pretty friggin pushy, if I do say so myself). There are some whirling dervishes dancing and spinning to my left and the gutter is looking pretty good at this point, as a safe haven of sorts.
Suddenly, I realize that the President is right next to me. Eeeek!! He’s got his private security people all around him, except for between us. I could literally poke him in the ear if I’d wanted to, though I’m sure that that would be considered a sign of aggression, and I didn’t want any trouble with the police (or immigration, for that matter!) so I left him in peace.
The entire rear of the church grounds was done up beautifully in tiny white lights and there's music playing softly (!) in the background -- very different from the Ghanaian norm, which is usually just eardrum bursting noise! Sly and I spot several long white linen covered tables set up with drinks, which we (naturally) head straight for (like a pig to a truffle). I’m used to white wine coming out of a box, so the bottle type had me a little bit flummoxed, but boy did it go down smoooooth!
Sly is trying to scope out Mary so we can pay our best wishes and get out of there (we've got Alex at home with blood sugars in the 300 range to attend do), but Mary's got a throng of well wishers milling around her, too. So, we do the next best thing… we head for the food tables! They had some really nice eats, too… chicken and vegetables kebabs (yum-0), mini pizzas (yucchy, actually), tiny quiches, chicken and cakes and cookies. All of it looked delicious. My only beef (no pun intended) was that the (tacky cheap plastic, by the way) plates were too small! No matter. Even though they're not Chinet plates, I pile it on pretty good and set out to find the ideal spot to observe the action.
Before I know it, within feet of me (again -- Sly's convinced he was following me for another look at my legs... either that or he really did think I was Sarah Palin) was President Kufuor. While not as close as the potential ear poking scenario, he was still near enough for a picture. Note that the little guy to his right (above the stomach of the guy in a pink shirt) is the Vice President Mahama.
So, Sly and I indulged in some nice wine and chicken wings, and hobnobbed with Ghana’s crème de la crème and then went home. On our way out, we scored a lovely little souvenir, too; a pair of candles inside a personalized (Happy 70th Birthday Mary Chinery-Hesse!) bag.
Here’s a list of the “who’s who” that we spotted:
President John Agyekum Kufuor
Vice President Alhaji Aliu Mahama
Chief Justice of the Ghana Supreme Court Georgina Wood
First Deputy Speaker of Parliament Freddie Blay (who did fall in the gutter... heh heh)
Stanley Nii Adjiri-Blankson, Mayor of Accra
… plus assorted other Ministers, Commissioners, Members of the Council of State, Supreme Court Judges, MPs and heads of states from neighboring countries plus International Labour Organization directors and bigwigs. All told, I’d guestimate that there were nearly 500 people there.
Mind you, this night also happened to be the night of the Ghanaian Presidential Debate, and for these key figures to be here (instead of the debate) is testament to the respect that they accord Mary.
As my friend Leslie put it… sweet gig. Yup. And then some.
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5:31
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
span style="font-weight: bold;"Saturday/spanbr /br /A close friend of the family passed away in late August, and this past weekend was the funeral. Eric is the Godfather to Sean, and Sylvester and I are Godparents to his daughter, Ashley. So, when Eric’s father passed away, it was with no second thought that we would all be attending the funeral celebration.br /br /As is the custom in Ghana, the deceased is buried in his village of birth; in this case, it was the village of Pepease, a trip of about 110 miles. We figured, given stoppage time, traffic, road conditions that it would be a 4 hour drive. It took more than 5 hours. Ugh.br /br /Sly and I woke up at 3:30 to prepare the kids, as we expected to leave around 4:30. Unfortunately, our car battery had other plans, and we couldn’t get the car to start; a quick call to our taxi driver and he came over and jumped us. Meanwhile, the kids were being awoken for their showers and to get dressed. If you’ve never done it before, it is NOT easy waking up a kid when the sky is still pitch black. There were complaints and grumbles from every corner. Finally, at about 5:10 we were ready to go.br /br /Sly and I are very good local drivers – we can find our way around no problem, but if we have to stray off the Tema Motorway, we’re in deep doo doo. Fortunately, Ekow our taxi driver was coming with us, and would lead the way. Before the sun even rose at 5:45, all of the kids were sound asleep, including Michael who NEVER SLEEPS IN THE CAR. Ha!br /br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcju5JBzZI/AAAAAAAAAHk/kpTO5xUunRs/s1600-h/10252008959.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcju5JBzZI/AAAAAAAAAHk/kpTO5xUunRs/s320/10252008959.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262213978125356434" border="0" //abr /br /Getting out of Tema was not a problem; the real problem was getting out of Accra, or Achimota to be exact. They are constructing a new roadway, and in Ghana, it is different from anything you’ve ever seen before. The construction site is not a pedestrian-free zone; in fact, there are more pedestrians than construction vehicles! Here we are bouncing through pot holes big enough to put a kitchen sink, dodging crazed tro tro drivers trying to get to a fare before the next guy and trying to avoid running down the hawkers who dance between the traffic with huge bowls of pure water sachets, bags of sliced paw paw, fried plantain chips, Fan Ice and yogurt perched precariously on their head. I am ever so glad I’m sitting in the back seat and not driving, even if I have to have Alex’s very heavy feet in my lap. Bear in mind, all this is going on at around 6:30 a.m.br /br /It is only as we get into Nsawam that the construction stops and traffic thins. The hawkers are ever present, only now the pickings are different; hawkers are primarily selling Nsawam bread (2 cedis for 2 loaves!), fried turkey tail, fried yam with shitor and local daily newspapers. You can tell where you are in Ghana just from the fare being sold by the hawkers.br /br /After Nsawam, famous for its prison, we have a fairly long stretch of road with minimal traffic, though the pot holes are never ending. There is only a single note-worthy rest stop, and that is the Linda Dor in Koforidua, but because the kids are still sleeping, we blow on past. As we go farther north, we encounter lots of little palm frond covered kiosks selling the local fruits and vegetables – cassava, plantain (in huge green bunches!), tangerines, hot peppers and snails. Okay, so that’s not a fruit or vegetable. But it is for sale, and these suckers are huge!!! You'd need at least a pound of butter and a couple of heads of garlic for escargot.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcl7-DtocI/AAAAAAAAAH8/TrsgGesGZVk/s1600-h/snails2.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 111px; height: 94px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcl7-DtocI/AAAAAAAAAH8/TrsgGesGZVk/s320/snails2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262216401806795202" border="0" //abr /Well, we got to Nkawkaw (how do you like these names, by the way? Real tongue twisters, ain’t they) which is at the base of the Kwahu mountain range. We’d have to take the switchback road to the top of the mountains. The road heading up was being repaired (so what else is new) and we had to drive very very slowly. Meanwhile, taxis were racing down the mountain like it was a slalom course. Again, I am very glad I sat in the back seat.br /br /The kids were in awe because they could see that the top of the mountain was in the clouds (not really, just it was kind of foggy/hazy up there).br /br /As we neared the top, we saw signs for the hotel we were going to stay at, so we planned to stop first and freshen up a bit, before we headed over to the church. It was near 11:00 am when we got to the hotel – The Modak Royal Hotel – the only hotel exclusively for royals, according to the website. I looked around, but didn’t see the Queen of England or even a Queen Mother for that matter, so I can safely presume that you don’t have to be royalty to stay there… you only have to have 38 GHC cash, payable in advance.br /br /As it was near lunch, we went to the terrace bar and ordered some food and drink. When we got there, we were the only ones in sight, so we assumed (wrongly, as it turned out) that service would be quick. The waiter had to run back and forth between the terrace and the restaurant, which was in the next building over. Our drinks got to us okay, but the food took an interminable length of time. And while we waited, the place got packed. First, in came a group of ten people, then six, then three more and finally another three. And mind you, only a single waiter! What really is annoying is that funerals in this town are only on specific weekends in each month, so it's not as though the hotel management is not aware that a funeral will be going on and hire some extra help. That would make sense.br /br /Anyway, 50 minutes later, and still no food – and I ordered simple stuff like pizza, hamburger, fries and Chinese beef fried rice. I can’t wait any more. It’s hot. I have a headache and feel achy because I think the PMS fairy is on her way. Alex is whiny and hungry. I tell Sly I’m going to the room, let them bring the food to me there. Fortunately, about 5 minutes later, the food is coming through the door.br /br /Oh crap. I totally forgot to tell them span style="font-style: italic;"exactly/span how I wanted my food. Silly of me to ask for a hamburger and fries without telling them that we wanted no lettuce, tomato, mayonnaise or fried egg on it! And how stupid for me to assume a simple margherita pizza would have only cheese and sauce – of course they span style="font-style: italic;"have/span to put on green peppers and black Greek olives (not pitted naturally). And, d’oh, why didn’t I tell them span style="font-style: italic;"not/span to surround my “Chinese” beef fried rice (with spaghetti noodles added to it!) with egg salad.br /br /I have lived in Ghana for 4 years 9 months and 23 days, and have been coming back and forth between the U.S. and Ghana for almost 2 decades. You’d span style="font-style: italic;"think/span I would know better. Ghanaian restaurateurs and cooks have a singular common belief: More is better!! I span style="font-style: italic;"knew/span I should have ordered the “Beef or Chicken Fajitas (Italian dish)” from the menu! (I learn something new every day! Here, I thought it was the Mexicans who had invented fajitas!)br /br /Anyway, after lunch we quickly washed up and changed into our Day One funeral attire. Each of the kids wore a plain black bottom and a black and white top, I wore a black and white kente dress and Sly dressed in traditional Ghanaian apparel – namely, a pair of white shorts with a huge black and white kente woven cloth which he draped over his shoulder. No, I did not get a picture of him. I want to keep these teeth.br /br /The church was only a few minutes away from where we are, and we would have missed the turn off if it wasn’t for Eric’s nephew, Yaw, who recognized our van and directed us to the driveway. That Nissan Quest is indispensable; I don’t know what we would do without it.br /br /Three funerals were underway inside the very packed church, so we waited outside in the grass. Along with us were probably another hundred sympathizers who milled about, laughing and chatting, buying ice cream or fruit from the hawkers who were all doing a fairly brisk business. We parked our van under a tree which fortunately protected us from the sun, but did nothing at all to help with the ant problem. Ants were constantly crawling up our feet and legs, and before you knew it you’d be slapping them away and scratching at the bite. Ants like me. I must be very sweet or something. This is my leg three days after the ant bite.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcjvgGnioI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Zy5dLEGZ7XA/s1600-h/10282008966.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcjvgGnioI/AAAAAAAAAHs/Zy5dLEGZ7XA/s320/10282008966.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262213988584229506" border="0" //abr /br /We bypassed the cemetery and went straight to one of the reception sites, this where the food was being served. Michael, being the “foodian” of the family, went straight to the serving line and came back with chicken and Jollof rice. I don’t eat Jollof, so I opted for kenkey and fish which Alex invited herself to share. I truly can’t think of a single starchy food that Alex won’t eat. If it’s something that going to raise her blood sugar by 10 points, she’s gonna have it! Urggh!br /br /It was now nearing 3:00 pm and I was definitely feeling anti-social at this point, as my headache was in full bloom despite the four Advils I’d taken at the hotel. I needed a bed in an air conditioned room and I needed it NOW. I think Sly sensed this, so for the preservation of my health and sanity (and his life), he suggested I take the kids back to the room. Good idea.br /br /The A/C was cranked up to full blast, and I confiscated one entire twin bed. The kids all shared the other. They were (blessedly) fairly quiet, and kept the noise to a dull roar. The television held them enthralled with a channel called the Trinity Broadcasting Network – lots of kiddy religious stuff, including Davey and Goliath (remember that one!).br /br /I only got about an hour of nap time before the sound of hushed sobs woke me up. I found out afterward that Alex was running on the paving stones outside of the room and slid part ways down the hill on her knees (Ouch!!). Sean tried to "help" her by taking her into the bathroom and suggesting that she allow him to hose down her legs to get her knees clean. So he puts her in the tub and runs the water out of the hose. Of course, she started screaming that it hurt (and it probably did). She was having none of it. Sean, being Sean, told her that it was fine, but that “within 8 hours you’ll be dead from the infection.” Screaming starts up again and now I am fully awake. **sigh** Sean, what a span style="font-style: italic;"kind/span brother. “Always prepared,” that’s one of my mottos, so I had band aids. Bleeding is stopped, she’s covered. She’ll live. This is it 3 days later.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQct73od7yI/AAAAAAAAAIc/iwz-ASN6cZw/s1600-h/10282008974.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQct73od7yI/AAAAAAAAAIc/iwz-ASN6cZw/s320/10282008974.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262225196174929698" border="0" //abr /br /By now, Sly is back to the room taking a breather from his running around and we go to the restaurant to eat. Dinner is (thankfully) non-eventful, since I remembered to be very specific when I ordered the chicken, fries and rice. It only took 30 minutes for the chicken and fries, and 45 minutes for the chicken and (hard) rice. Amazing.br /br /When we get back to our room, Sly departs once again to the funeral (personally, I think he’s having too good a time, if you know what I mean), and we’re on our own yet again. The kids are so tired from the long day that they don’t even argue when I say it’s time for bed at 9:00 pm. Me? I’m oblivious, between the Advil and the Nyquil I took I’m off to la la land. Sly better make sure that he knocks on the door really hard and loud, if he wants to come back in later.br /br /span style="font-weight: bold;"Sunday/spanbr /br /We get up early enough to go eat breakfast in the hotel restaurant. Two meals come with each room and we just take whatever they dish out. Someone will eat it (I hope). Sean eats the beans (after he pulls out the onions), Mike eats the eggs (after he picks out the peppers) and Alex eats the bread. See? Everyone was happy. Just bring me coffee, even fake Nescafe, I need the caffeine.br /br /Today, we are all dressed in our Day Two Funeral Attire, which is the “family” cloth purchased especially for the deceased family and close friends. It’s lovely white seersucker with black print on it. I notice though that our seersucker runs vertically and yet some of the others with the same cloth it runs horizontally. I think it was our tailor who goofed, because the print looks like little black birds… and everyone else’s bird is flying and ours looks to be dive bombing. Oh, well. It’s only for this one time. This is the cloth we wore. Note that Ashley's dress is different, as she is a granddaughter and the grandchildren were provided with this cloth.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcqp13whuI/AAAAAAAAAIU/TFC8278Pa_w/s1600-h/alex+ashley+2.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 240px;" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcqp13whuI/AAAAAAAAAIU/TFC8278Pa_w/s320/alex+ashley+2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262221587929663202" border="0" //aa onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcqpjYIG-I/AAAAAAAAAIM/CsW1suCrkZM/s1600-h/kids+funeral+funny.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 240px; height: 320px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcqpjYIG-I/AAAAAAAAAIM/CsW1suCrkZM/s320/kids+funeral+funny.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262221582965152738" border="0" //abr /br /Our first stop after breakfast is the family house. We stop in and do the obligatory handshaking thing with everyone there. As we sit down, we find out that this is Eric’s father’s family’s house, so Eric’s mother is not here, and she is who we’ve come specifically to see. We need to find his mother’s house, so we get Yaw to drive us over to wherever it is.br /br /Eric’s mother is one of the tribal elders for Pepease, so she was kind of “holding court” when we got there. Again, we followed tradition, entered and shook everyone’s hand and then sat to wait for the chance to announce our intentions. We could only stay for a short while, since we had to drive back to Accra, and we would leave during the church service and wanted to come and extend our sympathies. All of this was said by Sly to Kwase, who is Eric’s older brother, for him to relay the message to his mother. The elders who were there thanked us for coming, and offered us drinks – soda, beer or gin. It was not yet 9:00 am, by the way.br /br /From there, back to the father’s house for more food and beer (it’s a never-ending vicious cycle, ain’t it?). Everyone was getting ready for church and dressing in their black and white outfits. There had to at least have been 40 or so people in the family compound, but it was a big enough place that it wasn’t cramped at all.br /br /Now, this is not the place for potty humor, but I just have to share it here, since it happened at this point. After the majority of the family had left for church, there was a little boy walking around the compound naked. He couldn’t have been more than 2 years old, I guess. That’s not so unusual. Nudity is not really the issue here that it is in the States. But what this kid did was really unusual. In his left hand he held a water bottle cap, and his in right hand he held his penis. Squirt!!! Fill up the cap, toss it on the ground. Squirt!! Fill up the cap, toss it on the ground. At this point, we’re (well, me and kids) laughing hysterically (it really was funny – that kid has got great bladder control!) but Sly is not amused. He calls to the mother who grabs the kids and swings him up into her arms and she just keeps chatting away with the women she was talking to (like they couldn’t see this kid pissing into the bottle cap from 5 feet away?). Sly goes over to her and tells her that she should take the kid and wash him down (I should hope so, really) and tell him that what he did was wrong. (Meanwhile, I kept thinking, “Funny, but wrong” from Steve Martin in Cheaper by the Dozen. Not helpful, I know).br /br /We kill another half hour here and head on back to check out. We’ve got a long drive ahead of us, and Sean wants to be home in time to watch the Liverpool-Chelsea match on television.br /br /I wish I could report that the trip home was uneventful, but I can’t. The car broke down after about 2½ into the ride. The radiator hose was broken (we found out) and we were overheating something fierce. Ekow, our driver was vigilant in filling the radiator with water and we managed to nurse our way home. By 5:00 pm, we were pulling into our driveway in Tema.br /br /Despite all of the hassles, headaches and bug bites, none of us would have missed this last chance to show our respect to a very dear man.br /br /Rest In Perfect Peace.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcmU1VfrII/AAAAAAAAAIE/LvumHvI6Fms/s1600-h/10282008969.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer; width: 320px; height: 318px;" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/SQcmU1VfrII/AAAAAAAAAIE/LvumHvI6Fms/s320/10282008969.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5262216828962188418" border="0" //adiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-4474454926519320170?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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1:11
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Ghana has not been immune from the worldwide economic troubles. Yesterday, I paid nearly $1.50 for a beer at an Accra Central chop bar. Can you imagine? I remember when a Star beer was 60 cents. Okay, so it’s a big beer, twice as big as a Heinie, but still, that’s a lot of money in this economy.br /br /Accra Central on a Friday is an amazing place -- crowded, colorful, noisy, smelly, even a bit dangerous. But only for a couple of obronis. Yesterday, a new found obroni friend and I ventured to the big city to do some shopping. Leslie is a high school math teacher (they call it maths teacher here) who is here in Ghana for a year on a Fulbright teacher exchange program. She is teaching at Tema Secondary School, just a hop skip and a jump from where we live, and also my husband’s alma mater. br /br /I picked her up at the school and ventured to Accra the long way around, meaning the Beach Road between Tema and Accra. When you want to move at a fast clip, you have no choice but to take the Tema Motorway. Unless there’s an accident, and there have been significantly less accidents since they removed the cattle bridge a few months ago, the Motorway zips along at speeds of 70 and upwards. Some Ghanaians consider it their own personal Autobahn and rocket past at 100 mph. Fools, all… you never know when a cow is going to cross the road.br /br /But, I digress (as usual). Leslie loved the fact that we were taking the scenic route. She got to see the ocean finally (she knew it was span style="font-style:italic;"somewhere/span close by, but had no idea how close – a mere 5 minutes away!). As we approached Nungua, I told her about Evelyn, my “potato lady” who owns a tiny produce stand across from the Regional Maritime Academy. When we lived in Nungua, we stopped there a lot for fresh produce, namely potatoes, because we knew that from her they wouldn’t be soft or rotted. Now that we live in Tema near the motorway we don’t often come around, but when we do, we either stop and buy something, or beep the horn when passing. It’s funny, without fail, as soon as she hears the distinctive sound of our Nissan Quest’s horn, she spins around or looks up from whatever she was doing and grinning, from ear to ear, waves wildly with both hands. Sure enough, she was there yesterday, and grinning and waving to beat the band. I love that lady. br /br /So, off through Nungua we traveled. It was really neat driving with Leslie. It’s like looking at Christmas through a kid’s eyes. Leslie was “Ooh, look at that” or “Oh, what’s that place?” It was kind of fun to play the tour guide, pointing out the place with the fantasy coffins and watching the vendors go by carrying all sorts of things on their heads.br /br /After about an hour in traffic, we arrived at the parking lot near High Street. No matter if they’re packed, when the guy sees our Nissan he knows it’s us and always squeezes us in. Somewhere. It was the same yesterday. He directed me to this tiny spot and I edged my way in. He asked me where “daddy” was. I told him that “daddy” was home and I was free for the day with some money in my pocket. Oops! Must remember to zipper my mouth, next time. Before I could even take two steps away from the car, he tells me that he will be traveling for a funeral that afternoon, and hoped I could help him with “transportation.” Soft touch that I am (and also to safeguard my car!), I offered up 2 cedis. That’s about $2, and more than he probably makes in a day. br /br /You’ve likely read about my shopping experience at Melcom, so I won’t go back into it. Except to say that I still cannot understand WHY THEY CANNOT RESTOCK THE STORE AT NIGHT??!! Every aisle is crowded with shoppers and an equal number of clerks who are bent over boxes and stocking shelves. You can hardly move. After about 15 minutes of madness, we gave up and left, without a single purchase there. br /br /From there we went to Methodist Book Store for Leslie to find some books for the students she tutors. I picked up a couple of used books for the kids, but nothing for me. Paperbacks not written in this or the previous decade are of no interest to me, nor do I find it scintillating to read books with big-bosomed raven-haired vixens. br /br /We walked across the street into Rawlings Park, which has turned into a giant flea market and decided to stop for some refreshment. Beer, Coke, sausage on a stick and beef kebabs. Total price GHC 5.90. Total rip-off. But such is the economy here. Everything has gone up in prices.br /br /We had good seats at the restaurant, right in the firing line. Every single hawker with a bowl on his or her head had something to offer the two obronis. Batik and wax print shirts, only GHC 5 – perfect if we weighed about 250 lbs each, but anyone with a Body Mass Index of less than 25 would be lost in these shirts (I’ve a BMI of about 20, and Leslie probably even less). Oh, BTW, this a href="http://www.halls.md/body-mass-index/bmi.htm"site/a calculates your BMI for you and it’s pretty simple. No maths teacher needed. br /br /We also had a couple of bead vendors pass by – one person was selling bootlegged 8-in-1 and 9-in-1 videos with Chinese subtitles, another sold kitschy wooden signs that said something like Jesus Loves Ghana, and a very large woman with a huge bowl of kitchen sponges on her head. Everyone else got a dabi (no), but we stopped the sponge lady. I really needed a new kitchen sponge. Naturally, the obroni price was GHC 3 for 5 sponges, but the obroni counter-offer was GHC 2, which was still probably more than they would have cost an obibini (black person). Oh well.br /br /From there I found a guy selling football kit out of his station wagon. Well, Sean as you may know is a football freak. Not the U.S. kind, but the European/U.K. kind with actually kicking of the ball at all times. Sean span style="font-style:italic;"loves/span Chelsea (the team, not Clinton), but loves individual players and I asked if they had Rosicky. I was informed it was Rosisky. Anyway, he plays for Arsenal and he’s #7. They had a brand new shirt and shorts set for GHC 20. Now, that’s not really a bad price. It’s running way higher than that on eBay and I wouldn’t have to ship it. But, since I knew I was getting the obroni price, I countered with GHC 15 and we agreed at GHC 17. Not too terrible. And, guess what, it is NOT Rosisky… I was right, so there!br / br /Leslie was anxious to take some pictures of the market, but Ghanaians don’t usually like for people to do that, so she just bought something and span style="font-style:italic;"then/span took the vendor’s picture. That worked out fine. One guy, who was carrying a string of dead rats and mice was willing to take a little gratuity in exchange for the picture… guess Leslie didn’t need a dead rat. Just kidding. He was selling rat poison. But it was pretty funny, in a gruesome kind of way.br /br /After the rat guy, it was getting too hot and too crowded, so we made our way back to the car, battled the Friday funeral traffic, and within an hour we were back to our little hamlet. We arrived home dirty, tired, sweaty, smelly (at least, I was), slightly sunburned and with a blazing headache (again, me). Tema, home sweet home.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-1609082946712321525?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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23:18
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Last week, Alex had to go to the lab for her HBA1C test. We went to do the blood draw on Tuesday and picked up the results on Thursday. For the uninitiated, the HBA1C shows how well insulin and sugar levels are maintained over the previous 3 month period. When Alexandra was diagnosed, her HBA1C was 14.7%. Anything over 10% is poor diabetes management, and all diabetics strive for numbers in the single digits. br /br /Well, drum roll please, Alex's HBA1C was 6.0%!! That is almost as good as mine! (Non-diabetics are usually between 4% and 5%.) Granted, she's still in her honeymoon, so her own body is helping by kicking in a little insulin. But, it means that we're on top of this, and with God's help, we'll stay on top of it. br /br /We go back for another test in December, and hopefully we can stay in that very nice range.br /br /When we saw Alex's doctor on Friday, her jaw dropped so fast and far it nearly hit the desk! I am convinced it's because most locals don't have the tools and means (i.e. money) to keep their kids in range. br /br /On a side note, meters donated by many many people have finally arrived in Ghana and I should be collecting them next week. Dr. Renner will have them in her hands by mid-October when she returns from holiday. I hope that in this small way, we are well on our way to helping other Ghanaian children achieve great HBA1C tests, just like Alex's!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-4896429771648973687?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Late Thursday afternoon, we met with a support group of other parents of children with diabetes here in Ghana. There weren’t a lot of people, but there were enough children there for Alexandra to finally understand that she’s not in it alone. The ages of the children ranged from 1 up to 14 years old. Some of them came with their mothers, fathers, aunties and in one case, grandfather. Not all of the individuals spoke English, some of them were clearly from remote villages, but I thought it heartening that they came all the way to Accra, battling crowded trotros with crazy drivers and long waits in traffic jams, to be a part of this group.br /br /The meeting started out with Dr. Renner asking all of the children to introduce themselves – their name, age, school and how long they’d been “friends” with Dr. Renner. Again, the range was broad, Alexandra and 3 other children were all newly diagnosed, within the last 4 months, and a few of them had been with her for 10 years already. br /br /The first guest of the day was really the most encouraging. Nashir is a 49 year old gentleman, of Indian descent, but born and raised in Ghana. At the age of 7, he was diagnosed with diabetes. He told of how difficult it was as a child, how he had lost almost half of his weight due to incorrect diagnoses for 4 months, and finally a doctor at the Military Hospital saying, “Hmmm, could this be diabetes?” He offered such encouragement, maybe not so much to the children who were busying themselves with the free food that Dr. Renner had begun handing out, but the parents were enthralled. He looked fit, trim and healthy, and his outlook on diabetes – as a disorder, not a disease – gave us all hope and reassurance. It is possible to live a long and healthy life, even here in Ghana!br /br /The doctor was talking about nutrition, and I realized that she was aware of the (mis?)information from the dieticians because she indicated that children shouldn’t be restricted to a “finger” of this or “two fingers” of that, which is the way the dieticians describe the amount of food to eat. She understood that children need to eat to grow. With that in mind, she started passing food around. Oh boy.br /br /Just prior to the start of the meeting, Alexandra had polished off half a dozen crackers and a small juice box. She really didn’t need all this food now, but I couldn’t deprive her, because everything looked so nice. First, juice boxes and then individual trays of fruit were handed out to the kids. Alex had both. Then they passed around sandwiches which we were told were “healthy” – consisting of tuna fish, lettuce and tomato on white bread. It looked nice, but Alex preferred the two meat pies that were handed out to the parents! So, she gobbled that down instead. Then cream crackers were passed around and some weird concoction that woman had donated – she claimed it was milk and juice mixed together, but it was warm and not so nice. A lot of whispering was going on as people sniffed and sipped, and I was reminded of one of the Little Rascals episodes… whisper whisper “don’t drink the milk, it’s poisoned.”br /br /A clinical psychologist was on hand to talk to the children about difficulties, and the kids spoke of being upset that they couldn’t eat sweets like their friends could, and some were upset because they were singled out in school or being called “sickler,” which happened to one little girl who had passed out from low blood sugar. That little girl, well, I don’t think she’s got a glucose meter so she never knows how low she goes. Her mother saw me take out Alex’s meter to check her sugar at the end of the meeting, and asked to see it to show the girl’s grandmother. br /br /The doctor singled me out to list some websites on the board which were very handy, and naturally I listed all of my favorites which have been so helpful to me. She also mentioned that a brochure would be available shortly and that Alexandra was going to be on the cover of it! br /br /By the time we left it was almost 6:00 pm, and Alex was due for her insulin. She checked her sugar – 15.7!! – all that food, I guess. But I gave her her insulin and by the time we got home and she was ready for a snack, she was back to normal ranges.br /br /I’m anxious for another parents’ meeting. Hopefully, by that time, I’ll have some donated meters to give out. These kids deserve a chance.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-3672240531856043400?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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0:57
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
span style="font-weight:bold;"Let me forewarn you. This is a long post, so if you've got to use the bathroom or need to refresh your drink, go do it now./spanbr /br /Nights 4 and 5 at Korle Bu were really more of the same, except we we no longer had the room to ourselves. A little boy named Issah was put into the bed next to us -- not sure what was wrong with him, though he did need to be given blood at one point. He cried and cried each time they had to hook him up to the bag. The mother was told that he would be in the hospital for 5 to 6 weeks. span style="font-weight:bold;"WEEKS!!!/span After the doctors left, I heard her moaning to herself, that span style="font-style:italic;"she/span was going to die. You've got to understand, at Korle Bu, the parent is also the nurse, and aide and everything else a child needs. No doubt, she was worried about how she was going to exist in the hospital with her son for that long, basically abandoning every other family member in the process. I learned from her later that this was her youngest child (he was about 5), so the others were home being cared for by someone other than she. I'm sure she was also worried about how much something like that was going to cost.br /br /As I said previously, the "amenity ward" had no amenities... just beds separated by curtains (donated by Angel Trust which was embroidered on them in big gold letters!), a small fridge and a sink in the corner. No television, no toys, nothing at all. br /br /Alex and I were lucky because we had the laptop, so when Issah wasn't sleeping or being tended to, we drew the curtains open, turned the laptop around so they could see, and we all watched the Wizard of Oz (yes, again!) and Sponge Bob cartoons. It kept the kids quiet at least.br /br /By the time we were ready to be discharged on Monday, we waited for the bill to be presented. And waited, and waited and waited. By 1:00 pm, no bill, and Sly was getting annoyed, and the kids were hungry. So, we told the nurse we'd be back on Friday for Alex's check-up, and take care of the bill then. Fortunately, they let us go, but for parents who appear span style="font-style:italic;"not /spanto have the financial means they wouldn't release them. Trust me on that; those parents would have to stay until the bill was settled. Oh, before I forget, the bill was for (equivalent) $78 for 5 nights, and some medical supplies (I.V. hook ups) and we were given credit for the saline we didn't use and gave to the doctor.br /br /Now, even though we'd been in the hospital for 5 days, we still hadn't seen a nutritionist about Alex's food, nor had we been taught how to use the insulin pen. So we left, and figured we'd figure our way through it. And, of course, we have.br /br /Friday we returned for Alex's check-up, and the doctor was pleased with her blood sugar numbers which showed a nice decline. Then she sent us off to the nutritionist. That was a complete joke. With all due respect to the nutritionists, they haven't a single span style="font-style:italic;"clue/span as to what a Type 1 diabetic child needs. The tip off to me should have been the fact that Alex was the span style="font-style:italic;"only /spanchild in the clinic, for the whole 2 hours that we were there.br /br /When we went into the nutrition clinic, there was a room full of adults of all ages and sizes waiting to see the nutritionist. Sly fortunately bullied his way in and got someone to take Alex's weight and fill out her card. Then we waited and waited and waited (again). Over an hour passed before we were set to see the nutritionist. Poor Alex was starving by this point, and I kept passing her crackers and juice to eat, but she really wanted lunch and she was due.br /br /We gave the lady a note from the doctor, which basically said that Alex is now in your care, please bear in mind that she is a child and she needs to eat to grow. Very nice. But, who cares what the doctor says. Not the nutritionist.br /br /She told us Alex could have a piece of bread with butter for breakfast, and some tea or milo with a teaspoon of sugar. She could have a ball of kenkey or banku, she should eat a bowl of fufu. She should not take dairy, except for a few tablespoons of condensed milk and then limit intake to only 2 or 3 times a week. She should eat porridge. She should eat green vegetables like kontomire and spinach. She shouldn't eat more than a tin of meat (the tin being the size of an anchovy can). She shouldn't eat eggs more than twice a week.br /br /Well, we listened politely to all she had to say. Thanked her for her time, and them promptly dismissed all that. How in the hell could Alex grow, much less THRIVE, on so little food?!br /br /Here's my take on this lady. She may know her stuff, but only as it relates to overweight adults or children with type 2 diabetes, who need to diet anyway. br /br /So, we basically ignored her instructions. I went online, found a wonderful support group at www.childrenwithdiabetes.com, and learned that Alex can eat anything she wants, as long as her insulin is covered. Meaning, I have to give her enough food and carbohydrates to support the amount of insulin she gets, so that her blood sugar doesn't fall too low.br /br /On the day of the meeting with the nutritionist, Alex weighed 19 kg (that's about 42 lbs and below the 10th percentile for weight). As of today (almost 3 months since the diagnosis), Alex weighs 23 kg (slightly more than 50 lbs). When we went to see Alex's doctor last month, her doctor was so happy to see that her weight increased. She is now probably at the weight she should be, for her age... I just checked, and she's just below the 50th percentile. YIPPEE!!!br /br /Her HBA1C was 14.7 a week after diagnosis. The HBA1C blood test is an indicator of how well a person's insulin needs are being met over the previous 3 months. A non-diabetic person would be around 5. There is a scale, and for a diabetic, between 6 and 7 is ideal, above 7 means you may have to tweak your insulin management, above 8 means you need a bit more tweaking, above 9% to 11% you've been doing a poor job of managing your insulin. Anything above 12% means you're doing a really crappy job and you better get help fast. Alex was 14.7%. Her next HBA1C is next week, so we'll see how she's doing.br /br /I've been looking at Alex's blood sugar levels and averaging them, and she's down to 5.9 (106 on the U.S. scale); she was higher than 33.3 on diagnosis or up in the U.S. 600s range. We have up days and down days, and days that we can't figure out why she's high or low. But we're managing them, day to day, meal to meal.br /br /She started school on Tuesday (grade 3!), and was entirely on her own. She had learned to check her own sugar level over the summer, so that we didn't have to leave her meter with the librarian, as we originally thought. She has shown some amazing independence, really. She's been on the low side each time she checks her sugar, first day was 2.8 (50 U.S.) and 3.2 (58 U.S.) yesterday, but she knows to eat her glucose tabs when she's low and drink some juice. We have to figure out a better breakfast solution to keep her higher until lunch time, cause her snack is not carrying her over well. Today, I tried 1/2 cup of Lucozade with breakfast, so we'll see how that works.br /br /Today, we're off to Korle Bu again. This time, not for a check-up, but for a meeting with other parents of children with Type 1 diabetes. The doctor has realized that, in me, at least, she has found a very vocal, proactive parent, and I think she's impressed with Alex's progress. So, this meeting is a way to give the other parents some guidance or encouragement, from a parent's perspective. I'm looking forward to it. I hope I can help.br /br /Oh, and after the medical injustice posting earlier, you will not believe the positive response to that! So many people have offered to help Ghanaian children with Type 1 diabetes. The parents forum at the childrenwithdiabetes website really rallied behind me, and we've got about 30 brand new glucose meters and some strips heading over here soon, courtesy of Leanne's wonderful husband... you all remember Leanne, right? Leanne is an American Mom in Africa, who had the best stories of life in Ghana. I'm still waiting for her to start blogging about life in Texas, cause I really miss her creative craziness.br /br /Another poster to that blog post works for a company in the U.S. which produces Lantus insulin, and she has been communicating with me and with Alex's doctor and trying to coordinate something between the doctors at Children's Hospital in D.C. and Dr. Renner at Korle Bu. Keep your fingers crossed that soon, these children here in Ghana will have the same support as children with diabetes in the rest of the world.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-7814721747453613948?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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8:54
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Before I get into Night 4 of our hospital stay, I need to take a minute here to vent about injustice; specifically, the injustice perpetrated by medical product manufacturers and pharmaceutical companies to third world countries, such as Ghana. br /br /Alexandra, as a Type 1 diabetic, has two very basic but very specific lifelong needs. She needs to check her blood glucose levels several times every day, and she needs to have insulin administered via multiple daily injections. br /br /Alexandra is lucky. Not because she has Type 1 diabetes, but because she has parents who have the means and access to the things that she needs, in order to keep her alive. Not to draw too fine a point on this, without regular glucose monitoring and daily insulin injections, Alexandra will die.br /br /I and my husband and our family will do all that we can to prevent that. We will ensure that she has her glucose levels tested as often as necessary, sometimes 6 or 7 times a day. And she will have the insulin injections that she needs to bring high sugar levels down, at least twice a day, but sometimes more. And she will be provided with appropriate and nourishing food to ensure that she will grow and thrive. It’s a tricky balancing act, but we are more than up to the task. We have our most precious commodity to consider.br /br /Not many Ghanaian kids with Type 1 diabetes are as lucky as Alexandra. I spoke with Alex’s doctor last week, and told her that I was receiving a lot of online support from a wonderful network of parents of children with diabetes. In fact, I told her, besides the advice and encouragement, we had been offered additional glucose meters so that Alexandra could have an extra to bring to school, and one we could keep for an emergency.br /br /When I mentioned this, Dr. Renner pointed out that the majority of her T1 patients didn’t have the glucose meters, because their parents couldn’t afford it. The meter that we bought, as soon as we were told of Alexandra’s diagnosis, cost equivalent $62. The meter strips, absolutely necessary meter strips, cost $40 for 50 strips. The lancets for the finger pricks are $20 for a box of 100. The insulin was about $17 per vial. We paid cash for all these things, and we continue to buy the strips on a regular basis. So far, I estimate, we’ve gone through about 250 strips. That would be close to $225. br /br /Now, Dr. Renner told us, that because the parents can’t afford a meter, they don’t monitor their children daily. If they have an extra cedi or two, they might take the child to a local chemist who can check the sugar level there, for a fee. But usually, they wait and hope for the best, and if the child falls very sick, either due to low blood sugar (too much insulin) or high blood sugar (not enough insulin), then they take the kid to the hospital and admit him. It’s actually less expensive to admit a child to the hospital for a couple of days than it is to buy a meter and the needed strips.br /br /What a sin. In the United States and elsewhere, the companies that manufacture glucose meters are giving these out free, like candy, to diabetics. Several parents on the support board had two, three or even five free meters in their house and were kind and generous enough to have them sent to me, through my Mom in N.J. We plan to donate these to the hospital. br /br /Insurance in the U.S. covers diabetic needs, though it varies state to state. In Canada, it’s covered under social medicine. In the Ireland, and I suspect the U.K., they’re also covered. A friend of mine from Ireland told me that meter strips are free there; her husband is diabetic, so she knows. Ghana has National Health Insurance, but it only covers insulin, not the expensive strips. I estimate, in Alexandra’s lifetime (which I hope will be a very very long one), she may use 100,000 glucose meter strips. Isn’t that a frightening statistic? What typical Ghanaian family can afford that? None is the answer.br /br /Don’t third world countries suffer the same medical tragedies as other developed countries? Don’t we have enough injustice here, in all other aspects of life? Shame on LifeScan and Bayer, and all of those other international glucose meter companies… couldn’t you donate a couple of these meters to the hospitals here? No, why not? I’ll tell you why -- because it’s not profitable, and that’s their bottom line. Not helping humanity, it’s to make a Buck or a Pound or a Euro.br /br /Don’t span style="font-style:italic;"average/span Ghanaian kids with Type 1 diabetes deserve the same chance to live as Alexandra? br /br /Barbbr /br /P.S. I want to personally thank the wonderful people (especially you, Adjoa in Vancouver, B.C. and her sister here in Ghana who forwarded my blog) who have donated meters and strips, for either Alexandra's personal use, or as a donation to the teaching hospital for Type 1 diabetic kids. God bless you all.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-6586640043973895526?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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10:00
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Saturday night saw a great big thunderstorm, and let me tell you, we can use all the rain we can get. We're still experiencing a slight problem with the water levels in our hydro dam, so a little bit rain means fewer "lights off" scenarios. br /br /Except, that the roof leaks. About midnight, right after I'd done Alex's sugar test, I could hear rain outside the window, which is normal, but could also hear it outside the door to the room, which is not normal. Because her level was too high, I had to go tell the nurse who'd have to come and give her a fast acting insulin. I open the door into the hallway, and step into a puddle of water about two inches deep, and about 10 feet in diameter. I'm so glad I had flip-flops, and not my fuzzy bunny slippers on.br /br /This, apparently, is par for the course, as the maintenance man tells me the next morning. "We complain and complain, but no one cares... there's no money to fix it." I can't imagine this ever happening in the states. What a mess. All of the next day, there were half a dozen buckets spread along the corridor to catch the water that must have pooled on the roof.br /br /Alexandra is excited today, because her brothers are coming to see her for the first time. They come in quietly, toting bags of milk and apples for Alex (and Diet Coke and Snickers bars for me), and lunch from a fast food restaurant at the Accra Mall... Barcelo's chicken sandwich is to die for, it is sooo juicy! Alex gets a grilled chicken drumstick and fries (chip, we call it here), and wonders where her candy, juice box and toy are? This is gonna be a hard habit to break.br /br /Mike brings some of his toys for him and Alex to play with, and Sean brings his apron. Yes, you read that right. One of Sean's classes is sewing, and he has brought me his apron to help hem. Final exams are the following week. He's asking for help from the wrong person, let me tell you. I failed home ec in high school. Mrs. Tierney just hated me. It takes me about 90 minutes to finish the hemming (I have got to get needles with bigger eyes... it took me 5 minutes just to thread each one!). Finally, finished, it looks fairly neat and the stitches are about as crappy as Sean's, so the teacher will never know an adult helped. Ha!br /br /While I'm playing Susie Homemaker, Sean is messing around on my laptop; he some how gets wifi (how come I couldn't?) and is quick to jump on Runescape (do all kids obsess about this game?). Then, within minutes, there's a fight for the login rights to the game.br /br /Poor Sly had to leave, and is running the diabetes-related errands again. Today he's on a hunt for the insulin pen and cartridges. Parking is horrible in this city, so he grabs a taxi and heads for Accra Central. No luck at the doctor recommended chemist shop. No luck at three other pharmacies he tried either. But Sly got a winner of a taxi driver who tells him he knows one that might have it, so off they go to Labone. Sure enough, the place has got the pen and the cartridges. As it turns out, this shop is 2 minutes from Sly's mother's house... if Sly hadn't been trying to avoid going past the family house, he might have been there earlier, but that's neither here nor there.br /br /By the time he gets back to the hospital, it's starting to get late, and they all need to head back home. Sly cannot drive at night, and night falls very very quickly in the tropics. Alex gets a little depressed watching them leave her behind; I know she wishes she could go home, too, but the numbers are still way too high.br /br /When they get home, Sly calls to tell me they arrived safe and sound, and were just getting ready to eat dinner. Then he tells me that Sean ironed a hole into his apron, right on the part I just finished stitching. He was so upset, he went and hid in the bathroom for 20 minutes (at 13, he's too big to cry in front of his dad, you know how it is). Another home economics failure... must be in the genes.br /br /Pretty soon, Alex and I are back into our regular nighttime routine of watching the Wizard of Oz, and eating sugar-free oatmeal cookies and drinking a glass of milk before bed, and then it's off to la-la land. For one of us, at least. br /br /Once Alex falls asleep, I decide to go down to the shower and get myself ready for bed. I hear water running (unless it's my imagination, now, since I've been hearing drip drip drip all day long), and push open the door to the "amenity ward" shower, and there's a soapy naked man in there! Oops! I can only see the back of him, but I can tell it's the maintenance man. I open the door and he's apologizing. "Don't worry," I tell him, "it's more your shower than mine. Sorry." The poor guy, I probably embarrassed the hell out of him. Didn't bother me, though. Hey, if you've seen one naked black butt, you've seem 'em all.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-5182801357950181175?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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5:27
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
This morning, I beg the nurses to take the IV drip out of Alex’s hand for a little while, so that she can have a shower. Now, I’ve already been down the hall (at about 4:30 am since I couldn’t sleep) and had my morning shower. The water is cold, in case you hadn’t guessed, there’s no hot water heater here. But it’s a refreshing cold, you know, so it didn’t bother me. Yeah, and tofu tastes like chicken. But I can’t subject that to Alex, so I heat up water in a kettle and pour it into our shower bucket, so she can at least have a bucket shower in warm water. I realize that it will be a bit tricky for her to have a shower but not get water on the bandage, so we wrap her hand up in a plastic bag and I wash her down. She’s mostly clean. Good enough. br /br /______________________________br /br /The blood sugar meter we’re using is a OneTouch Ultra 2, and I assume it must be fairly new on the market, because the nurses have never seen this one before. No one knows how to work it. So, they ask me. They’re asking me? How the hell do I know how it works? I take the instruction booklet, and try to figure it out myself. Settings, time, readings… okay, I think I’ve got it. For the first 24 hours, the nurses come in and get the meter from me, then do the test on Alex. I’m forewarned, though; today I’m going to start learning how to do this myself. Guess I’ve got no choice, unless I take a nurse home to live with us.br /br /The nurses come in the early afternoon to teach me how to take Alex’s blood sugar readings and how to give her an injection. This ought to be good. A group of about 4 of them stand over me to watch, it must be a pretty funny sight, or else it’s a slow day on the ward. Alex is biting her lip. I know she’s nervous, and I’m nervous, but this has got to be done. br /br /Okay, wipe off the finger tip, put the strip into the meter… no the other way, check the code. Wait, where’s my glasses? I can’t see without my glasses (it sucks getting old). Check the code, what code? Oh, okay, that code. Got it, match. Now prick her finger. Damn, I wish I didn’t have to do this. Jab. Blood. Good, that’s what I was hoping to get. Enough for the reading? Counting down: 5-4-3-2-1. Success!! She’s HI. So what else is new? br /br /Now the insulin shot. I’m an old pro at shots, or so I think. I used to be an IVF patient, and sometimes had to do this kind of stuff to myself. I’ve got to first draw air into the syringe up to the 4 unit mark (God, the markings on this thing are so tiny!), then inject the air into the vial while it’s upside down. Then, I’ve got to draw the 4 units into the syringe. Remove the syringe, wipe down Alex’s arm and inject. No problem. I can do that. Like riding a bicycle. It all comes back to you, right? Except, I do it wrong. br /br /Back in the old IVF days (15+ years ago, mind you), you kind of made a dart throwing motion to get the needle past the thick skin of your butt. I did this to Alex’s skinny little upper arm. She yelped and the nurse oh, oh, ohed, and I knew I screwed up. Gently, gently. Pinch the skin and insert the needle a bit shallowly. Shit. I hurt my daughter. She’s rubbing her arm and shooting daggers out of her eyes. Is this going to get easier?br /br /The nurses depart (with a story to laugh about for at least a week or so), and Alex is apparently already over the needle fiasco, asking me what’s for lunch. God, isn’t it great how kids bounce back? Well, not sure what lunch is going to be, since Sly hasn’t gotten here yet. The fridge is stocked with fruit, milk, yogurt and cheese, and we’ve got corn flakes and cream crackers on standby. After the prerequisite 30 minute after injection wait, I make Alex up a plate of everything. She eats ravenously, and it’s really nice to see, since she had no appetite over the past few weeks.br /br /Sly finally arrives back at noon, but he can’t stay that long. We have to send him on another errand for more insulin, and he has to go to two labs for the test vials for more of Alex’s blood work. Normally, the patient would go to the lab, make the payment and then they’d take the sample and run the test. With Alex hooked up to the IV, Sly had to do the preliminaries, then we had to get a doctor on the ward to draw the blood, then Sly had to deliver the samples back to their respective labs. Poor Sly. But I am so thankful he’s here, otherwise I’d have to do it. By the time he comes back from running all around the hospital grounds, its 2:30 pm. His cell phone rings. Problem. Its our taxi driver who calls to say that because it’s Friday the boys got out of school early. Crap. We totally forgot. We tell Ekow to take the boys to a local café and let them have something to drink and Sly will be home as soon as he can. Oh, well. They’ll live.br /br /Before he leaves, Sly goes off to get us some food, fried fish, kenkey and white rice. That’s dinner for both of us, plus her fruit, milk, cheese, etc. She’s turning into a little pig, but it’s good. br /br /Alex’s blood sugar levels keep saying HI, and the nurses think that maybe the meter is broken, but when she’s tested on another meter, they both read the same. I guess we’ll just have to wait for the drip to flush her out more.br /br /Another long night is ahead of us, but at least this time we know what to expect. Or so I think. About 2:00 am, Alex wakes up and says she has to use the toilet. Not the bedpan, but the toilet, she’s got to go. Now, she’d been constipated for a couple of days, and nothing seemed to loosen her up at all. I’m thinking maybe all this drip is softening the system up, you know. So, off we trot down the hall to the bathroom, and we stop at the nurses’ desk to get unhooked from the drip. br /br /She goes in and sits and sits and sits. Nothing. I’m waiting outside, poking my head in every few minutes. Nothing. Ten or fifteen minutes of nothing. I suggest she forget about it and try later. No such luck. She absolutely refuses. She says, “It’s right there and it’s got to come out and I’m not leaving until it does.” She’s almost in tears. Thirty minutes later, and she’s still sitting there. Finally, I hear noises, and its not just grunting and heavy breathing. Persistence pays off. I retrieve the water to flush, and she gets reattached to her drip, then we’re back in the room washing our hands and sanitizing and she goes back to sleep with a peaceful look on her face. Cue the James Brown, “I Feel Good” music. br /br /Good night.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-732091436052025158?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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6:15
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
At about 7:30 p.m. we got a phone call from Sly, and the boys were standing by to talk to us. Sean had a limited understanding of what Alex was going through, but was worried and solicitous on the phone to Alex (not normal, trust me). Then Mike got on, “wuz up?” I believe was his comment (very normal, trust me). He told me on the phone that he wanted to bring Alex something when he saw her. I told him that she couldn’t have anything with sugar in it, no soda, no juice, no cookies, no candy, no cake. He listens to that, pauses and then says, “Okay, so what you’re saying is I can give her water.” Smart ass. But, yeah, I guess it did sound like that. Know what he brought her? He made her a necklace out of some buttons and, get this, a plastic chocolate chip cookie that came with one of Alex’s cooking sets. Why not rub salt into the wound. br /br /Believe it or not, with the exception of giving birth, I had only once been away from my boys overnight. It felt weird not to give them their good night hugs, which they both come in for every night, even waking me up if I’ve dozed off. br /br /As exhausted, both physically and mentally as I am, the night just dragged and dragged and dragged. I couldn’t sleep. Of course, it doesn’t help that the nurses were in every 2 hours to check Alexandra’s blood sugar level, and then give her an insulin shot every 4 hours. They are extremely vigilant, as much as any nurse in any U.S. hospital. Just not as chatty.br /br /Alexandra’s blood sugar numbers were so high that they don’t even record; our glucose meter, a OneTouch Ultra 2, only registers to 33.3 mmol/L (which is equivalent to 599 in the States), and so it could have been significantly higher than that. We’ll never know, it just says HI. In any event, whether it’s 33.3 or HI, it’s too high.br /br /The doctor has said that Alex’s reading should be between 4 and 8. Jeez, and I kept wondering, is that even achievable? We’re working towards it. As I go through the meter readings, I see that the numbers didn’t even budge until she’d been on insulin and the IV drip for a full 12 hours, and then they dropped too far and she had to be given glucose to bring it back up. Up and down and down and up. At one point, she was 2.9 (52 in the U.S.) and within 2 hours she was at 31.1 (560). It was crazy.br /br /What was also crazy is that we didn’t get any information on what Alex should or shouldn’t be eating. I was scrutinizing packages in the little store on the hospital grounds to see what was sugar-free, totally neglecting the fact (that I’ve since tattooed on my brain) that carbohydrates convert to sugar, too. So the sugar-free oatmeal cookies had enough carbs in it to make the sugar-free point totally moot. br /br /So, anyway, our first night… up every 2 hours or so, shots every 4. Alex took it like the champ that she is. Naturally, I couldn’t sleep. I’d scarcely drift off and the nurse was back. If it wasn’t the nurse, then it was some loudmouth in the hall outside who didn’t realize (care?) that there was a sick kid in the room. Some time after the midnight check (12:34 a.m. 22.7 mmol/L), I gave up and pulled out the laptop. I had, fortunately, remembered to ask for my mini-modem, which has pre-paid units loaded onto it. MTN made a small fortune off me that night, the frigging rip-offs… it cost me about $7 for a lousy 20 minutes online. I needed to email my mom and tell her the news anyway, and ask her to pass the info on to my brothers and sisters. My mom puts CNN to shame, that news was out there so fast, and by the next morning, I had notes and e-cards galore for Alex to read. br /br /Alex was funny when she opened the e-cards. She’d read the message, listen to the music, watch the video. And then she’d say, “Is that all?” She is so used to getting real paper cards (with money in them!!) from Grandma, that she couldn’t really be bothered with the cyber version. Boring. Oh well, I enjoyed them.br /br /By 6:00 am we were both up, since Alex needed her insulin shot and had to eat a half hour after that. Her breakfast was tea with milk and a fake sugar tablet, cornflakes and milk, and a banana. Then we watched the Wizard of Oz. Again.br /br /Today, the plan was to learn to do the glucose blood readings. Doesn’t that sound like fun?br /br /Later!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-4406697239703040563?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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5:59
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
It’s been a long while, I know, I know. Things have been busy and work has been steady and I could hardly find the time to do anything writing unless it was for money. Until now. I am now on a self-prescribed work slowdown. I have no choice.br /br /About three weeks ago, we took Alexandra to the doctor for a check-up. She’d been listless, losing weight, waking up several times overnight to go to the bathroom, then sipping water before she even slipped back into bed. Now, at first I attributed the night time excursions to the toilet to the fact that she had wet the bed one night (sorry Alex, she begged me not to tattle, but it’s part of the story), and she knew I wasn’t happy about that. I figured she was trying to prevent a repeat performance by getting up 4 and 5 times. But the frequency to the bathroom, her thirst, her utter exhaustion, and finally, seeing the knobbiness at the top of her spine… I knew something was really wrong. I just knew. br /br /I am not a doctor, by any stretch of the imagination, but I am “aware” of the symptoms of diabetes, and was worried sick because Alex exhibited all of them. I didn’t tell my husband what I suspected, this is his little princess, and he needed to hear the grim news from a professional, not his wife.br /br /Unfortunately, after the GP ran a quick urinalysis and blood sugar test, he confirmed my worst fears. He sent us off to the lab for a battery of more blood tests. We were told to report to Korle Bu Children’s Unit to see the pediatrician in charge.br /br /Dr. Renner is a very busy woman who took the time out of her hectic schedule to see us. She looked Alexandra over, read the referral note from the GP and the urine and blood test results, and then had an aide take Alex up to the ward for a weight check (19 kilos or 41.8 lbs – she weighed the same a year earlier!). While they went to do that, she told me to grab my bag and come with her, and she’d show us where we’d be staying. GULP! I don’t know what I expected to hear, but an overnight stay wasn’t it.br /br /We went up to the ward, and I was introduced to the matron, Auntie Mary. The doctor told her that Alexandra and I should be given a bed in the “amenity” ward, which is separate from the regular “charity” ward. We were lucky enough to get our pick of the beds, since there were 2 doubles, a single and a crib, all separated by heavy blue damask curtains with the words “Donated by Angel Trust” embroidered in the middle of them. We opted for the double bed by the window so we could look out of our cell, um room, window. br /br /We were also lucky enough to have our own locked toilet, at the other end of the ward, though. Unfortunately, that area of the building didn’t have running water, so you had to fill a bucket from the shower, and then dump it to flush. The first day, Alexandra and I must have visited that toilet at least two dozen times. I am sure that the other patients and their mommys were very surprised to see an obroni on the floor (one who wasn’t a visiting doctor), but someone just like them – a mommy taking care of her very sick child.br /br /And that is exactly what I was, a mommy helping to take care of her very sick child. Alexandra was put on a saline drip to try to flush out the sugar that had built up in her body – her ketones were very high, and this was the only way to that. The doctor didn’t come right out and say it (that’s their way, unfortunately, and I’m forced to dig and press for answers), but I’ve since discovered that Alex had ketoacidosis, hence the drip in her hand for 36 hours. She was not happy about having this “thing” stuck in her hand, but we didn’t have any option. On the other hand, she thought it was “fun” that she could now take a leak in a bedpan. I, however, did not find that “fun” since her aim is awful, and it was my responsibility to mop up her mess, fortunately there was a sink and a mop in the room for that very purpose. The “amenity” part, I guess.br /br /So, once Alex and I were settled into our room, and she hooked up to the drip, it was total boredom from there, at least for us. I did have my laptop with me, and the Wizard of Oz is on my hard drive, so Alex watched that to pass the time.br /br /In the interim, poor Sly was running around like a chicken without a head. Hospitals (at least, this one in particular), do not have the luxury of a dispensary, and any drugs needed for treatment must be purchased, in advance, by the patient’s representative. So, off Sly went to the 24-hour pharmacy for the first of many many trips – insulin, saline drip, a glucose meter and strips were the first run.br /br /As soon as he brought them, Sly had to rush home to get the things we needed for our sleepover – he still had to pick up the kids from school, so it was urgent to get home, pack, get back to the hospital and get back to Tema by 4:00 pm to get the boys (who were going to be very upset to hear that we were in the hospital). Pillows, pajamas, undies, clothes, slippers, laptop adapters, phone chargers, tooth brush/paste, soap, shampoo, towels… you name it, we needed it. This is not a luxury hotel.br /br /While he was gone, the nurse came in and gave Alex the first of what will likely be more than 50,000 insulin shots over the course of her life time. I hope that Alex gets to live a good long life, and hope that in her lifetime there will be a cure for this horrible disease. It took all of my willpower not to break down and cry in front of Alexandra, but my heart was breaking.br /br /Sly finally got back about 3:00 pm with two Hefty sized bags worth of stuff. He needed our driver to help him carry the stuff up, and poor Ekow, our driver, was really upset to see Alex lying in bed attached to an IV. This is not the Alex he knows, who fights to sit in the front passenger seat, and bangs on his car intentionally every day as she departs, and calls him Brother Ekow. No, this was not that Alex.br /br /Unfortunately, Sly had to leave almost as soon as he arrived to get back and pick up the boys, and we were left alone for our first night in the hospital.br /br /Stay tuned!br /br /P.S… Just ignore the “Debt Diva” moniker… it pays for Alexandra’s blood sugar test strips!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-6372257375107866703?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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23:15
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Yesterday, Alexandra waited just outside the gate for the Fan Ice guy to pass by on his bicycle-pedaled ice cream truck. Most of the vendors know that "rich" kids live here, and come by tooting their horns (aaooohhh-ga!) and ringing their bells. Alex was too impatient to wait indoors, in fear (God forbid!) that she miss him... it's not as though they don't come past every 15 minutes or so, mind you.br /br /Anyway, while waiting outside the gate, a woman and her toddler will sitting on the steps about 25 feet or so from where Alex was. The woman started to call to Alexandra, "Obroni come, come." Alex, smart girl that she is, didn't come. Rather, she came into the house to complain that some woman was calling her "Obroni" and that I should go out and stop it. As if I could.br /br /For some reason, today, it struck me as odd; obviously, I've heard it before. But here are our three beautiful children, who have been variously referred to as half-caste, mixed race, mulatto and bi-racial. The most common Ghanaian endearment, though, is "obroni." For those of you new to the phrase, obroni means white person.br /br /Obviously, I accept that I am obroni. My children, however, are not me. If you ask any of them, are you white or are you black, they all respond that they are brown. There's absolutely no distinction between. I know I will someday be saddened by the fact that they will have to make a choice or claim one color and deny the other.br /br /But what occurred to me is that my children, have a very similar "make up" to the Democratic contender for the U.S. Presidency, Barack Obama. He has a white American mother and a black African father. My kids have a white American mother and a black African father. When Barack first won the seat for the U.S. Senate, and had his picture posted in nearly every magazine in America, I said to Sly, this is how I picture Sean will look when he grows up.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R-oNFwddxgI/AAAAAAAAAGs/NK4rirFvBDU/s1600-h/barack.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R-oNFwddxgI/AAAAAAAAAGs/NK4rirFvBDU/s320/barack.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181968713802171906" border="0" //abr /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R-oNGAddxhI/AAAAAAAAAG0/hrGH2fr3kJA/s1600-h/Picture+098.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R-oNGAddxhI/AAAAAAAAAG0/hrGH2fr3kJA/s320/Picture+098.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5181968718097139218" border="0" //abr /In America, Barack may be the "Great Black Hope." In Ghana, he's just another "Obroni."div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-95609796528932429?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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10:51
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R9MSjL47G7I/AAAAAAAAAGc/BKh_Cgye4c8/s1600-h/28022008692.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R9MSjL47G7I/AAAAAAAAAGc/BKh_Cgye4c8/s320/28022008692.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175500792475098034" border="0" //abr /div style="text-align: center;"span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);font-size:130%;" span style="font-weight: bold;"BEFORE/span/spanbr //divbr /br /After 15,120,000 span style="font-style: italic;"seconds/span from September 11, 2007, I am happy - no, scratch that - thrilled - no, scratch that one, too - utterly ecstatic to report that ALEXANDRA is FINALLY going to span style="font-style: italic;"REAL/span SCHOOL!!!br /br /No more home-schooling (which, I sucked at), no more jealous and whiny retorts from the boys (I can't believe you let Alex [watch TV, take a nap, buy ice cream... you name it, they whined about it]), no more funny looks from the shop-keepers ("that kid should be in school!!"). No more. Thank God.br /br /And you know, I think it was all by "accident." On Friday, February 29th (what a great day, ain't it?), Sly got "flashed" by the SOS Head Master. I actually think it was a wrong number, and that he never meant to dial Sly. But Sly naturally took advantage and called back. After a few minutes of chit-chat, Sly got down to the nitty-gritty. "Any openings in Class 2 yet?" I watched Sly's face slowly break into a big grin. Thumbs up! It looks good; not definite, but not an outright turn down. We should call on Monday morning.br /br /Fast forward to Monday 8:00. Sly calls. Jeez, the Head Master (or "Headie" and the JSS kids call him, so Sean reports) is out of the school till 10:00; can we call back? Duh. At 10:03 (Sly doesn't want to appear span style="font-style: italic;"too/span anxious), he calls again. YES!! SHE'S IN!! "Headie" suggests we come in tomorrow (Tuesday) to pick up the forms and stuff, and then Alex can start next week (freaking mid-term break). Well, nertz to that. She's starting TOMORROW! We're out of the house like a shot, straight to the school, Alex in tow (naturally) and wondering what the span style="font-style: italic;"hell/span is going on. We're going to your new school, we explain. When we pull into the SOS lot, she can hardly contain herself.br /br /Inside the administration building, we sit and wait for the secretary to give us our forms. Alex is nearly beside herself. She keeps clutching my arm, "Really? Really, Mommy? I'm going to go to school here?" She double checks with Sly, in case I'm pulling her leg. Sly does not kid.br /br /Next day, first day of school, off we go. Alex is a little nervous, now that the day is here. But she's a trouper. We have one last thing to do, and that is to pay the tuition bill. "Headie" comes out of his office to sit beside Alex. He tells us to leave her there, and the teacher will come collect her. Now it dawns on her. This is it. Mommy is not staying; Mommy is going. Uh oh. She forgot what it's like. Tears well up in her eyes. I'm gonna have to go soon, before I make a fool of myself.br /br /Once back home, Sly and I take advantage of the peace and quiet (Wink! Wink!), now that Alexandra is where she belongs, with her brothers and among her peers. Growing.br /br /br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R9MSzr47G8I/AAAAAAAAAGk/8wzuFenOazQ/s1600-h/04032008694.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp2.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R9MSzr47G8I/AAAAAAAAAGk/8wzuFenOazQ/s320/04032008694.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5175501075942939586" border="0" //abr /div style="text-align: center;"span style="font-weight: bold; color: rgb(0, 102, 0);font-size:130%;" AFTER/spanbr //divdiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='//blogger.googleusercontent.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-6420743750888857736?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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22:24
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
It's been a while, hasn't it? Things had gotten busy here, so I've had little time to post. As Ghanaians like to say, "It's all part of life."br /br /The Africa Cup of Nations is finally over (with yippees from me and sniffles from Sean). Ghana's Black Stars won the Third Place for the Bronze in a decisive victory over Ivory Coast, by a score of 4-2. And poor John Mensah, the Rock of Gibraltar, showed the world that "real" men do cry, by shedding some tears over misplaced guilt. You see, two matches earlier, he'd fouled a player who was no doubt on his way to scoring a goal, for which he got a yellow card (meaning, he'd have to sit out the next game). Well, in the next game (the semi-final) Ghana lost. Would "the Rock" have changed the outcome, I don't know. But had hespan style="font-style: italic;" not/span fouled that player, the Black Stars might not have even made it as far as they did. So, John, dry your eyes, no one blames you. Or maybe I don't get it, but my in-house experts think he did the right thing.br /br /So, over the past few weeks, I've been working. Yes, you read that right. I got a job! You know, I just span style="font-style: italic;"knew/span that somehow this internet writing gig could be profitable. And I don't mean merely "enriching," as enriching as this blog is for me. I mean real cash. Hard currency. Big bucks. I love you all, but it don't pay the bills.br /br /I tried posting for "situations wanted" over on Craigslist, but never got a hit. So putting my not inconsiderable research talents to work, I key-worded "freelance+paid+writing+ editing" and found a great website. Scanning through the postings, it looked promising, so I went ahead and posted my profile and paid my monthly membership fee and started bidding for jobs.br /br /And then I waited, and waited, and waited some more. Before you know it, 48 hours had gone by, and I thought, "Damn, I wasted $10." But all of a sudden... Bam! Bam! Bam! Bam! Four jobs, right in a row! When it rains it pours. Two for editing and one for writing 20 travel articles and one that was a span style="font-style: italic;"real/span stretch for me... 50 Ways to Add Romance and Fun to your Relationship. Come on. Like I have span style="font-style: italic;"anything/span new to add to a relationship after being married for 18 years. Fortunately, a round-robin note to everyone on my email list garnered me a dozen ideas. br /br /Right now, I'm "in-between" jobs, and bidding like crazy in the hope that I get a couple of new assignments real soon. It can be addicting, you know. It's like when I used to sell stuff on eBay, I'd wake up at 3:00 in the morning, just to check the auctions. br /br /So, now you know that if you don't see me for a while, it's not because I've moved back to NJ or anything like that. I'm still sitting here in the heat and dust of the harmattan, listening to the hawkers selling their tomatoes, toilet paper and tilapia, chasing goats out of the yard, and typing away on the keyboard, only now I'm getting paid for it. br /br /You see, life is good here. No, scratch that. Now, it's even better - $624 better. Not bad for a week's worth of work in Ghana.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-1472741131355277197?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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0:43
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
My experience with soccer has been limited to watching Sean play during Saturday morning games of his Pee Wee soccer team. Being from New Jersey, with parents from the "Big Apple," well, baseball, I know, I get, and I love it. It is not boring. I am a huge N.Y. Yankees fan; I cried the day Thurman Munson was killed in a plane crash (August 2nd, 1979... and I didn't look the date up). But soccer was an unknown sport to me. The only name I knew was Pele, and that was because he played for the N.J. Cosmos soccer team at the same time that I worked at the N.J. Meadowlands Arena, just before I got fired for setting the concession stand on fire... but that's another story.br /br /Welcome to Ghana football. The Ghana Black Stars are Ghana's football team. And yesterday was the opening game of the African Cup of Nations, which Ghana is proudly hosting. In our brand new span style="width: 750px;"span class="newstext"Ohene Djan Sports stadium in Accra, the Ghana Black Stars took on the Syli Nationals/span/spanspan style="width: 750px;"span class="newstext" of Guinea. And with a last minute (really, absolutely last minute) goal by Sulley Muntari, won the opening game with a score of 2 to 1.br /br /Sean, Sly and I sat watching the game on TV in the comfort of our living room, though Sean would gladly have given his left __________ [fill in the blank] to be at the game personally. He and Sly discussed the plays, the players, the coach, the defense, the offense, the stadium, the pitch (which means the field, I found out), the ball, the weather, you name it, it got discussed. I cannot believe how much Sean knows about football and the players and the teams they play for and what have you. I was astounded.br /br /But anyway, for most of the game, I found it fairly boring. The whole first half, Ghana attempted to score and missed a number of times, thanks to a great Guinea goal keeper. Finally, Ghana scored, and the whole stadium went wild. And not only the whole stadium, but the whole country! There was yelling and cheering and car honking that went on and on for about 10 minutes after the first goal. It stopped only when Guinea scored the equalizer.br /br /Then, only moments after Sly and Sean harangued Sulley Muntari in absentia, bemoaning his lethargy and commenting on the coach's lack of vision that he'd leave that tired old player in the game that long, that finally, Sulley blasted his trademark "rocket" shot and scored the winning goal. The noise that erupted from the stadium, from the neighborhood and from this house, was nothing short of a cacophony of ear-splitting sound.br /br /It may sound weird, but it brought goosebumps to my arms and tears to my eyes. Not that I'm such a big fan of soccer, but how could you not love a country that loves it national team so much. I'm not used to that. When the Yankees won the World Series, the excitement and thrill was no where near as all encompassing as Ghana was last night. Maybe cause our next door neighbors were Met fans, and the guy next to them was a displaced Red Sox fanatic. I mean, even if you didn't own a television or have a radio handy, you would absolutely know span style="font-style: italic;"exactly/span what was happening in the game, the collective cheering or booing or even sighing was impossible not to hear.br /br /The jubilation was nothing short of awe inspiring. And that was only the first game. If Ghana makes it all the way through to the finals, I'll be investing in a sweater, a box of tissues and ear plugs.br /br /To watch last night's highlights, follow this link a href="http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/SportsArchive/artikel.php?ID=137920"http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/SportsArchive/artikel.php?ID=137920br //abr /Oh, and if you're interested in watching the other games, you might want to try this link a href="http://tv.africanpath.com/"http://tv.africanpath.com//abr /br /br /br /br /br /br /br /br /br //span/spandiv class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-8745036864485779965?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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3:51
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Last week was our 18th wedding anniversary, and while a lovely intimate candle-lit dinner for two in a 5-Star hotel would have been incredibly wonderful (and incredibly surprising), we did the next best thing: we went FISHING!! I'm fibbing. We didn't go fishing, but we were on the water, and we did eat fish!br /br /Sly booked reservations for the five of us, his best friend Eric (who coincidentally was a witness at our Manhattan City Hall wedding all those years ago), and Eric's daughter, Ashley, and our 16 year old Ghanaian niece, Francisca. So, early Saturday morning, we got up early and headed over to catch the ferry, called the Dodi Princess. Ahead of us was a leisurely trip up the Volta River to the little Island of Dodi and then back again.br /br /We were warned that even though we had made reservations weeks ago, we should get to the ticket stand early, because it was still first-come, first-served, and likely to be controlled chaos. As the boat was "supposed" to leave at 10:00 am sharp, we left our lodge at 8:30 for the 15 minute drive. We bought our tickets ($20 for adults; $15 for kids) and stomped and clomped down the ramp to the boat. It was all too familiar, and I was getting flashbacks to the days when we used to ride the Staten Island Ferry (for a nickel! both ways!) just for fun.br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30MrtKoQZI/AAAAAAAAAF0/tKOmFaAzNgk/s1600-h/29122007608.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30MrtKoQZI/AAAAAAAAAF0/tKOmFaAzNgk/s320/29122007608.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151287493779800466" border="0" //abr /Naturally, we were among the first to arrive, so that meant that we got to pick the best seats we could find. After carefully weighing the pros and cons of the top level (great view, but smoky, since they were grilling the tilapia up there) versus the middle floor (where they were going to set up the buffet and where the live band was situated, so this would be noisy and crowded, but the bathrooms were up here!) versus the lower level (dark and cozy indoor bar with A/C, which would get very crowded, but outside at the bow was a 2 foot high kiddie pool). Since we had four kids with bathing suits in their backpacks, our seating choice was a no-brainer.br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30MrdKoQYI/AAAAAAAAAFs/iVg6_h6xvF4/s1600-h/29122007610.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp0.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30MrdKoQYI/AAAAAAAAAFs/iVg6_h6xvF4/s320/29122007610.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151287489484833154" border="0" //abr /So we took up two big tables right next to the pool, ordered some soda and cold Star Beer (I know, I know, at 9:15?!... but hey, it's our anniversary and we're celebrating!) and waited for the boat to pull out. And waited, and waited, and waited some more. By 9:30 am, as anticipated, the kids were driving me nuts (as in, "when are we gonna leave?") and I became a town crier, announcing the time every 5 minutes. 10:05... nothing. 10:10... nothing. 10:15... nothing. At 10:20, Sly (also as anticipated), went to ask about the delay. The answer, he was told, was because the event manager hadn't arrived yet, and the boat couldn't leave without him. I wanted to slap Sly's forehead and say, "Duh! This is Ghana! Everything and everyone operates on Ghana time!" but as I wasn't wearing my own bathing suit and prepared for an impromptu dunk into the river, I kept my mouth shut.br /br /Finally, at 10:45 am, we launched! A minute later they filled up the little pool (directly from the river), and my kids raced to the bathrooms to change into their swim suits. And 5 minutes after that, some kid started to hurl in the pool, was quickly yanked up and out by his mother who allowed him to continue his hurling on the floor next to us, and then allowed him to go back into the pool where he proceeded to gift us with an encore performance! What was that mother thinking?! Can you say, "IGNORAMUS?!"br /br /Naturally, my own kids were not at all pleased that I made them get out of the pool and change back into their clothes. What is it with kids? At what point will they be skeeved out by something like that? When will they say, "Mom, thanks for taking me out of that festering pool of vomitus and ensuring that I won't contract any tropical malady that that young boy might have been carrying and spewing." When will I not have to (over)hear, "Mom, you stink/suck."br /br /As we waited for our second round of drinks, and when the waiter blithely walked over the steaming pile of yuch on the floor for the second time, I pointed out to him that it would be "nice" if someone would come and clean up that mess. Ten minutes later, mess cleaned up (boy still in the pool, by the way).br /br /The live band that they had aboard was really pretty darn good, and not just by Ghanaian standards (which usually is equivalent to say, a pre-school class playing musical instruments for the first time), and they played a very eclectic collection of songs, even some I could recognize and sing along to (much to the chagrin of my 12 year old son and the embarrassment of my 16 year old Ghanaian niece). How can you not sing along with "You can call me Al" by Paul Simon? Did you ever catch the video of it on MTV with Chevy Chase? Too funny. br /br /About 90 minutes into the ride, we saw people carrying plates of food and eating off of their laps, so Eric volunteered to go upstairs and investigate. The line for food wound, snaked and meandered all along the dance floor. Eric was in for at least an hour's wait. The plan was, that when he got close to the servers, he would flash Sly on the cell phone and I would go on up and get the plates of food for the kids. In the U.S., I'd have been called some not-so-nice names for line jumping, but perhaps because Ghanaians don't necessarily believe in queues, or else they just chalked it up to obroni arrogance/ignorance/adaptation), I got away with the move. Anyway, I had 5 food tickets, and I wasn't going to go away empty handed. In another life, I must have been a waitress in a N.J. diner, because somehow or other I was able to carry back downstairs, all 5 plates of food. The chicken was so-so, but the grilled fish was excellent, and I wished I had gotten all 5 plates of it... the boys put their most pathetic faces to good use, and I got stuck with their birds.br /br /At about 12:45, we approached Dodi Island, and had to circle round it to the dock, where a handful of young native boys stood ready to catch the lines to secure the boat. The ramp came down, and the passengers made their way up a small hill along a skinny dirt path, passed some children singing songs, passed some more children doing some native dancing, passed some more natives singing, crossed over to an open shelter where some women were selling smoked fish. And that was it. Gilligan would have been hard-pressed to live on that island. Within 10 minutes, the ship was already blowing it's horn for the passengers to get back on (remember, we left late, so now the captain had to make up for lost time). If you ask me, 10 minutes was more than enough time to see the, ahem, sights.br /br /On the ride back, the kids were starting to get tired, so they played quietly (I am sooo sick of rock-paper-scissors, I could spit!) or listened to their MP3s. I soaked up what bit of sun I could get. This being late December/early January, we're in the midst of the Harmattan, and mostly what you get is a yellowish haze. This is the view from the boat, in the middle of the river, you almost can't see land. Stephen King should have filmed "The Mist" in this stuff. He'd have saved a fortune!br /br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30OFNKoQbI/AAAAAAAAAGE/2zWwVCJLPXo/s1600-h/29122007622.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30OFNKoQbI/AAAAAAAAAGE/2zWwVCJLPXo/s320/29122007622.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151289031378092466" border="0" //abr /From a kid's perspective, I suppose the cruise was B-O-R-I-N-G, but unless they could swim back to the dock, they had no choice but to deal with it. Personally, I liked it... I got to listen to good music, drink cold beer, enjoy the sun, I didn't have to cook lunch or dinner, do dishes or clean up after anyone, I didn't have to accompany the girls to the bathroom (thank God for teenage nieces); the kids behaved pretty well (no more than half a dozen petty squabbles), and Sly kept coming over (from his hide-away under the canopy) to kiss me and wish me happy anniversary. br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30OwNKoQdI/AAAAAAAAAGU/W5xqzGd5hUg/s1600-h/dodi2.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R30OwNKoQdI/AAAAAAAAAGU/W5xqzGd5hUg/s320/dodi2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5151289770112467410" border="0" //abr /Would I go "no where" again? As long as "no where" is with my husband and kids, then "no where" is where I want to be.div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-4820097803533705378?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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20:44
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
I bet you never thought that you'd see the day that the Ghana flag would have snow on it (or more precisely, be made span style="font-style: italic;"ofspan style="font-style: italic;" snow/span/span); I know I certainly never did. But here it is, compliments of Diane and Rae from Boston, Mass. The East Coast of the U.S. is getting the white Christmas I've been dreaming of, and Diane thought she'd share a bit of it with me.br /br /div style="text-align: center;"br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2Yq_9KoQWI/AAAAAAAAAFc/NLdv3lbD-_s/s1600-h/2007-12-15+Rae+snow.JPG"img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2Yq_9KoQWI/AAAAAAAAAFc/NLdv3lbD-_s/s200/2007-12-15+Rae+snow.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144846902556639586" border="0" //aa onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2Yq_9KoQXI/AAAAAAAAAFk/nmBExV-R1ms/s1600-h/diane+snow.JPG"img style="cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp3.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2Yq_9KoQXI/AAAAAAAAAFk/nmBExV-R1ms/s200/diane+snow.JPG" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5144846902556639602" border="0" //abr //divbr /And in this particular case, you span style="font-style: italic;"can/span eat the yellow snow, or the red or the green for that matter. Diane used up her entire stash of food coloring to create this short-lived masterpiece. Sadly, it's now disappeared under another foot of the white stuff, but it can live on here in perpetuity.br /br /Thanks Rae and Diane! Happy shoveling!div class="blogger-post-footer"img width='1' height='1' src='http://res1.blogblog.com/tracker/4477307925574570677-6747104360484640986?l=ghanabarbz.blogspot.com'//div
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2:04
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
It's only 12 shopping days till Christmas, and try as I might, I just cannot get into the Christmas spirit. I've done everything I possibly could... burned all of my favorite Christmas songs onto CDs, dug out all of our Christmas decorations, printed coloring pages for Alexandra to turn black and white images into pretty Christmas-y red and green door decorations, lit a couple of bayberry candles, shook up the snow globe, taped my Grinch ornament to the computer, got all my Christmas movies dusted off. But still, nothing.br /br /At this moment, here in Tema, it is 90 degrees outside (and really, only slightly less inside, since we try not to use the A/C during the day), sunny, humid, not a breeze to be felt. I am from New Jersey, my body is attuned to New Jersey temperatures and weather. It is 37 degrees right now. My heart tells me I span style="font-style: italic;"should/span be cold, but my body tells me span style="font-style: italic;"sweat!!br /span style="font-style: italic;"/span/spanbr /Native Ghanaians who have not been fortunate(?) enough to leave Ghana, have absolutely no concept of a weather that can get so cold that a liquid can change to a solid. When I'm in a show-off-y mood, and usually right after we have learned from CNN that a blizzard dropped a couple of feet of snow on the entire East Coast, I love to tell the story of the time that I, Sly and the kids went to visit my Ghanaian niece and her husband in Ottawa, Canada.br /br /Almost at the exact moment that we were driving through Watertown, NY, the DJ on the radio announced that the coldest recorded temperature of that day in the entire U.S. was occurring in Watertown, NY!!! Yikes!! We were right there, in the thick of deep freeze! We reached Ottawa about 90 minutes later, and as I walked the few feet from the car to the front door, I stumbled and splashed my cup of Diet Coke (ain't I a die-hard?) onto my woolen mitten. It immediately froze into ice crystals. Even as I type this, I am recalling that moment in awe. Harriet and Augie in Ottowa, if you're reading this, I'm sending you some Ghana vibes!br /br /The Ghanaians to whom I regale this story, usually look at me as though I told them that my father had 3 testicles. They touch their thumb to their chin, look at Sly for affirmation, and say, "Cho!" which I think is the Twi word for, "you must be shittin' me!"br /br /So, While I'm typing, I'm drinking a cold Star beer, wearing a tank top, shorts and flip flops, enjoying whatever cool breeze can be forced from the ceiling fan. The closest I am going to get to ice and cold is when I open up the freezer door to get another cold drink. I'm thinking about putting burgers on the grill for dinner... it's too hot to cook in the kitchen. And we're making our plans to go away over the Christmas holidays and maybe do a day cruise on the Volta, catch a few fish (kids) and a few rays (me), swim in the pool, eat good food, drink more beer (and soda) and just relax.br /br /Life in the tropics takes some adjustment when you're a seasonal kind of girl, as I am. Except during November and December, I can handle any weather that God sees fit to provide us with, so to speak. But hey, I would almost sell my soul just for a simple 10 minutes flurrying of flakes. Not for me, but for the kids. But since that ain't gonna happen, I'm changing the wallpaper on our computer. Dateline: Belford, NJ, January 2007... 2" of snow and my kids made the most of it. Thank God for digital cameras!!br /br /br /a onblur="try {parent.deselectBloggerImageGracefully();} catch(e) {}" href="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2E7VPkGUoI/AAAAAAAAAE8/yBzpY816UoE/s1600-h/kidssnow2.jpg"img style="margin: 0px auto 10px; display: block; text-align: center; cursor: pointer;" src="http://bp1.blogger.com/_ljKHoKnr9mI/R2E7VPkGUoI/AAAAAAAAAE8/yBzpY816UoE/s320/kidssnow2.jpg" alt="" id="BLOGGER_PHOTO_ID_5143457485575049858" border="0" //aspan style="font-size:180%;"br /br //spandiv style="text-align: center;"span style="font-size:180%;"span style="font-weight: bold;"span style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"M/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"E/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"R/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"R/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"Y /spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"C/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"H/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"R/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"I/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"S/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"T/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"M/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"A/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"S/spanspan style="color: rgb(255, 0, 0);"!/spanspan style="color: rgb(0, 153, 0);"!/span/spanbr //span/div
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23:06
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Be forewarned, I'm not going to be my normal sarcastic cynical smart ass self here. This issue is very serious, and probably doesn't directly affect any of my friends or family, but I'm hoping someone may google "Ghana + love + dating" and find me. Maybe it will help, I don't know.br /br /I also want to say, right up front, that the Ghanaian men and women I'm writing about are entirely in the minority. Most of the young men and women I have had the pleasure to meet and know are honest, hard-working, God-fearing people with integrity enough not to engage in such dubious activities. br /br /On the other hand, while I absolutely cannot condone their actions and mis-deeds, I can say that given the state of the Ghanaian economy, and the desperation that exists for young men and women just out of high school or college, with no good and viable prospects for profitable "legal" employment, the quick buck that can be turned here is much too enticing. I also think that because their crime is "faceless" it makes it that much easier for them to commit. My other thought is that the average young Ghanaian believes that all Americans and all Europeans are rich, consequently they can afford to part with some of their fortune.br /br /br /I love the internet. It allows me to keep in touch with my loved ones back in the US, follow events happening all over the world, meet new friends, and even order new eyeglasses and car parts. But over the past few months, I have become increasingly aware of a much seamier side to the internet. Internet dating is not a new phenomenon in the US, but the way it is being used to hurt and scam innocent and unsuspecting men and women has gotten so out of hand, that it has been thrust into my domain, so to speak.br /br /br /Some of you may be aware that I'm the "local expert" for the Accra, Ghana forums on www.tripadvisor.com, a US-based website that helps people plan their trips, and local experts are those who can offer some insight and advice on a particular destination. Well, about a year or so ago, I started seeing a great deal of questions involving issues of an "internet boy or girlfriend" in Ghana who they met on a dating website. When tripadvisor introduced the means to email its members through their server, I was being asked, almost on a daily basis, for help. To this very day, I get them on a regular basis... even one this morning.br /pbr //ppMany questions and issues have to do with the sincerity or veracity of the “friend” from Ghana, who urgently needs either money or the shipment of goods to him or her here in Ghana. In the vast majority of cases, all of these poor innocents were being scammed or conned by the Ghanaian friend, whether male or female, it didn't matter. /p pbr //ppStories, and that is really all they are, that have been posted tell of a Ghanaian who needed $400 for a new cell phone which was stolen, though you can buy a new activated cell phone here for as little as $35. Someone else needed work boots and other items sent to him, shipment of which would cost $400 from the States (truly very very expensive to ship to Ghana), yet all those items are easily obtained here in Ghana. Someone else needed $300 because her father was having eye surgery; the cost of a normal doctor visit is less than $5, surgery may run about $100-$140, if that. Someone else needed $3,500 for their mother’s funeral… funerals in Ghana are not like funerals in the USA, and are long drawn out elaborate affairs; “donations” by mourners at the end of the funeral period usually more than cover the cost of the funeral outlay./ppbr //ppThe pattern is plain: Gimme, gimme, gimme./pbr /Here are some common sense bits of advice that I've proposed to those people who email me:br /pbr //ppGoogle your "friend's" name and see if you get any hits. Sometimes, the scammers actually do use their real name. One guy from California told me the name of his supposed beautiful (I saw the picture!) Australian born princess, stuck in Accra without money. When I googled her name, it came up with a link to a very attractive black Ghanaian woman on another dating website. Same vital statistics, too.br //p pbr //ppIf the scammer is saying that they are white, and are claiming that they are American or British citizens or Europeans who somehow got “stranded” in Ghana, don’t believe it. Their Embassy would help them in some way, shape or form. /p pbr //ppEven if they send you a picture, it may be one that they downloaded from the internet. The beautiful Australian girl's pictures looked (to me) like professional before and after shots from a magazine. If you want to know what they really look like, insist that they go to an internet café that has web cam and your friend should IM you at the same time; all the big internet cafes here in Accra have it, BusyInternet, SmartNet, etc. It's not expensive to do that, maybe like $2./p pbr //ppIf the issue is an unpaid doctor or hospital bill, tell them you will send money only to the hospital. Go to Ghanaweb.com and check the directory/phone book for a listing, don’t believe what they tell you. You may even have a "doctor" or "hospital administrator" who will call you and tell you that money is urgently needed. Don't believe it, even here in Ghana, doctor's don't have time for that. Tell them you absolutely won’t send them any money, see how fast they drop you./p pbr //ppAnother red flag should be poor English skills; most of these scammers only got as far as junior high school, if that. Yes, I know that computer-speak is different, but you should still be able to tell the difference.br //p pbr //ppFake names is another thing the scammer might try. Someone who normally goes through life as Kwame is suddenly Sean Michaels (or as he might spell it, Shorn Michaels since he wouldn't know the proper spelling). You've no doubt heard of Sean Michael, the WWF wrestler? Very popular TV show here in Ghana. Scammers are very unoriginal when it comes to creating a new name.br //p pbr //p pIf someone claims they're from Arizona, you can verify that. Here's a link to a good website that can provide this service. Just have their IP address, which you can find on an email using full headers, and copy and paste it to the a href="http://www.dnsstuff.com/" title="IP Locator" mce_href="http://www.dnsstuff.com/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"IP Locator./a /p pbr //ppYou may have a legitimate person on the other end. It does happen, though very very rarely. And they may really want to be your friend, but the first time they ask you for something, no matter how small, just say NO. It won't take long before the person's true colors show, because they don't have time to dance with someone who doesn't want to pay. There are too many other gullible, anxious, trusting, innocent people in the world./p pbr //ppThe bottom line is, don’t lose your heart and your head over an internet romance. Keep your credit cards in your wallet, don't send any money through Western Union, where the recipient only needs the code word to retrieve it, and an ID card. Don't mail anything to them through the post office. Don't offer to cash their "pay checks" or "postal money orders" and send the money to them via Western Union; all are bogus, and you will be liable for the entire amount at your bank, once they realize the money is no good! Once the scammers have got the money or the goods from you, you're out of luck. Always trust your gut instincts. /ppbr //pp The owner of an internet cafe in an Accra, Ghana suburb had posted her comments on one of the Accra Ghana forum topics, she said:/ppbr //pp "...almost every night (I) witness lots of young men sitting here and can see how they try to get a lady from the United States or Europe. The even ask (me) straight out for the name of a friend over there, so that they could make a contact to find someone to help them to get out of Ghana. Very often they are chatting with more then two ladies at the same time and they can write in such a sweet way and tell fairy tales that it sickens her when she's caught a glimpse of what they've been typing on the PC."/pbr /Below are some very helpful links and you can get an idea exactly how pervasive this issue is just based on this partial listing: pa href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/romancescams/" title="Yahoo webgroup: Romance Scams" mce_href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/romancescams/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"br //a/ppa href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/romancescams/" title="Yahoo webgroup: Romance Scams" mce_href="http://groups.yahoo.com/group/romancescams/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Yahoo webgroup: Romance Scams/a/p pa href="http://www.osac.gov/Reports/report.cfm?contentID=39785" title="Overseas Security Advisory Council" mce_href="http://www.osac.gov/Reports/report.cfm?contentID=39785" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Overseas Security Advisory Council/a/p pa href="http://annaalden-tirrill.blogspot.com/2006/06/charade-has-internets-safest-dating.html" title="Blog: Studies in Romance Scamming" mce_href="http://annaalden-tirrill.blogspot.com/2006/06/charade-has-internets-safest-dating.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Blog: Studies in Romance Scamming/a/p pa href="http://www.delphifaq.com/faq/russian_marriage_scams/f1145.shtml" title="Delphifaq: Dating Scammer in Accra" mce_href="http://www.delphifaq.com/faq/russian_marriage_scams/f1145.shtml" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Delphifaq: Dating Scammer in Accrabr //a/p pa href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8704213/" title="MSNBC: Seduced into Scams" mce_href="http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/8704213/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"MSNBC: Seduced into Scams/a/p pa href="http://usembassy.state.gov/accra/wwwhvisafraud.html" title="US Embassy in Accra" mce_href="http://usembassy.state.gov/accra/wwwhvisafraud.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"U.S. Embassy in Accra/a/p pa href="http://nigeriaworld.com/articles/2005/nov/288.html" title="Nigeriaworld: The new faces of internet dating" mce_href="http://nigeriaworld.com/articles/2005/nov/288.html" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Nigeriaworld: The new faces of internet dating/a/p pa href="http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/NewsArchive/artikel.php?ID=121604" title="Ghanaweb: Internet Fraud II " mce_href="http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/NewsArchive/artikel.php?ID=121604" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Ghanaweb: Internet Fraud II/a/p pa href="http://www.drphil.com/messageboard/topic/1872/" title="Dr. Phil Message Boards" mce_href="http://www.drphil.com/messageboard/topic/1872/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Dr. Phil Message Boards/a/p pa href="http://www.mate1.net/fraud/fraud_warning#7" title="Mate1 Internet Dating Fraud Warning" mce_href="http://www.mate1.net/fraud/fraud_warning#7" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Mate1 Internet Dating Fraud Warning/a/p pa href="http://www.lookstoogoodtobetrue.com/fraudtypes/romance.aspx" title="Lookstogoodtobetrue fraud website" mce_href="http://www.lookstoogoodtobetrue.com/fraudtypes/romance.aspx" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Lookstogoodtobetrue fraud website/a/p pa href="http://www.ic3.gov/" title="Internet Crime Complaint Center" mce_href="http://www.ic3.gov/" rel="nofollow" target="_blank"Internet Crime Complaint Center/a/ppbr //pbr /Now, I don't want to entirely disillusion you, true love can happen with a Ghanaian. It did for me, and I think that is probably why so many people email me, asking about the culture and the way of life. But of all the cyber relationships I've been made aware of, it was only one that was for real, and I'm happy to say that Shelly and her Ghanaian husband are now happily married. But he didn't lie to her, he didn't ask for anything, he didn't expect anything. Love just happened.br /br /br /And you shouldn't assume that the people who have asked for my help are in any way shape or form ignorant, naive or stupid. Far from it. Most of them were well educated, middle-aged folks restarting their social lives after divorce, looking for love and friendship, who were just too generous and too trusting.br /br /br /So, my friends, if you are a cyber-dater, or you know of or have a friend who is cyber-dating, please link them to this blog. It may save them from some pain.br /br /br /p style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"Addendum to this blog, added on Saturday, December 8, 2007:/pbr /span style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);"On the tripadvisor website, someone posted about his recent experience of coming to Ghana and discovering he was a victim of a cyber dating scam. He was very very lucky, it could have been much worse for him. Take a read./spanbr /br /a style="color: rgb(255, 102, 102);" href="http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowTopic-g293796-i9182-k1596718-Dating_scams-Ghana.html"http://www.tripadvisor.com/ShowTopic-g293796-i9182-k1596718-Dating_scams-Ghana.html/a
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21:16
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Last week, my husband received a phone call from his brother in the st1:country-regionst1:placeUK/st1:place/st1:country-region./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"There has been a death in the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Now, in case you’re not aware, Ghanaians have an exceptionally strong sense of family, and it extends well beyond what Americans might consider “immediate family.”/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Great aunts, uncles, second cousins twice removed, great grandmother’s half-sister… it can get quite complicated./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"How it relates to us, is that it is Sly’s brother’s ex-wife’s father who has passed away./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" Still with me?/span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Local custom demands that the family elders be personally advised of a death of an age-mate./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"A visit to my elderly mother-in-law, who is the ex-in-law to the deceased, was planned for mid-week, and because "J," my brother-in-law, lives outside of st1:country-regionst1:placeGhana/st1:place/st1:country-region, it fell to Sly to “represent” him at the announcement./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"In keeping with the custom, the family of the deceased brought with them a gift of gin or schnapps.br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Reciprocating, Sly and his sisters must now go visit the family of the deceased and personally offer their sympathies to the children or widow. They will go bearing gifts of "better" gin or schnapps, and a token cash offering. The funeral details are confirmed.br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"In this particular case, it is December 15supth/sup./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"“Whoa,” I'm sure you're saying to yourself, “that’s more than three weeks away!”/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Yes, it is./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"And you know what, by Ghanaian standards, that funeral is really all too soon. One of the logical and rational reasons that funerals are held weeks or even months after the death is because so many Ghanaian families are scattered far and wide across the globe, and even those who live a continent or two away will try their best to return home for the funeral. Another "reason" for the delay has to do with misplaced perception: The longer the body is in the morgue, the more money it will cost, the more cash spent on the funeral, the higher the reputation of the deceased and the family./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span /p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Now, I have been very fortunate in that, in my whole lifetime, I’ve only been to a handful of funerals./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" Funerals are not fun. /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"They are often quiet, somber, retrospective affairs held in a funeral home, with (what we deem) appropriate dress, music, flowers, propriety./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Usually within a week’s time, the dead is buried or cremated, and those left behind try to get on with their lives. Funerals in st1:country-regionst1:placeGhana/st1:place/st1:country-region are nothing at all like anything else I’ve ever experienced, and I was not remotely prepared for the Ghanaian funeral experience.br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"While the body is held in a local mortuary, the family of the deceased feverishly attempts to make all the arrangements./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"st1:country-regionst1:place/st1:place/st1:country-regionThe family takes care of almost everything./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"With a single exception (that I am aware of), there are no American or European-styled “funeral parlors” in st1:country-regionst1:placeGhana/st1:place/st1:country-region./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"While the body is embalmed at the mortuary, the final washing and dressing of the deceased is done by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The coffin is purchased by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The cemetery plot is bought by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Flowers or wreathes are purchased by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Newspaper obituaries are written, ordered, printed and placed in the local newspapers by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Obituary posters are tacked up along the funeral route. Arrangements for all of the various church services are arranged by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The renting of a hearse (really, a modified ambulance, complete with sirens) to ferry the dead among venues is done by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The renting of a hall or club and requisite tents, chairs and tables for the before, during and after-funeral gatherings are arranged by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The DJ with his musical accoutrements is arranged by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The food, beer and sodas are made or bought by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"The purchase of the funeral “souvenir” gift is arranged by the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"And the list of things that the bereaved family must do goes on and on./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Last year, Sylvester and I were invited to a funeral by his boss, whose father had passed away./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Now, “Ferd” is a big shot in the community; he is a Ghanaian “mover and shaker” with few equals./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"We traveled for about two hours to get to the village, and followed the crowd to a hotel at the base of the Kwahu mountain range./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"When we got there, we found a huge open lot had been cleared, with dozens of canopies set up to shield the people from the blazing sun, under the canopies several hundred plastic chairs were set up in a U-shape./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"There was even (shock of shocks!) about a dozen port-o-potties scattered about the grounds./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Hired help passed out bottled water, soft drinks, beer and hot food./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;" /span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"When we arrived, we saw that nearly every seat was taken, though oddly, the front row of chairs in each section was entirely empty./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"We assumed it was intended for the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"As we approached, other guests gestured to us that it was alright for us to sit in the front row seats, so we did./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Big mistake./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"It is customary in st1:country-regionst1:placeGhana/st1:place/st1:country-region, upon entering a room (or in this case, an empty field), that each newcomer greets the persons already there with a handshake and a hello./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"This is done from left to right./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"And Sly and I were seated in the first row of chairs on the left./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" No wonder they were all empty! /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"We must have shaken three or four hundred hands altogether./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" Bus loads of men and women came (seriously... bus loads), all of them wearing red and black kaba and slit outfits (women) or draped cloth (men), and they approached us in what was a modified conga line, waving little white handkerchiefs and moving to the beat of the blaring highlife music. /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"After the first hundred or so "greeted" us, we realized that our helpful "friends" behind us were kind of chortling to themselves (at our expense, naturally), but we were too embarrassed to just get up and look for other seats. Darn it, we needed someone to save us! "Ring, ring, ring,"chimes Sly's phone. It's "Ferd," and he's spotted us from across the field (I do kind of stand out, even in this huge crowd), and wonders basically what the heck we are doing waaaay over there, in the cheap seats. Duh. We're building up our biceps, what does he think?br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Our hero, I mean, Ferd, invited us up to his family house, where there is an “exclusive” gathering. What that means is, we get to sit in an air conditioned living room, have someone bring us drinks in glasses, eat hot food served in ceramic bowls. We were hobnobbing with the rich and famous in Ghanaian political society, Ministers, advisors, you name him or her, they were there. Funerals are the place to go if you want to see and be seen. And if you're a Ghanaian, you can't /spanspan style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" not/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" go to a funeral. Short of your own death, there is really no good excuse for missing one./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"One of the elite who undoubtedly witnessed (not without some bemusement, I should think) our discomfort caught my attention, and asked me, pointblank, "How's your arm?" I laughed and responded that it ached a bit, and she chuckled and told me, "that /spanspan style="font-style: italic;font-size:100%;" that/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" (nodding towards my sore arm) was the reason why the entire front row was always vacant." /spanspan style="font-size:100%;" "Ghanaians know better," she said. I think, in retrospect, that there should be a warning sign, maybe something like this:/span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"strongFront Row Seating/strong/span/pp style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"strongbr //strong/span/p p style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"There are certain responsibilities attached to sitting in the front row of a Ghanaian funeral celebration. In the event of a funeral, you are responsible for greeting and shaking the hand of each and every newcomer and sympathizer. Ensure that you listen carefully to the greeter, they may say more than just hello; respond in the appropriate language. Grasp the greeter's hand gently and pump up and down only once, release. Move on to the next person. Tips: You may keep your hand outstretched between fast moving mourners. Keep a handkerchief handy to wipe off sweat. This is an important job. If you don't think you can do it, move./span/pp style="font-style: italic;font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" o:p/o:pEarlier this year, an elderly neighbor passed away./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" As I recall, immediately after the man’s death, his widow arranged for her house to be repainted, and the pavement between our properties to be paved./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" Naturally, my husband (SUCKER!) “contributed” to the paving... which is a nice way of saying he pretty much paid for the whole thing.br /br //spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" br //spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" The day of the funeral, a canopy was set up right outside our wall, and fifty plastic chairs were brought in./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" The DJ had his stereo speakers anchored to each post of the canopy, and the highlife music started playing at around st1:time minute="0" hour="6"6:00 am/st1:time./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" There was cold beer, food and music… very, very loud music./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" This went on for 4 endless days:/spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" Friday, Saturday, Sunday and Monday./spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" /spanspan style=";font-family:verdana;font-size:100%;" We had very little respite from the activity, noise and party atmosphere, except for the incidents of “lights off” which, for a change, was a blessing.br /br //spanp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"Now, attendees to a Ghanaian funeral are customarily expected to “donate” a little something to the family./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"In most instances, the contribution doesn’t come close to covering the cost of the beers and chicken that they consumed while offering their condolences./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"At the conclusion of the funeral, the family sits together and tallies up their earnings, I mean, the “contributions.”/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" Sly overheard the family meeting after the neighbor's funeral, and told me that the voices were raised in anger and anguish, because they didn't "make" as much money as they had hoped, and not enough to pay for all of the costs./span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"The truth is, most Ghanaian families will go into debt to finance the funeral./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"I’ve read several newspaper articles and columns in the local Ghanaian papers decrying this sad phenomenon. Even the exceptionally staid UK-based Economist reported on this alarming trend:/span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"a href="http://www.economist.com/world/africa/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9234475"http://www.economist.com/world/africa/displaystory.cfm?story_id=9234475/abr //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"It was even addressed on the floor of Parliament, by the NDC Minority Leader, Alban Bagbin was reported to have said, "we are investing in the dead rather than the living through expensive funerals and that is bad."/spanspan style="width: 750px;font-size:100%;" To read the full article, follow this link:/span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="width: 750px;font-size:100%;" br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="width: 750px;font-size:100%;" a href="http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/features/artikel.php?ID=117472"http://www.ghanaweb.com/GhanaHomePage/features/artikel.php?ID=117472/abr //span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"br //span/pp class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"I am trying to think of a way to say this delicately, but I can’t, so I’ll just come out and say it:/spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Funerals are more than a fact of life; they are a form of entertainment. /spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"You get to dress up in your funereal best, greet friends and family (some of whom you may not have seen in ages), network with potential business associates and politicians, hear the “Good Word” preached, listen to great music, drink a cold beer, eat some chicken and fried rice, and maybe even get a parting gift, like a coffee mug or handkerchief with an effigy of the deceased on it./spanspan style="font-size:100%;" /spanspan style="font-size:100%;"Not bad for a small donation./span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p p class="MsoNormal" style="font-family:verdana;"span style="font-size:100%;"o:p /o:p/span/p
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23:52
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
span style="font-size:100%;"span style="font-family:arial;"A very brief Social Studies lesson: Tema, Ghana is the nearest city to the geographical position of 0 degrees latitude and 0 degrees longitude. While not exactly at the crossroads of the Earth, as proclaimed on some billboards (it is actually 5.6° N 0.0° E ) it is, nonetheless, a bustling and vibrant place. Tema began as a small fishing village, and grew expotentially largely thanks to the vision of Dr. Kwame Nkrumah, who foresaw a great port and industrial town, and arranged for the city to be designed in such a way that the workers would have their own homes and communities and shops within which to live, work, play and worship. Most homes are bungalow styled, with alley ways separating the smaller streets. Currently, there are 25 Communities in Tema; we live in Community 8 and are building our new home adjacent to Community 25.br //spanbr /span style="font-family:arial;"But I don't want to talk about leaving my house today to explore Tema. I want to tell you what it's like right from our little bungalow, here in Community 8. Right along side our home is a smallish alley way, not intended for vehicular traffic but rather for pedestrians. Now, most homes, even if they have a yard, are surrounded by high walls. There are very few homes that have picket fences. If your hearing is poor, you will have missed out on a lot./spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Our day starts very early, usually by 5:00 a.m. By 5:30, we hear the call to prayer from a local mosque, situated in a house about a block away, the prayers and songs continue until about 6:00. Shortly after this, the parade begins. /spanspan style="font-family:arial;"The first calls of "tea bread" are heard, and there are several ladies who pass within feet of our window, offering bread and butter for sale, carried in a large flat box which is covered by cloth to keep away the flies. This, like most things, is carried on the head. The trays are usually so unwieldy, that the seller needs help to remove it, and to put it back up. Tea bread is a very soft doughy bread, slightly sweet, that the kids like to dip. At about 60 cents for a large baguette shaped loaf, it is quite a bargain./spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"A little while later, you will hear the rat-a-tat-tat of the shoe shine boys, who carry their wooden boxes over their shoulders, and alert you to their presence with a rhythmic drumming, which they do in time with their footsteps. They are loud enough and pass by frequently enough, that even if you miss one, another is sure to be on his way past with very little wait. They can glue a loose sole, sell you new laces, restitch a purse, even fix a pair of flip flops. Prices are negotiable, but very very reasonable. /spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Later in the morning, the vegetable ladies will pass. They sell tomatoes, onions, garlic, okra (okro), carrots, spinach (kontomire), yams, plantains, mangoes, papaya (pawpaw) and some other things I don't even recognize. There have been many lunch hours when I thought how nice a red onion and sliced tomato would be with my tuna sandwich, and before long, I hear the longed-for words, "tomatoes... onions." Of course, in the local language, which is (phonetically) amoaah and gyeene. /spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;""Oh darn, I can't believe I ripped the hem on this dress. I did so want to wear it today." Has that ever happened to you? Not to worry. Just listen for the clink of the shears that the traveling tailor carries, as well as the old fashioned black Singer pedal sewing machine. Yes. Carried on his head./spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Imagine, it is late afternoon. It's hot, you're sweaty from hanging out your clothes on the line. What could be better than a nice cold ice cream. Wait! What's that you hear. An old fashioned bulb type bicycle horn? It's the Fan Ice guy with his portable icee chest atached to a bike! Yep! Ice Cream and frozen yogurt, and sometimes little cakes or spring rolls. Yummy! I always get the Fan Choco, which tastes like chocolate ice milk; the kids opt for Fan Yogo, which is strawberry flavored. I try to steer the kids away from Fan Ice which is supposed to be vanilla ice cream, but I have some major reservation about what the HELL could be in anything that won't freeze! Hmmmm?/spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Hungry for a nice piece of juicy sweet pineapple. "Es pine-up!!" is what you've got to listen for. These young men sell their fruit from a wheelbarrow, and for about 60 cents each, he will cut it and slice it for you, and put it into a little baggie. Delicious! /spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Maybe you've got too many glass jars in the house, because the mustard, mayo and ketchup all finished at the same time. Ghana does not have official "recycling" so I'm loathe to just toss them into the trash. Again, all you have to do is listen. You all know the sound of glass when it's struck by something, it makes you wince, doesn't it? Well, there are some very industrious young men who walk through the neighborhood, who gently clink their glass jars together to alert you to their presence. They will actually buy the empty glass bottles and jars from you (though I just give them freely, and ignore the strange look they give me for doing so), and then resell them in a secondary market./spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Growing up, one of our favorite "crude" songs that we kids liked to sing went like this, "Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl. What do you do if you're stranded, and you have to go? Just to prove you're a man you must wipe it with your hand. Stranded. Stranded on a toilet bowl." I know you know it. Well, that doesn't have to happen here. "T-Roll" is the cry, and the rolls are sold, either individually or by the 10-roll bag. Of course, I'd like to think that one wouldn't really wait til the last minute for this particular item, but if you know you're running low, it's nice to know it will make it's way around to you./spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"The tinkle of a small hand held bell heralds the arrival of the ladies who sell used clothing. Most of the clothes is carried in a bowl on her head, but she typically carries a few of her "better quality" clothes from a hanger. These women never took Marketing 101, but they're savvy enough to know you've got to put your best stuff in the window. And some of the ladies specialize! It's not unusual to see a woman who appears to be wearing several bras like a veil, since they are draped over the bowl and the cups cover her face as she walks. /spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"The shear variety of items sold by street sellers in my neighborhood is simply amazing. While not all make pronouncements as to what they are selling, if you could sit and watch the parade pass you by, no doubt, you will have enjoyed the show. Among the things you can buy, right outside your own gate, are watch batteries and costume jewelry, shower sponges, wooden matches, coconuts, musical instruments, sandals, light bulbs, baskets, dish soap, wax print material, packaged cookies, wooden student desks, chickens (live ones), boxes of tissues, clothes lines and curtain rods, sanitary pads and diapers, CDs and DVDs (pirated, of course), bibles, school notebooks, socks, crates of fresh eggs, bed spreads... you get the picture. And you can buy a picture, today, just as soon as Alex and I walked out of the gate to go to the store (for her penny candy, no less, one of the few things NOT sold by local hawkers) a seller passed by carrying weeping Jesus framed prints. /spanbr /br /span style="font-family:arial;"Not everything passes by on a given day, some days it's relatively quiet and you'll only get the Fan Ice guy. But one thing is certain about living in Tema, good things come to those who wait./spanbr /br /br //span
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23:12
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
On Tuesday, we went to SOS to pick up the boys from school. Our van is not, by any stretch of the imagination, a newer model. It's a 1994 (older than Sean, even!) Nissan Quest. And we're desperately awaiting for some parts to keep it running. So, no big surprise, after the kids were all packed up into the car, it wouldn't start. Sly kept turning the key, and it would grind, but not catch. After about 15 minutes of that, Sly (finally!) suggested that maybe the rest of us should get in a taxi and go home. I fully seconded the motion, since I was, by this point, starving to death. I have this terrible habit of skipping meals, especially when I know that there's something especially good waiting for me. It makes the eating and savoring that much more enjoyable. In this case, it was the anticipation of the home-made spinach and ricotta cheese calzone that I planned to make.
Normally, getting a taxi is not a problem, there's usually dozens of taxis plying this stretch of road in Tema, as there are schools all along it and teachers and catering people needing taxis to take them home. But for whatever reason, every taxi that we saw was full. It was so sad.
Finally, on the horizon, Sly spots an empty taxi and signals him to come and pick us up. With surprisingly very little negotiation, the driver agrees to take us home for 12,000 cedis (or about $1.30). I'm thinking, wow! That's pretty cheap, and he didn't even include the obroni tax that I usually have to pay. In fact, we pay our own taxi driver 20,000 cedis each way to take the boys to school.
Sean gets into the front passenger seat, and Mike, Alex and I climb into the back. Sly is walking back to our stranded van to await the mechanic (who makes car calls, by the way). And I'm wondering, as I'm getting my first good glance of the interior, if maybe this is the last time we'll see him alive. We are in a rolling death trap. Now I know why the price is so low. The driver is embarrassed to ask for more! The front dashboard is a tangle of wires, the back door handle is broken and I (strongly!) encourage Mike to squish towards the middle of the seat, so that he doesn't accidentally bump open the door. And there are holes in the floorboard in front of me so that I can see the pavement beneath us. And where the hell are the seat belts? There are none I can see here in the back, and Sean is desperately, and futilely as it turns out, trying to latch his.
Okay, I think, it's only a 7 minute drive, what could possibly happen in 7 minutes? I'm not Catholic, but I know that St. Christopher is the patron saint of travelers, and I figure a little prayer couldn't hurt right about now.
Our driver asks Sean, in what is known locally as pidgin-English, if he knows where we are going. Apparently, he does not, and Sean points out the way. Fortunately, unlike many other taxi drivers, this driver is not speeding, though I realize the reason for this only in hindsight. We reach a traffic light, and the driver turns off the engine to conserve gas. Light turns green, driver cranks the key. Nothing. And again, nothing. Oops! We're out of gas.
"Madam, is okay," he tells me, "you wait small." He rushes around to the back of the taxi and fitfaddles with the gas cap. Then he opens the boot and pulls out a gallon plastic Frytol Oil bottle. It's his reserve gas tank! Oh, Jeez.
All of a sudden, I hear a familiar honking. It's our Nissan Quest, right behind us! I yell to Sean to get out of the car carefully, and for the other two to come out my side and go straight to the van. Meanwhile, there is traffic trying desperately to get through the green (and yellow and some of the red) light and swerving around us, and there's more traffic coming towards us from the opposite direction. And apparently the majority of the drivers are getting whiplash straining to watch the panicked obroni herd her kids to safety. No doubt they are all wondering what's the big deal, since this is a fairly typical occurrence here in Ghana.
Safely belted into the Nissan Quest, we give a couple of Hip-Hip-Hoorays to our hero, Daddy, who tells us that, strangely, the car started right up! And I offer up to St. Christopher, my silent prayer of thanks. It worked.
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1:58
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Wofrε Me Obroni - Translation: I am called Obroni
Now that our kids (well, at least the boys) are going to a new school, they are learning a new language. And it's not French, though that is also on the curriculum. Sean and Michael are learning Twi, pronounced chwee, and Momma is going to learn it too, one way or another... whether it kills her or not.
In America, we've got accents to deal with... my Jersey accent is evident almost as soon as I open my mouth. And most people can tell an Okie from a Bostonian from a Minnesotan from a Texan. While it sounds different emanating from the voice box, it's still English.
The problem (for me, anyway) with Ghana's "mother tongue" is that there is no single indigenous language, there are dozens. And not just different languages, there are also dialects within languages. The Twi that the boys have to learn is Asante Twi, which I've discovered is different from Akuapem and Fante Twi. Who knew.
In any typical Ghanaian household which has school age children, you will hear spoken English and some other local language. My husband, for instance, was raised to speak Ewe, since his family is from the Ewe tribe, but because they lived in Osu, they quickly learned Ga. Then when my husband went to Anum Boys Boarding school, he needed to learn Twi. Fortunately (for me and the kids) English is the official language used in school so almost every kid in the country has a smattering of English. My niece can speak English, Twi, Ga and Ewe, and French fluently, and she's the only girl in Wesley Girls who can speak 5 languages. Jeez, I struggle with one.
But in this household, it's unfortunate, it's currently only Sly who can speak the local languages. Now, I've been listening to him when he's on the phone, and occasionally I can pick out a word or two or three and get the general gist of what he's talking about, but ask me which language he was conversing in, and I'm totally lost. No clue. When I ask him, what did something mean, cause I've heard him say it so many times, I'll try (and typically mangle) to repeat what I think I heard. I am sure to him, it's all gobbledegook but he humors me. Most of the time.
As I said, Sean and Mike have no choice but to learn Twi, as it is a required course in the Ghanaian curriculum, and they must pass it. In the old school, the teaching of Twi was lackadaisical and haphazard, and because the old school was Cambridge oriented, it wasn't absolutely necessary to pass it. At some point last year, they even stopped teaching it, because the teacher quit. The boys weren't exactly depressed about this, as you can imagine.
Praying that my boys (and me, hopefully through osmosis) will learn Twi, we went on a book hunt for a Twi dictionary or at least a primer of some sort. It took several hours, but we finally managed to find one at Ghana Language's Bureau. But the book that really floats my boat is called, "Basic Twi for Learners (Asante)" and it is written by J. Yeboa-Dankwa. I love this book!
It starts by explaining that there are twenty-two letters in the Twi alphabet; seven vowels and fifteen consonants. There are no letters C, J, Q, V, X or Z. But there are two new letters, ε and ɔ, for me to trip my tongue over. The boys and Alex can easily recite the alphabet, complete with rolling "R" sound which I absolutely cannot do. My tongue just does not work that way.
Anyway, the book has simple words, expressions, phrases and conversations to help a foreigner converse with a Twi speaking local. I will (eventually) learn how to greet someone, how to buy bananas or oranges or cloth, take a taxi to Osu RE, or tell you where I am from. There are whole dialogues written out, for all different kinds of scenarios, but the one I really like is this one, which was translated into English. I'm going to paraphrase it here, so I don't get into trouble with the publisher.
Here's the setting: a passenger waits for a trotro (bus) going to (Kwame Nkrumah) Circle. The driver asks the waiting passenger if he plans on getting in, which he does. The passenger asks the drivers mate what the fare is, and the mate responds that it 200 cedis (which is about 2 cents... this is a 9 year old book, by the way, so given inflation, it's likely worth about 20 cents now). The already seated passengers want to know why the fare is so much money for this particular newcomer (obviously they've got an obroni aboard). The mate responds to them that because the price of gas went up, they are charging more. The passengers ask when did this happen. The mate replies, that it was in the newspaper. (This is actually very interesting, because when this book was written 9 years ago, gas prices were subsidized and kept nice and low... perhaps the author had some special insight into the petroleum industry of Ghana.) So, anyway, hearing this, all of the passengers hoot at the mate and begin calling him a liar, a thief and a cheat. The driver insists that the mate charge the passenger the existing approved fare. The other passengers suggest that perhaps the mate is ashamed, but he claims that he is not. The newcomer gives the mate 200 cedis, and now the mate pretends to forget to give him his 50 cedis change. The rest of the passengers start shouting at the mate, and make deragatory comments about his behavior. At this point, the driver tells the passengers to stop talking. They respond that he should mind his own business and just drive the bus. At that, the driver threatens to pull over and stop driving. The passengers say, "Is that so? We shall see!" And they all enjoy a good laugh at the expense of the trotro driver and the mate. Finally, they arrive at their destination.
And lest you think this little story is atypical, you should know (and those of you who are friendly with a Ghanaian know whereof I speak), Ghanaians love to argue and fuss and harangue anyone and everyone... especially when it comes to money. I am so wishy-washy, whatever the price I'm quoted, if it seems reasonable, I accept. If I don't think it's reasonable, I make a single counter-offer. It's either accepted, or I walk away. I do not dicker, bargain or cajole.
But back to Twi. I can tell you my name, "Me din de Barbara," where I come from, "Mefiri New Jersey," and that I like Ghana very much (Mepε Ghana papaapa). What I can't tell you (yet) is how happy I will be when I am able to understand even a tiny portion of this language. Then, maybe, I won't feel so "obroni-ish." Next up, Ewe!
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6:02
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
The other day, Sly had to go to his office on High Street for a meeting. He suggested that we (meaning me and Alex) go along with him since he thought the meeting would only run for about an hour or so. Now I should know better, but I acquiesced. Stupid me.
His office is in the Old Parliament House, and only a few blocks from Accra Central, which is the major shopping district in Accra. It is very much like a huge flea market, with hawkers setting up their wares on the sidewalk so that pedestrians are forced to walk in the street. If you can imagine the worst vehicular traffic you've ever encountered, made up almost entirely of taxis and trotros, subtract street lights at any intersection, throw in the occasional loose goat or sheep, add a stampede of women carrying huge baskets and bowls on their head from which they sell most everything you could possibly think of, add in open gutters that you have to jump over and broken sidewalks that force you to watch your step lest you suffer a broken ankle, and then add in a rainy season heavy rain storm, well, then you've got Accra Central on a weekday. Fun, huh?
So, Alex in her rain poncho and me with my giant umbrella set off from Old Parliament House and headed over to Accra's "largest" department store - "Melcom, where shopping is so nice." They said it, I didn't.
Melcom is Ghana's (currently) oldest department store, and they have 16 branches throughout the country. They carry a lot of junk mostly, but it's cheap junk for the most part. And they've got a little bit of everything... clothes, linens, shoes, appliances, toys, toiletries, glassware, plastics, furniture, cookware, etc. I wouldn't say it's Ghana's equivalent of Walmart, it's more like a Dollar Store or a discount store in a strip mall somewhere in the American midwest. I have no idea who supplies them with some of the things they sell, it's mostly knock offs or discards, I'm assuming from some U.S. store that went into Chapter 11, but some of the things are so not appropriate for Ghana. I mean does anyone here really need a kerosene heater or snow shoes? Okay, I'm joking about those things, but not about the infant's snow suits that I saw, or the girl's winter boots.
And other things that they get in for sale, well it seems no one here knows what they really are (and that could just possibly be testament to the excesses of the American consumer), so they just call it whatever they want. I've seen toaster covers labeled a "chef's hat" and a cheese spreader with a porcelain handle shaped like an ear of corn that was labeled, "small maize knife." I don't think they are big sellers, since I see them there all the time. An Honors brand maternity romper was labeled merely as "woman's dress." And I'd like to take a moment here to digress. Who the hell thought this up? A one piece outfit that more than likely buttons up (hopefully from the front!), and from which you have to almost completely disrobe to take a pee? This for a woman with a bladder the size of a walnut that is being compressed by a baby practicing acrobatics and flips to the point that the bladder can only hold a thimble full of urine at a time. The designer of the maternity romper must have been a man. A sadistic, miserable, evil man. Mind you, I owned one, once, so I know whereof I speak.
Anyway, let me tell you about the shopping experience at Melcom. First, you select the items you want to buy, then a girl takes the item away from you in exchange for a small piece of paper on which she has written down an item number for each item. Then you go to the next aisle, which is usually another department, and if you want something, you repeat the item/paper exchange process with another clerk. And so on and so forth. Then you bring all of the little pieces of paper to the register and they ring it up, you pay your money and you are given a single receipt. DON'T LOSE IT. Then, you bring back the receipt to the girl, again in each and every department that you bought something from, and after they carefully check and mark off the items on the receipt, they return to you the items that they are holding. Then you bring your items to another counter where they check to make SURE you have ONLY what you paid for. Then you take your items and your (by then) dog-eared receipt, to the bagger, who checks your receipt and then gives you the absolutely smallest plastic bag available that will hold all of your items. Trust me, Melcom gives nothing away, not even air. And no, you're still not done. Then you bring your bag and your receipt to the security guard who examines and stamps your receipt and then you can go (finally!) merrily on your way.
The only thing Melcom has got going for it is low prices, but in that respect, you mostly get what you pay for. Almost everything I have ever bought there has broken down within days of my purchase. Now, I try only to buy snacks, cheap boxed wine or cheap sweatshop made tank tops... certainly nothing electronic and nothing needing batteries. I did buy Alex a cotton hoodie for $1.20 and bought myself two tank tops for $2.20 each. Still, I have to always ask myself, is it worth the hassle. Not really. And, in case you're wondering, "NO EXCHANGES, NO RETURNS."
From there, Alex and I wandered around Accra Central a bit, stopped to dry off a bit at a local restaurant, had a beer (me, not her) and a sausage kebab (her, not me), and made our way back to the car. And we only had to wait for 15 minutes before Sly came out of his meeting. It was rainy, and a bit chill, but Alex enjoyed the chance to play hookey with her teacher. So, all in all, though we hardly bought anything, it wasn't too terrible a day.
Today, Sean had a birthday party to attend, and Sly went off to a retreat, so, with a little extra time on my hands and not too much money, I drove over with Mike and Alex to Ghana's newest department store, Game. Just to window shop really, and check things out, I told the kids. Game is a store that originates in South Africa, and there are dozens of Game stores all over Africa. Everyone had high hopes that this would be Ghana's answer to Walmart. Well, I was never a big Walmart fan, I so much prefer Tar-JAY, but sadly, this place is not Walmart, either.
At first glance, it's promising. Big bright opening, wonderfully big shopping plastic carts to hold your purchases and your kids, a customer service counter when you enter, a dozen check out counters. The whole kit and kaboodle as my Nana (German nana, not Ghanaian nana) would say. But still not Walmart. Really, not even K-Mart.
Game has two whole aisles devoted to toys -- count 'em two. I could find more toys in a 7-11. They have half of an aisle devoted to pet supplies. Half an aisle of toiletries. Half an aisle of food items. Half an aisle of school supplies. You get the picture. Again, like Melcom, a little bit of everything. Unlike Melcom, at rich obroni prices not fixed income obroni prices.
Now, as I said, I had a little bit of time on my hands, and not too much money. Only about $10. Truthfully, there is hardly anything that can be bought at Game for less than $10. Remember Legos and their offshoot Bionicles? My kids love them. But not for $30. Or a box of 24 crayons (not even Crayola) for $4.50. A small bag of balloons for about $3.60. How about a Barbie? You all must know about Barbie. Would you spend $74 for Barbie? And I'm not talking "Limited Edition Barbie on African Safari" Barbie. I'm talking just plain ol' Barbie. $74. Reduced. I'd like to know from what.
So, with two miserable whining kids in tow, one of whom was audibly sucking up the snot dribbling from her nose after I told her "NO" for the 75th time that she could NOT have said Barbie, we checked out of the store with a single item. I know you want to know. Well, it was a nail brush that cost $1.40. Okay, okay, and two little bags of candy for .80 each.
Big Spender, I am not. Sucker, I am.
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1:41
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Well, the inevitable has happened -- I am officially home schooling Alexandra. I didn't see it coming.
About 9 months ago, my husband and I decided to move our kids out of the school they had been attending. Several contributing factors hastened the decision, not the least of which was the cost for the three of them to attend the school.
The school was and is a good school, but when the new tuition schedule came out right before Christmas break (as in, Merry Christmas, F*&% You!), we found that our per term cost for tuition alone had doubled from $350 per kid to $700 per kid. Here's the simple math: 3 kids at $700 is $2,100 per term; 3 terms in a year is $6,300; taxi or cost of driving per month on average is $240 for 9 months is $2,160. A Grand Total of $8,460. And that doesn't include lunch.
So, as soon as we made this decision, we began our search for a replacement school. One that had the high standards we expected, closer to our house, and with a reasonable tuition. We looked high and low, searched the neighborhoods, checked online, asked for referrals and recommendations. And, then believe it or not, we found it! Right in our neighborhood.
SOS School is less than 3 miles from where we are now, and will still be only about a 20 minute drive when the house in Dawhenya is finished.
Sly and I drove to the school to check it out. It took 7 minutes to get there. Oh, my! The campus is big! There's a football pitch (soccer field to you Americans), a track field and a basketball court, a good sized library and a computer lab with computers for every student, and there's even a canteen... the kids won't have to buy their lunch out of the back of an Opel Astra station wagon any more. Oh, glory.
We quickly bought the application forms from the school and completed them right then and there, then listened politely and quietly to the nice lady at the administration office who gave us the tuition costs (Eeeeekkk! It's only 1/3 of what we're spending!) . She warned us, though, that there was a waiting list. Oh. How bad could it be, we naively thought, as we drove home. But it worried Sly way more than me, so off we went back to the school to talk to someone. We saw the nice administration lady, Gifty, who told us we should speak to the Headmaster
We added our name to the list to see the Headmaster, and a tall Ghanaian man came out of the office, looked at the list, and spoke aloud to my husband. "Zigah," he said, "do you know me?" Well, Sly wasn't 100 percent sure, but said the only thing he could say, "You do look familiar." And well he should, because apparently they were school mates in Tema Secondary School. "Bingo. We're in," I thought. Uh huh.
Then in late July we got a phone call from the school, telling us to bring the three kids in for exams the next week. Told ya, we're in! Sly still looks dubious. I convince him (and myself) that the test is merely to determine which class the kids were going into, A (the smart kids class) or B (the not-as-smart kids class). The kids go in, pens at the ready, pencils sharpened, erasers unused, minds alert, what could go wrong?
Most schools in Ghana start on September 11th. By September 7th we hadn't heard anything. Worried. Okay, maybe a little bit. Sly calls up his friend. The headmaster tells him that the exam rankings are posted on the bulletin board outside the school. Sly rushes out to check. Sean ranked 4th among the kids he took the exam with; Mike ranked 7th, and Alex ranked 6th.
I was so totally wrong. That waiting list was the reason for the test. They were taking the top contenders ONLY -- 4th, 7th and 6th place just ain't gonna cut it. The headmaster tells Sly that parents have until September 21st to decide if they will take an open spot, so there's still a chance for the kids to get in. So, we wait and wait and wait. September 11th comes and goes, and to take our minds off it, we go fishing (yes, again... it's habit forming!).
On September 14th, we get a late afternoon call: Mike's invitation letter is ready. YIPPEE!!!! Monday morning, we get our money order in place, find passport pictures, buy exercise and notebooks, and two uniforms. Mike's now in the school data base, and will be good to go for the next day. Tuesday morning, off he goes to school. One down.
On the morning of September 19th, we get another phone call: Sean's invitation letter is ready. Double YIPPEE!!!!! We're off to the bank within minutes for the money order. Same procedures repeated... money order, passport pix, books, uniforms. Thursday morning, Sean is off to school. Two down.
Here it is, September 26th. There is still no invitation letter for Alexandra. The headmaster has "hinted" to Sly several times that Class 2 has no openings. We thought he was kidding. Not. Alexandra is home with me, and we've decided to keep her home until she eventually joins her brothers at SOS. We'd thought about putting her in another school, but hate to have her go through an upheaval like that, only for us to pull her out again (hopefully) soon.
So, in the meantime, we've pulled out all of Mike's old books from Class 2 last year. We've bought half a dozen new school books and workbooks from EPP, the local bookstore to keep her current. We're quizzing her on multiplication tables and plurals of irregular nouns, we're going to teach her French and science, and about the environment, and even RMA (Religious and Moral Education) which will probably lean less towards religion (since we're both homilophobic) and more toward morality. And then we're going to pray very hard that that invitation letter comes soon.
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6:32
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
Part I
When I was a little girl, growing up in the urban populace of Union City, NJ, our summer weekends, when not spent down the shore in Seaside, was still a watery fun filled destination: we went to the lake. In those days, a popular weekend recreational spot was Cook's Pond in Denville, NJ. So early on Saturday morning, with my poor dad running on only about 2 hours worth of sleep (he worked the lobster shift at Typographical Union #6 in Manhattan so he only got home at about 6:00 am), we packed up our monster Ford station wagon with our Coleman ice chest, bags full of groceries, Koolaid, a case of Schaefer beer in cans, sand chairs, portable radio, towels, sunscreen, bathing suits and last, but not least, a half dozen or so assorted length fishing poles and tackle boxes. Yep, we were going fishing. The lake was chock-a-block full of sunnies and we were gonna get 'em... all of 'em. the five of us kids were ready -- we even woke up early to make a whole loaf of Wonder Bread worth of bread balls for our hooks.
My Dad, at least when it came to fishing, had the patience of a saint... most of the time. Or at least for the first 3 hours or any combination of two dozen instances of tangled lines, lost bait or the removal of the dreaded sunnie (or even worse, the errant lake eel EEWWW!!!!) from the hook, whichever came first. After that, we were on our own.
I'd like to think that besides my height, the bump on my nose, my great love of books, and weirdly shaped toes, that Dad passed on something else. Maybe fishing is in my blood. So, given that legacy, on Sunday, off we went to Aylos Bay. As you may recall from previous blogs of mine, Aylos Bay is right along the Volta River, and because we planned on spending the night we had a little cabin attached to a floating barge in the river. Primo fishing, we figured.
The river was choppy and dark, but we could spot little fish swimming in the shallows along the shoreline, not many but enough to whet our appetite. Good ol' mom (me, of course), set up the hooks and lines, bobbers for some, sinkers for others, and the worms of course. Now, my kids are not all that squeamish, but they don't really like squeezing the worm into halves or quarter pieces and then see both pieces wriggling. But, alas, our worm supply was limited so there is little choice for them.
Bingo! Within minutes, Mike has snagged the first fish.
A cute little tilapia only about 2 inches long, but still a keeper... no catch and release for us, no sir, there's a frying pan with cooking oil awaiting us and this little dude has got his name on the list. Sly does his part of the job in the fishing gig, he takes the fish off the hook. Mike's re-baited, and away he goes. Bingo! Mike gets fish #2, only minutes later. Process repeated. Many, many, many times with a little variation to break up the monotony: "Mommy, can you give me a bobber? Mommy, can you take my bobber off? Mommy, I want more [less] weight on this. Mommy, my hook is snagged. Mommy the line is all tangled. Mommy, Mommy, Mommy...." By the end of the day, I had a new appreciation for my Dad.
Even a heavy rain storm didn't stop the fishing. I mean the fish are already wet, so what do they care about a little rain. But by the time darkness fell, Mike had caught 5 fish, Sean caught 2 and Sly caught 1. Apparently, the fish could smell the testosterone and completely ignored Alex and me. We'd been keeping them alive in a bucket, but now they were destined for the fridge.
Our cabin had electricity, fortunately, and (cold) running water, a fridge and floor fan, but no television. Knowing Ghana as I do, I quickly brought out the emergency board game and a deck of cards, so the kids were good for a few hours before exhaustion caught up with them.
By 5:30 am, we were "up an' at-em." Within minutes (again), Mike caught another fish. And then another. By the time we were ready to leave at 11:30 to head home, Mike had caught another 4, Sean another 1, and I finally caught one. All told, we had 16 nice little fish to take home and eat, and eat them we did.
End of Part I.
Part II
A mere two days later, we were off again to Aylos, this time with a friend from NYC and his 13 year old son. Kofi had his own gear, which he told me proudly cost him $50 from a yard sale in White Plains. Hmmm. "So, Kofi, I didn't know you liked fishing," says me. "Oh, this is my first time!," he responds. Okay, now I know what the deal is: I've got 2 more rods and reels and lines and hooks to take care of.
We're lucky enough to snag 2 cabins side-by-side, so we claim the fishing dock.
Try as I might, I cannot convince Sean or Evan that they should use drop lines. No, for them, it's got to be the spinning reels. My work is cut out for me. Alex and Mike want the simple drop lines, so I tie some line to the last eye on a little pole, bait their hooks and off they go. Mike drops the line and a fish jumps on. No kidding. I hadn't even started on the other poles, and there's a fish for the frying pan. It went like that both days. Mike dropped his line in the water and a fish came out. Almost always.
After I explained the basic concept of casting to Evan a couple of times, he promptly went and tangled his line. He never could get the hang of tightening and loosening the drag to release the line. But to give him his due, Evan did eventually catch a good sized fish, and the smile he broadcast, braces and all, was well worth my trouble.
Poor Sean. The fish avoided him like the plague. They weren't even going after his worms, but if Mike stuck his line in the water right next to him... BINGO. And wherever Mike had been when he caught a fish, whether it was this part of the pier or that part of the dock, Sean claim jumped the spot. but it didn't matter. Then, finally, after about 3 hours, Sean snagged his first fish of the day. And Sly promptly fumbled it and dropped him back into the water. If it weren't for bad luck, Sean had wouldn't have had any that day or the next.
And Kofi, well, he was absolutely certain that there was a H-U-G-E fish out there, with his name on it, right in the middle of the river. So, despite my subtle warning ("Kofi, you are never going to catch a fish with that plastic worm," he insisted on using the 6" purple glittery plastic worm ("but it looks real!"). I can sense you are rolling your eyes at this point. I did, too.
As for me, I took a couple of yards of line and attached a little hook to it and threaded on my worm. Then I hung them from the nails jutting out of the planks of the dock. Who knows. Night falls, we pack up and head up to the cabins for the dinner and bed.
When we awoke at 5:30, we found Kofi quietly waiting on the dock for us. Apparently, we had his cigarettes. The poor guy was having a nicotine craving to beat the band, and he'd been up for a full hour before we even opened our eyes. However, the fishing lines were dropped into the water almost before Kofi could take his first drag.
The day started much like it ended yesterday, with Mike catching one fish after another. By the time we were ready to leave, Mike's tally was at 7. And Mommy, well, Mommy did good. Remember the drop lines I left, well one of them had a whopper on it! I pulled that baby up nice and slow, so he wouldn't be the one to get away.
Maybe it was all just luck, but I'd like to think it was my guardian angel. Thanks Dad.
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23:20
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Obroni Observations - An American Mom in Ghana
The other day I had an epiphany, and it didn't even hurt ;-) Simultaneously, my husband was talking on his cell, the kids were watching one of those sickeningly sweet (i.e., nauseating) The Land Before Time movie sequels (I think it was Land Before Time XXVIII or XXIX, they're all the same to me) on a local TV station, and I was sitting at the computer, surfing the internet. Now, you may be thinking, "Big deal. So what. Happens all the time. " Yes, everywhere else, but not here. Lest you've forgotten, this is Ghana. In fact, a lot of what we take for granted here -- the phones, internet, TV -- is a really really big deal.
My first visit to Ghana was in late August of 1990, and I was to meet, for the first time ever, my mother-in-law and various other in-laws and relatives. I was more than 5,000 miles from NJ, but it could have been another planet, as far as I was concerned. Naturally, my parents were worried. Jeez, they worried when I got on the Path train to go to work in the big, bad "City." Meanwhile, they were born in Manhattan, for goodness sake.
Anyway, it's 1990 and here I am in Ghana, safe and sound. Now, I'm supposed to let my parents back in NJ know that we arrived safely, but herein is the catch. This is Ghana. There is no phone in my mother-in-law's house. In fact, there is nary a phone in any house in Ghana. If you wanted to make a phone call to America, or anywhere else for that matter, you had to go on an adventure: you went to the Ghana Postal & Telecommunications office. Overseas calls had to be "booked" through an operator, but first you had to schedule your phone call. So you went to the P&T office, told them you wanted to call America, and they gave you a time to come back, hopefully in the same day and usually several hours hence, but that was if you were lucky. You see, there were a limited number of available overseas phone lines, and if you weren't quick (or lucky), you were shut out and you'd have to try again the next day.
If you were one of the lucky few, you'd get to the P&T office at the scheduled time (and this is one of the few times when a Ghanaian would make an effort to be on time, cause in this case, you snooze you lose), tell the clerk the overseas phone number you want to call, she places the call for you and then directs you to one of about six booths. Within moments, through much hissing and crackling and an exceptionally disconcerting echo on the line so that you hear yourself first and then only fragments of what is being said on the other end of the line, you are finally connected to your party.
Here's how my first conversation home sounded:
Hi, Dad (Dad). (...honey) What? (ut?) We got in okay (kay). What? It was fine (fine). Where's Mom? (...om) I said, "where's Mom? (Mom?) (...ping.) What? Oh, shopping. What? Oh, she's nice. What? She doesn't speak much English (ish). What? Okay (kay). I'll tell him (him). Love you, too (oooo). Okay, bye (bye). {Sniffle}
And it wasn't that much easier in America to call Ghana. Even though there were very few land line phones available, we were fortunate that our family had one of the first. And luck really had nothing to do with it in this case. Our luck was borne of the fact that three of my sisters-in-law all worked in the P&T office, so then (as now), it's a matter of who you know.
So, say Sly wants to call his Mom. What he does is dial the overseas operator at a precise time, and say that he wants to book a call to Ghana. The call is typically arranged for a slot 6 hours later, so if you dial the operator at 10:00 pm, you get a 4:00 am wakeup call; if you dial at 11:00 pm, you get a 5:00 am call, and so on. Given the time difference, you've got to plan it just so that it's early enough in Ghana that your intended party might still be home. Of course, certain slots get filled really fast, and if you miss the good ones, you're screwed. So, every hour, on the hour, you get another chance to win. If you "lose," then the operator (and back then, it's a real person, not just a recording!) advises you that the calling slot has closed, and suggests you try again later. And God forfend your clock is slow.
Less than two decades later, we find that everyone, from the kenkey seller on the corner, to the Ghanaian version of "masters of the Universe" have a personal cell phone (or two or three). And if you don't have a cell, you only have to walk a few feet to find a phone vendor (usually established at a small wooden desk with a huge beach umbrella over their head) who'd be happy to place your local call for a mere 20 pesawas. Want a house phone? You only have to fill out a form at the phone company office, pay a small fee, and within a few days, you've got a brand new phone installed. And, if you, want for an additional 60 Ghana Cedis, you can even have broadband. Wow!
"And, what about TV?," you ask. Well, back in 1990, Ghana had only one television station: GTV, the Station of the Nation. It operated only about 3 hours a day, from 6:00 pm to 9:00 pm, and showed local news, sometimes a second (or more commonly even, a third) rate American sitcom, once in a great while an American movie of the week (which always seemed to star Susan Saint James, for some obscure reason). And if God was with you, there'd be a televised football match. And truthfully, you loved/hated it when it was a movie or a special or better/worse still, a game, because regardless of the time it started, at 9:00 pm SHARP, it was over. Not, "to be continued," not, "same bat time, same bat channel," not, "stay tuned for Part 2 tomorrow on this station." It was just, over. You'd find yourself sitting on the edge of your seat, your eyes would pendulum between the TV screen and the clock, your pulse would quicken as the program was drawing to a conclusion. Would there be enough time? Would we find out what happened to the baby elephant? Would we discover who was the murderer? Would we find out who won?!!! Maybe.
In August 2007, we've got round-the-clock viewing, and Ghana's free TV stations now number a record breaking FOUR: GTV, TV3, MetroTV and a brand new station, Net2 (which may or may not be breaking some serious international copyright laws and treaties, but, hey, that's their problem, not mine).
Ghana may still be officially classified as a "Lesser Developed Country," but it has, undeniably, come a long long way.
