Missing Bacon Butties...

moving

2009-10-30T23:03:00.002Z

I want this, despite the somewhat sporadic nature of the posts, to be a pristine record of my time en Afrique, not contaminated by the day-to-dayities of life now I'm back. I'm therefore putting it on hiatus (is that the correct use of hiatus?) until such time as I truly once again miss bacon butties. Or that I miss the time when I missed bacon butties and wish to reminisc.

I have thus migrated here, to the rather boringly, yet functionaly named, alison's blog. More exciting name to follow, whence I've had inspiration.

I hope to be a little more regular in my blog movements.

scalxxx

ps i have noticed the dual meaning to 'miss bacon butties' and i wonder what such a lady would look like...?

Home

2009-10-28T21:12:00.001Z

Ok, so I’m back. I’m home, my African adventure is over, I can now have bacon butties as and when I wish (except I can’t as I am currently residing with Parents and mother has decided that, due to Ethical Reasons, we should be vegetarian about 6/7ths of the week), my tan is fading, my feet are constantly cold and I am learning to speak English properly again.

I’ve actually been back about two months, and have been enjoying my freedom, gallivanting off to various glamorous locations (New York, Barcelona, the south of France, Portsmouth and Chichester) and now am coming to the very real conclusion that I Need To Find A Job. More than anything, I feel like I need My Own Space (and to be allowed to eat chicken). Now my younger sister has left for London for eight weeks I have spread, much to my mother’s chagrin, to her room, and Alison’s Stuff now occupies all three ‘spare bedrooms’. (My Maternal Parent has a favourite story about Alison’s Stuff. When they last moved house, about a month after I left to go to Ghana, she asked the removal men if they had any tips for how she could organise it better next time. “Yes” they answered, referring to the beautifully labelled boxes they had just shovelled into my room “Get Alison to throw some stuff out!”)

Anyway, yesterday, at last, my passive-job-searches (send CV into about three recruitment agencies, peruse company websites about once every three weeks, moan about how little there is around but stay positive as I am actually aware I ‘haven’t really looked yet’) turned into active-job-searches (actually phone recruitment agencies, seek out careers advice, check company websites a few times a week, and watch positivity ebb away as I am told how little there is around). My friend Em came up for the afternoon and it was under her watchful eye that I started this new proactive approach (thanks Em!).

I’m actually starting to miss Ghana, particularly Kumasi. I miss the friends I made there and I miss the community spirit. I miss being able to meet people so easily because you stand out (how on earth do I meet people of a kindred spirit in Wolverhampton?!), I miss the depth of relationships with friends, of course I miss the weather, and I miss the simplicity of life... although it was simple in a complex way! I also miss the friendliness and openness of Ghanaians! I think I have come to the conclusion that one day, I expect I will be back in Africa in some capacity. Just not yet though!

window shopping

2009-08-11T09:01:00.007Z

I thought I would share some of the things one can buy on a drive round Accra by merely winding down one's car windows... ... by no means an exhaustive list...

popcorn
plantain chips
in-car phone chargers
yam chips
toilet roll
apples (appow appow)
flashing koosh balls
fan yogo/fan choco/fan ice
filofax
car footmats
those plastic butterflies that are on long handles and when you roll them along the ground their wings flutter
steering wheel covers
meat pie
car seat covers
ground nuts
kenke
pyuaa watter
tampico (juice)
milo
map of Ghana
map of the world
pringles
tissues
phone units (credit)
material
biscuits
dusters
car air freshners
puppies
razors
alphabet chart
counting chart
matches

musical snobbery

2009-08-06T08:27:00.000Z

I’m going to New York in September with a couple of friends… a spontaneous girly trip to do some shopping, some sightseeing – and the Sex And The City tour. We also decided we should go to Broadway to enjoy a musical, but I informed my friends that I have a bit of musical snobbery, and some of them I refuse to see. I blame my logical engineering brain. I mean, musicals aren’t real are they? They tell plausible stories (ie not science fiction), but come on, who breaks into song in the middle of a walk to work in real life? Or does a full scale dance while they’re cleaning the kitchen. It’s just silly. Plus they have no plots, and are highly predictable anyway. I remember when I first vocalised this theory as to why I don’t like musicals my friend Em spent three days conversing with me in song. Hilarious.
There are a few exceptions. Joseph and The Amazing Technicolor Dreamcoat, I absolutely love, due to many a car journey when I was younger when the soundtrack would be playing on repeat the whole way to our destination and back. My younger sister and I can recite it, with all the oos, aaahs, pauses and inflexions. I was taken to see it at Christmas and I was irrepressible. And Grease, what girl doesn’t like Grease? And I saw Chicago at the cinema and thought that was pretty good, though to be fair a little silly.
But Mamma Mia was firmly in the snobbery category. It just sounded like a musical for the sake of being a musical. But a friend invited me to dinner the other day as her husband was travelling for a few days, and they have the film on DVD, and her seven year old daughter loves it and sings and dances along to it, so I agreed, with a good natured smile, to watch it. And enjoyed it sooo much! It was such fun, and didn’t pretend to be anything else. It was what I’d call a ‘romp’! You could see how much fun the cast had whilst filming it in Greece, and that sillyness is really infectious. Julie Walters is fantastic and joyful, Piers Brosnan can’t sing, Colin Firth is, well, Colin Firth. I was totally converted and even, at one point, during Dancing Queen, had a bit of a dance with my friend’s daughter. But don’t tell anyone. I mean, who bursts into song when they post a letter for goodness sake? Ridiculous.

twiddling my thumbs

2009-08-05T15:50:00.000Z

Don’t tell anyone, but I’m not really doing much at work at the moment. It’s a bit of a lull, the company is in the process of getting new work, plus I have decided it’s time to go home anyway, so I will be leaving Ghana in a couple of weeks.
So today I have:
· Had an argument with an Indian guy about English grammar (I knew I was right, but my gut feeling was nothing against his dictionary definitions), into which I then dragged friends and family, my Dad eventually shocking me with his knowledge of the pluperfect tense.
· Written a couple of lines of work
· Had many conversations with various people in the office about the dress I am wearing, which was made by a tailor one of the girls in the office knows, and is rather nice
· Stood for a while looking in the full length mirror in the lift and considering how the skirt on aforementioned dress moves like a dairylea cheese portion
· Emailed the lovely Lindsay about river modelling, why men marry African girls and English Grammar,
· Emailed the lovely Sarah about life plans. Mine involves getting a house in the pennies for my adorable children and husband (fictional as yet) with a vegetable patch, chickens, and a composting toilet. Hers involves travelling, puppies and an aga.
· Got upset about this article http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/africa/8185221.stm on the BBC website and wondered what I can do about it
· Vowed to do something ethical like join Amnesty when I get home
· Discussed with some guys in the office why men marry African girls (I have my theories)
· Looked at shoes online and debated what kind of trainers its appropriate to wear these days
· Considered I hope my dress sense (?!) clicks back in when I get home and I don’t end up a) looking like mutton dressed as lamb, b) being TheGirlWhoWentToAfrica and ending up on ‘What Not to Wear’ in a few years thinking I look great in a tie-dyed boubou with concerned friends gathering round saying ‘oh she went to Ghana for two years and lost her self respect!’
· Thought about work
· Written a few lines of work
· Thought about work again.

calling teachers...

2009-07-21T16:31:00.001Z

Katie from Kumasi came to visit me at the weekend. For the second time in a row. I don’t know whether she misses me or has had enough of Kumasi.

Actually she was blatantly using me this time to go and see Harry Potter, eat salad, sleep in till 9 in a room with AC and meet a friend from the states who’s here for a month to volunteer at Katie’s NGO. But, I am totally open to being used if it means I have people to hang out with!!

I met Katie last year in Kumasi at one of those hardest times of being an expat, when the community of friends I'd built up disappeared in a puff of smoke. I was sunbathing at a local pool in the hope of meeting new obrunis... and it turned out she was doing the same thing (I usually use the phrase 'pimping myself out' but I don't want to give anyone the wrong idea). That was her third summer trip to Ghana, and she was about two thirds of her way through. Katie is a primary school teacher from the states, and had just given up her job to set up and run an NGO to support a little school in Kumasi. Even though it’s a school where the kids have to pay fees, I think she was shocked by the lack of educational facilities and quality of teaching.

So Volunteers In Africa aims to help not only with the teaching, but also with training the teachers to teach - to control the children, use effective discipline, make learning fun; and I guess all the stuff teachers in the US and UK are taught as part of their training. Katie also provides equipment and teaching aids - she brought 14 hold-alls of the stuff this time! VIA also educates kids in the US a little bit about Africa, so the emphasis is really on cross-cultural experiences!

Basically, I think it's great, and I think Katie is great too and I think she has chosen a thankless task! Launching an NGO as the credit crunch hit was probably not the easiest thing to do (although she has ways of getting round it... never mind fun runs or lying in a bath of baked beans for a couple of hours, my Californian friend held a beauty evening with 'cosmetic injections' available)(she tells me San Diego, USA must be a long long way from Manchester, UK). Back at the school, progress is slow and frustrating, and the stories she tells me about day to day school life make me giggle but also make me appreciate how incredibly lucky we are to have available to us the education system we do have. I am also humbled when I am moaning about the service at my four star hotel or the fact I no longer have my own personal driver.

Please have a look at the website, and the cause and group on facebook! And to all my teacher friends, please get in touch if you fancy helping her; with teaching and/or with teacher training! Because it's such a small organisation I think you'd feel you were making a real difference even on a short term trip, and I know she keeps costs to the absolute minimum. And there's a great Indian restaurant in Kumasi.

chocolate cake

2009-07-20T22:04:00.000Z

Only those of you who have travelled will understand taking photos of food... but this was actually the best chocolate cake in the world. It was warm and gooey in the middle, perfectly rich but not too rich, with smooth vanilla ice cream to contrast. And it was in Ghana, and an hour out of Accra.

For anyone who is in Ghana and wants to know where to get this heavenly food, we were on our way up to the Aburi Botanical gardens. It's probably about ten minutes before you get to Aburi, on the right hand side, 'Hillburi', a restaurant and conference centre, with the promise of chalet accommodation in a few months. The restaurant looks over the Akuapem hills and has stunning views back to Accra. The food is fantastic, the infinity pool clean and cool, and the staff friendly and attentive. We had to fill in a questionnaire and everything.

the movies, ghana style

2009-07-20T08:41:00.000Z

A friend and I went on saturday to watch Harry Potter and the Half Blood Prince in the new cinema complex in Accra. It's quite bizarre to have popcorn and sit in big cocooning cinema seats after having fought with the tro tro drivers of Accra on the way to get there, but at last I'm getting used to these crazy contrasts of culture that hit you daily.

What I'm not used to was the African way of watching films. Before it started, I'd say the cinema was about a quarter full, but of course, it filled up as the film was in progress - and not just the trailers, not even just the first few minutes; all the way through people were walking in!

There's a constant hum of chatter too. And people getting up and walking out. Mobile phones ring all the time. The gentleman next to me took a phonecall halfway through, wittering away. I very politely told him not to do it again. The lady next to Katie left when her crying baby wouldnt keep quiet, and was replaced by someone else. And a couple of rows in front of us people were taking pictures of the screen on their phones. And the sound kept going towards the end. I don't appreciate the interruptions to me and my beloved Harry Potter!

the non cocktail cocktail party

2009-07-16T12:10:00.000Z

We are having a cocktail (‘drinks and small chops’) party after work today as a bit of a company re-launch. Sounds about as exciting as a cold teabag to me. Thing is, I don’t think there’s going to be any cocktails. Which is flaw no. 1 in the evening. I would be a lot happier if I could sit in the corner sipping away on a mojito. Or seven.

It looks like beers to me.

Also, no one seems bothered about concept of driving home after cocktail party. So even if they do have mojitos I shall be able to sip only a half, being the only person who actually has a conscience.

We have a new logo as the 'four men' are no longer legally ours. Can you picture the four men, red and leaning to one direction? Well the new logo, with all the imagination of a fridge, is those four red men mutated into four red blocks all sloping in the same direction as the four men, shaded in the same way.

In the same 'imagination of a fridge' vein, they are currently decorating our balcony in the Ghanaian style which is: wrap bits of material around the pillars and drape them over the windows Roman-style. I could have done waaay better with a few fairy lights. We now have rosettes which makes the place feel like a gazebo wedding off of a bad American chick-flick.

Next, I asked one of the girls what the dress code was for tonight, and to make it easier, what they'd be wearing, and she said oh just this and gestured to what she is wearing; a navy suit with a pink top, so I made an 'o ok' kind of noise and she said 'so can you find someting pink disting' - well no Linda I’m not going to come in exactly the same clothes as you are wearing, that would just be weird.

So really I'm none the wiser on Outfit. Can't go home and come back in exactly what I was wearing all day; that would be weird. Can’t go for my usual uniform of jeansandatop, as what we Brits view as casual chic Ghanaians view as shabby. And not shabby chic. And I don’t wanna go African if the girls aren’t going African. Oh look there’s the Obruni looking like a plonker in a big floaty print dress. Nope.

so much excitement over a little pot of burnt wood?

2009-07-08T10:47:00.000Z

I am one of those rare commodities, obscure creations, exceptions to the rule, a GIRL, who likes CRICKET. Not to play, I don’t think I’ve ever held a cricket bat in my life, and feel sure that I would hold it the wrong way round anyway (at least I know there’s a wrong way round), not to mention probably getting knocked out by the first red leather ball that came my way, but to watch! And it’s not just the men in whites (or men out of whites).

I don’t even pretend to know that much about it, but I love the myriad of factors that contribute to winning or losing. I love the fact there’s always something else to think about, I love the strategy element of the game, I love the fact it takes five days and they break for tea and lunch. I love the relaxed and rambling commentary and I love the memories it evokes of long summers with dad gardening with the radio on, dropping everything and running inside when a wicket fell, to catch the replay on the TV.

Even in the UK I have very few people to share and feed my enthusiasm, most of my friends find it dull, boring, and complicated. Since I have been here I have tried to explain cricket to Ghanaians, Americans, French, Dutch… all of them end up looking more confused than when I started.

So here I am, on day 1 of the Ashes, that biggest of sporting rivalries, with the rain slating down from a grey sky, in an ex-British colony, frequently wondering why Ghana did not pick up cricket like India did, and wishing it had done. Even the Brits I work with do not seem overly bothered, and I think if I said the word ‘Ashes’ to a Ghanaian they’d think I was talking about bush fires. So I am sitting behind my computer, wishing I was in the sun at home, pretending to work, sneakily following Ben Dirs and his BBC text commentary, with butterflies in my belly… and hoping 21-1 already isn’t the start of something horrible...

al's got the grumps.

2009-07-05T19:39:00.000Z

I have moved to Accra, and as some close friends (actually anyone who asks me ‘how is Accra?’ and waits for an answer) know, I have decided that it’s horrible and I don’t want to be here. Cue sitting all day yesterday in my pants fiddling round on the internet, trying to beat monsters on my DS, watching TV and generally feeling sorry for myself.

I have decided that my flat looks ‘tired’, it smells because no-ones lived in it for a while, I don’t know anyone, Accra has too many expats, I’ve got too much stuff, I’ve not got enough work clothes, I don’t want to stay in, I don’t want to go out, I’m not enthused by the work I’ve been assigned, food is too expensive, I miss home, I'm grumpy with my boyfriend for going home this week, I miss Kumasi, I miss friends there... basically anything and everything, I manage to find fault with. This mood is reminiscent of a mood I had travelling with friends in Riga, also known as the ‘Riga bunk bed mood’... when I didn’t want the top bunk, didn’t want the bottom, didn’t want to go for a walk, didn’t want to be left while they went for a walk, didn’t want crisps, didn’t want chocolate. And I’m sure my mother knows this mood all too well... sorry ma!

Anyway so through some encouragement of some friends who quite rightly said if I was going to sit feeling sorry for myself then I was going to feel bad about being here, I got up and went to find the car that has been assigned to me for a few weeks. We no longer get drivers in Accra, and so I have to confront the potential of breaking down in the middle of Ghana, or indeed just getting lost in the middle of Accra. Easy to do.

Still in a foul mood, I headed off to the Accra Mall... a western-style out of town shopping centre which, if you have just come down from Kumasi, is a bit of a shock, even if you know what to expect! I did a food shop in ‘Shoprite’... after Kumasi, I didn’t really know where to start! I got bread and vacuum-packed meat and yoghurt and cheese and banana cake and Flora! Flora! I then wandered round the mall, had a mocha in a little coffee shop (which serves bacon butties!), went to get a ‘what’s on’ list from the cinema, and then spent a good half hour browsing the bookshop! It was like walking into Borders or WHSmith! Needless to say, getting out and thinking about things other than my disgruntlement cheered me up no end.

In my flicking through the TV this morning, I came across Hillsong TV, and the pastor was preaching about every day being special, and how we should rejoice in every day, because, as it says in Psalm 118:24, ‘This is the day the Lord has made’. I think it really sowed a seed and got me thinking. I did not rejoice in yesterday, I failed to find any good in it; I wasted a God given day wallowing in my self-pity! So today, I rejoice in the day; in my friends, in the sun, and in toast and mum's home-made marmalade for breakfast!!

facebook...

2009-07-02T00:14:00.000Z

Instead of updating my facebook status every fifteen minutes, I have decided to accumulate all status-related thoughts I had in one day in one simple list... yes I need to get out more...

Alison wants someone to go on holiday with

Alison wonders if every white person in the world is born on a Sunday, what white midwives do for the rest of the week

Alison wants a ‘magic leaf’ in her pocket

Alison is a bit disturbed that half of Kumasi seem to know her name

Alison is looking for a small boy with a long tape

Alison is no one’s wife

Alison wonders why Ghana gets spoilt when it rains

Alison is wondering why out of 16 channels three so often show the same thing

Alison thinks CNN is a bit backward

Alison thinks Ghanaian onions have the strongest smell in the world

Alison just found some indescribable goo in the middle of one of her onions

Alison likes chatting to friends from home

Alison didn’t know you could burn lentils

Alison still needs to pack

Alison thinks burnt lentils just adds to the flavour

Alison still wants someone to go on holiday with

Alison didn’t pack.

on names...

2009-06-25T13:15:00.000Z

Last year I went to a friend’s wedding back in the UK. I was talking to a uni friend and his wife and on being told ‘Oh we have a friend from Ghana’, I replied, half in jest, ‘Is his name Kofi?’ and they looked at me slightly bewlidered and said ‘yes, how did you know?’!

I understand that many cultural groups in Ghana (including the Ashanti of Kumasi) have an Akan name relating to the day they were born, and if they are not actually known by it, they will answer to it – and thus in the above conversation I had a one-in-seven chance! For example, Kojo is a male born on a Monday, Yaa a female born on a Thursday. I know Kofi Annan was born on a Friday, as was I, and I am thus an Afia.

Other names have meanings too. Like I said on an earlier post, Duku apparently means eleventh born, and I think I have established Obaa means lady. There are also names for twins, and what circumstances you were born in. I once met a guy called ‘Gracious’, ‘Justice’ is a fairly common man’s name, I know a ‘Perfect’, not to mention the supervisor called ‘Bonaventure’ (but known as 'Coach')!

I also know the culture of naming your baby after someone is very widely used here -someone who you respect or who has helped you out somehow, someone you would like your child to take after. A great guy I worked with at Barekese had a daughter in February and told me he would name her after me – when it turned out he had done, I asked if he would call her just Alison or if she would have another name too. He said ‘no she will be Kesewa Alison’. I asked what Kesewa meant and he looked like he was struggling with the English for a minute then said ‘aa like fat dis-ting’ (‘dis-ting’ being the general word when you can’t think of the word… like ‘whatsit’). This amused me for a moment, calling your baby Fat Alison. But here, being ‘fat’ is good, it is a sign of health and wealth, and so Kesewa was probably a blessing over the baby that she didn’t turn out to be a skinny runt like the person she was named after!

But names seem to have a slightly different significance here and I can’t work it out. My name is Alison, I expect to be called Alison, and if anyone tried to call me anything else I would not like it. Being called by my surname without a Miss before it feels impersonal and impolite. Yet one of our surveyors told me his name was ‘Sarni’ and so I used that name. However, when asking for him everyone looked at me blankly and said ‘we don’t have a Sarni!’ It later turned out everyone else called him Ibrahim. There was also a guy called Joseph who’s boss called him Chris, and he answered to it. Often I’ll be told one name for someone and yet it’s not their used name. And often I’ll ask a colleague the name of someone who I have seen them conversing with regularly and they don’t know! People get referred to by their job title not their name. And white people will often get called ‘Akosia’ – Sunday born – in the street (several different explanations have been given to me on this one, maybe something to do with the fact that the original white people were missionaries).

I can't work it out - despite the care and attention it seems Ghanaians put into a name, names don’t appear to have the same meaning they do in our culture, but I can't put my finger on exactly what it is!

unplanned adventures...

2009-06-23T10:38:00.000Z

In February, I changed projects from the Barekese Water Treatment Plant to the ADM Cocoa Factory. This is still in Kumasi but the other side of town, and all the assets (cars and houses) that came with Barekese were duly removed, and instead we were moved into apartments in the Golden Tulip Hotel, and got old cars which the company had lying around.

I’d grown quite attached to my butch Ford Ranger. No frills, but I’d had it from new and it did the job and I felt safe! Instead, I got an old Land Rover Defender which has bits of cardboard stuffed in the (dripping) AC vents to make them stay in, the oil needs topping up daily, the door leaks around the feet area, the passenger side locks don’t work, takes superhuman effort to unlock the driver door, you need to break about 20 minutes before you want to stop, the gas pedal once got stuck (cue scary swerve into oncoming traffic), the gear stick fell apart in my hand twice. And once it just stopped. And it turned out some shaft had snapped because it’d been welded back together when it snapped before.

So, I was not particularly confident about the thing, but having taken it on a couple of fairly long journeys and been assured that ‘anyone can fix a Land Rover with a handful of sand and a stone’, I decided to go up to visit my boyfriend at the weekend at the mine where he works, about a two hour journey.

I always take a driver out of town, particularly when in the Defender, just in case! And about half an hour from our destination, the car started making very strange noises, and we ended up having to wait in a little bush garage surrounded by rather pretty fireflies to be rescued by my very own (grumpy) superman, who luckily specialises in these things. The guys had a bit of a look at the engine but couldn’t fix anything, so ended up towing it up to the mine.

Next day, my company sent a car to tow us back to Kumasi, which was fairly uneventful for most of the way, just slow, until we reached a toll booth (8 Ghana Pesewas… about 4pence… compare that to the M6toll!) and a policeman stopped us. It seems that you are meant to tow with a towing vehicle and not with a Land Rover... so for once we were stopped for a legitimate reason… but anyway, if I am being driven and get stopped, I leave it to the drivers to sort out; if you, as a white person, show any concern or interest the ‘dash’ will be higher, as white means money! So I just sat in the car staring out of the window, making a phone call. I turned round to see a young man standing by the driver’s window staring at me. Just staring. When I get disgruntled here I seem to go all uber-English and polite (for ‘polite’ read ‘sarcastic’) so after about three minutes of staring I said in the Queens English 'Can I help you?' and he giggled and carried on staring. Then the driver came back (having made the lucky policeman 20cedis richer and the roads no safer – what’s the point of laws if you can pay a tenner to get off them?) and exchanged a few words with Staring Man and asked if I was scared because I thought he was a policeman. I said no, I just don't like being stared at. My driver told me this man had asked if I would marry him but he’d replied with 'no you could not pay her bills'!

I think this is great as of course being a Independent Woman I would ordinarily take great affront at such a suggestion, and so he needn’t worry, but of course in this culture, women don’t pay their own, so it’s a perfect retort!

Anyway, John and Duku then decided we should go on a detour to avoid any more police… and whilst on this back-road detour, the tow rope got stuck under front wheel of the towed car. Cue a stop, wheel off, rope out of wheel, wheel on, jack stuck in road, rope back on, head for the traffic of Kumasi. Which was a bit hairy, considering that the driver in the front car didn’t drive like he had a car on a bit of string behind him; still nipping into tiny gaps in the traffic while I held my breath and gripped the seat! We finally pulled into the yard with no further major mishaps… except the rope once more got caught as we arrived, and the brake pads went, brake fluid was leaking…and the heavens opened – at least we got back first!

The car is well and truly ‘spoilt’ and as a replacement, I got an… even older Land Rover!

a change...

2009-06-22T12:59:00.000Z

Well it is an age since I have updated this. I think after being somewhere for a while one gets immune to the things which once seemed bizarre and crazy! Plus I could wax lyrical for hours on opinions on The State Of Africa and I don’t want to bore anyone/be too controversial…

However, a lot has changed since my last post, and my mum for one likes reading it. Even though she knows exactly what is going on in my life before it goes on here. Bless her.

You may have thought I was due to be coming home to the UK imminently. Well, I was. But, a great deal has gone on with my company (and that’s another story for another day) and I am actually staying, for a while at least. My time in Kumasi is almost over, and I shall be moving to Accra on Friday.

I have always said I don’t know which I prefer, Accra or Kumasi. Accra is a busy, bustling city, with restaurants of every cuisine imaginable and bars and shopping malls (well a shopping mall) and people of all nationalities and bowling and a cinema and big hotels and beaches and pools and sandwich shops and balsamic vinegar and live music and haloumi cheese and ready salted crisps. But sometimes I think you can forget you are in Africa (OK so at times that’s exactly what I want), and I sometimes wonder what the point is of being here if you could be in any city of the world.

Kumasi, on the other hand, is a lot smaller, with about five restaurants of any standard, and a similar number of bars, nothing else to do, and fewer international residents. But living here for over 18 months means I have really settled, I know Kumasi a bit, I have some good friends, and I know a lot of people to chat to when I go in to one of the (five) restaurants. In a word, Kumasi is a community, and people look out for each other, and I’ve grown to love that. I also loved when I was working on the water project (again, another story for another day) the fact that my drive to work took me through rural villages, and we felt like we were doing something do help those villages.

In Accra I will be working in our head office, and it’s new and pretty, and I can wear new and pretty clothes (I am a little fed up of steel toe cap boots and mud-splattered combats day-in, day-out), and I am looking forward to a wider range of food available and a more balanced diet again (there is only so many times you can eat tuna pasta in a week) (and I’m over that limit). I will also be doing different work, and as they say, a change is as good as a rest. So, apart from missing the community and good friends and acquaintances in Kumasi, I am looking forward to the change.

Armadillos

2008-08-22T12:27:00.000Z

Tony, the student who is working with us for six months, (and with whom I share an office) (and a house) came into the office yesterday after having been on site and asked me ‘have you seen what they’ve caught? It’s like a creature; I’ve not seen one before... like an armadillo or something’. Having been here for a year, I was fairly unimpressed – these random things tend to happen and unfortunately you get used to it! So, I just replied with ‘oh is it worth a look?’

Anyway, I wandered out, and indeed, there, hiding in a cement sack in the corner of the security hut, was a little, scaly, long tailed armadillo!

The security and some of the drivers were standing round, stopping it from escaping, and when I foolishly asked what they were going to do with it, they answered ‘they will chop it!’ Unfortunate, but true – chop meaning ‘to eat’! One of the foremen had caught it and was planning to take it home for his dinner – apparently they are sweet and tender...!

Our nurse, Agnes, who is as crazy as they come, asked me ‘Madame Aleeeeesss, have you chop one before?’ to which I almost yelled ‘NO! I have NOT chopped a flippin’ ARMADILLO before, at home we have those things in ZOOS, not on dinner plates!’

To me, it highlighted another difference in attitudes between us. I wanted to take a photo, and the guys were dragging the poor thing by it's tail to get it in a place where I could photo it. Then, when in sheer terror it curled up in a little ball they poked at it to try and make it un-curl! I tried to tell them to leave it alone, it was scared, but the concept of an animal being scared seemed alien. I guess they weren’t brought up on programmes like ‘The Really Wild Show’!

It was similar when our driver brought in a monkey to show us. They tied the monkey on a short leash to the fencing around the compound, and he seemed distressed – he was constantly running backwards and forwards, up and down the fence, at the full extent of the leash. Again, protests from me that it was ‘cruel’ just met with giggles.

It’s not the first time the attitude to animals surprised me. Often when I’m looking at a new creature someone will chase it and catch it for me to look at closer, or sometimes even just kill it if they think I am distressed by it! (Although when it comes to snakes, I can understand killing them!) There was an adorable little puppy at one of the houses the company was taking over – I was ‘coo-cooing’ at it, gently, and someone grabbed it and thrust it into my hands; meanwhile the puppy’s mum was going ballistic at my ankles!

This morning, I asked the foreman who had caught the armadillo if it he had eaten it, and he answered in the affirmative. I didn’t ask if it was smooth on the inside and crunchy on the outside...

Divine Inspiration...

2008-08-19T12:48:00.000Z

I had a bit of a philosophical moment on the way into work this morning. Here in Ghana, it is the done thing to carry some kind of a slogan on the back of your vehicle, be it a tro-tro, a taxi, or an enormous articulated lorry. Often, these slogans have a religious edge to them, like ‘Trust in God’, or ‘still Jesus’, or, my all time favourite, ‘Jesus is my Lawyer’.

This morning we drove behind one I have seen before, a big cattle-wagon with it's hopeful slogan emblazoned diagonally across the back doors, in text reminiscent of an Olde-English-Circus performance. My ‘moment’ came when I realised when it was I saw it last.

It was around November time last year, soon after I had left Accra to live in Kumasi, leaving some friends I had made there, and was struggling to get used to life in Ghana’s very-second city, where I knew no-one my own age. What’s more, I had just been broken into in my house, and was struggling to cope with how relationships back home inevitably change when you move to the other side of the world!

Anyway, so on a particularly bad day my driver was driving me from work into the city to do some shopping for the houses we were setting up, and we came up behind this wagon, telling me that I should look for ‘Help from above’. Well, if I wasn’t already on the verge of tears, this pushed me there! I remember feeling silly that it took an old, falling apart truck wobbling along a half-dirt track in Ghana to give me hope that this venture of mine would turn out OK, and to remind me that I was not, and never would be, alone! I text a friend and her reply was ‘ha! I know – prophetic little suckers aren’t they?!’

So, this morning it got me thinking how different I am feeling now and how much has changed in those nine months. I’m settled here, I am used to life, used to all Ghana’s little frustrations, I know the city a little better, I know a few people. I still struggle, of course I do, I still miss having like-minded people around, but my attitude is so much more positive. I almost sometimes think ‘eh! Only a year left!’ and so much still left to see – how will I fit it all in?!

It also made me think how the most bizarre things can stop us in our tracks and make us count our blessings…!

Things I shouldn't do in England...

2008-05-30T09:22:00.000Z

Inspired by my Canadian friends Leanne and Heather, who have written three lists on their facebook page; “Things we miss about Canada”, “Things we have become accustomed to in Ghana”, and “Things we will miss about Ghana”, I was thinking of all the things I am used to but really must stop doing when I come home… …feel free to comment…!

Pressing abnormally hard on the middle finger when pulling out of a handshake in order to do the customary ‘click’

Speaking in a variety of ‘ah-haas’, ‘eh-haas’, ‘eh-heeehs’, etc., The meaning is all in the tone…

Asking people to ‘flash’ me… (missed-call or one-bell…)

Expecting to have things carried for me if they are bigger than a small Tupperware

Driving a left-hand drive on the right

Using the horn instead of brakes/ indicators/ mirrors

Using the horn instead of everyone else’s brakes/indicators/mirrors

Calling random women at shops ‘mammy’

Referring to a ‘little’ as ‘smaaaaaaall’ or ‘small small’

Getting genuinely excited when I see cake and coffee

On being asked ‘how are you?’ replying ‘fiiiihn’ with an almost inaudible ‘n’.

Waking up at HALF 5 EVERY MORNING!!!

"Garlic? Bread? It's the future..."

2008-05-22T12:33:00.000Z

...to (roughly) quote Mr. Peter Kay!

Whilst the boys of this world were watching the football last night, the girls of this world (well, Leanne, Erin and I) decided to go to ‘Funkees’ and sample ‘the best Pizza in Kumasi’, according to one reader of the Bradt Guide.

It started off fairly well, with two out of the three of us getting our first choice for drinks… only the sprite was "finished".

So then we saw garlic bread on the menu. 10 months in Africa and the prospect of Garlic bread made my mouth water… amid much excitement we ordered one garlic bread, and one garlic bread with cheese. We were discussing what form this may take as I sat back, confident, in my chair, thinking really, what could go wrong with Garlic Bread? But Leanne, with the wisdom of one who has eaten at many a Ghanaian Chop Bar, reminded us “you never know what to expect in Africa…”

The waiter came over as we were reading the menu, to explain to us that out of 16 pizzas they only had nos. 3 to 11. Unperturbed, Leanne ordered pizza no. 5, the veggie pizza, and back he trots a few minutes later with “Oh, Sorry Madam, we do not have the Vegetable Pizza”. On further discussion, it turned out that actually they had no mushrooms, and if Leanne was happy with no mushrooms, she could have the veggie pizza. Erin then tried to order a cheeseburger; “Oh, Sorry Madam, the Burger is finished”. Ok. I ordered my Medium size tuna pizza, Erin settled with a tuna sandwich.

So, we sat and chatted and drank our drinks, while the anguished cheers and shouts of the various Manchester United and Chelsea fans went up around us, and waited for our meal. Erin’s sandwich came first, nicely cut into triangle shapes, held together with a cocktail stick, followed closely by two plates of what looked like more triangle sandwiches. The Garlic Bread, we correctly assumed, in a slightly different form from what maybe I had expected, but, eager to taste that hot buttery garlic on soft warm bread, we all launched in, only to simultaneously choke and deposit our mouthfuls on the floor. On closer inspection, the ‘Garlic Bread’ was a crushed raw garlic sandwich, on lightly toasted bread. No butter, no herbs, no salt and pepper. And the ‘with cheese’ version was the same, with a DairyLea Cheese Slice tucked in for good measure.

Then the pizzas came, and, to be fair, they were good – oven baked, with nice soft dough and tasty fillings. But Leanne's ‘no mushrooms’ pizza turned put to be a no pineapple, no sweetcorn, no tomato pizza – she said it was basically a onion and green pepper pizza, while my pizza was a large, not a medium, because ‘the cheese is already measured out in large portions’.

Bewildering.

The culture of Football...

2008-05-19T21:12:00.000Z

A couple of weeks ago, as all football fans will be more than aware, Liverpool played Chelsea in the second leg of the semi finals of the Champions League. I am now living with an avid Liverpool supporter (oddly most of the expats on site are also Liverpool supporters)... a rather gutted Liverpool supporter in the end... but it meant I was very aware of the hype and excitement surrounding the match, not only in the UK but also ‘in Ghana here’. This was even more noticeable as the match finished, as we drove a friend home in the dying moments of extra time.

Everywhere along the route there were people gathered around tiny TV screens in the doorways of the little kiosk shops at the side of the road. It was something that I had also noticed during the African Cup of Nations at the start of the year, when Ghana were playing. About 20 or so men and boys, and women too, will all be straining to see the game, sat on the floor, on boxes, but all around a TV screen which I would have been ashamed of as a student back home! The picture is grainy, the sound poor, but still there are very few people on the streets!

This match probably had particular significance as of course Ghana’s favourite child, Mr. Michael Essien, plays for Chelsea, which makes Chelsea the chosen team of many Ghanaians! But the Premiership is such a well known brand; everyone here knows all the players, and everyone has ‘their’ team, many of them Liverpool. Tony, the Liverpool supporting housemate, was talking to some little boys from the North a week or two ago, and all of them had their favourite players; Fowler, Shevchenko, Torres; in fact most of them chose White players!

Of course, once the match had finished, celebrations were rife for the Chelsea fans - but good natured and happy and excited!

Again, this is something which struck me during CAN 08 earlier this year. Whereas in the UK I have no desire to follow football, here I really enjoyed it, and I think it’s to do with the attitude to football of the nation. The chat before the match is much less formation and tactics and substitutions and more just guessing the scoreline and who will score and when! Ghana-Nigeria is a match with as much rivalry and history as say England-Scotland or maybe even England-Germany, but Ghanaians seem to relish the chance to play their biggest rivals and there are parties between the fans and friendly banter. They are absolutely confident that ‘we will score them’, even at one - one with 10 men and 30minutes minutes left to play. The underlying feeling is a passionate excitement, a real love for the game and for the 11 guys that will play the 90min, and a desire to get behind the team of staff who keep these 11 guys going.

I think this is a contrast to the sometimes antagonistic attitude to the national sport in the UK. I sometimes feel that the media and the public are out to get the ‘New England Manager’ before he’s even started, that the slightest mistake from a player and he is vilified for weeks, that rather than congratulate we are quick to find fault.

The local radio station made me giggle on several occasions during CAN with their topics of discussion. There was one as to what it was appropriate for ladies to wear to football matches, specifically that when they stood up to cheer they should make sure that their jeans weren’t so low cut as to show their knickers. They discussed on several occasions, including a free-for-all phone in, whether it was appropriate for the players to be banned from having sex before the matches, whether they should have half a day off, whether they should be allowed to be alone with family members while the tournament was still on. They asked more than once if God was Ghanaian, and again invited a phone in to discuss the topic! They discussed whether Ghana’s loss in the semi finals was God’s fault. My cook, incidentally, genuinely believed that God would act on behalf of Ghana... and my friend and I were a bit surprised on the morning of the Ghana-Nigeria quarter final when the pastor in church was praying passionately and fervently for the sins of the nation, only to link it in with a passionate and fervent prayer that God would forgive these sins and thus help Ghana ‘score’ Nigeria in the afternoons match!

The morning after Ghana went out of the tournament to Cameroon, rather than incriminate and find blame, the local radio dj’s were broadcasting messages of pride, and keeping your head up, and praising the Stars!

My driver, by the by, professes to be both a Chelsea and Manchester United supporter... so I don’t know what he is going to do on Wednesday...!

January 23rd 2008... ...an education of a day!

2008-05-15T07:40:00.000Z

(I'm afraid this is another back-dated entry, I forgot I'd written it...!)

It started with me going to one of the houses we are renting and doing up for the staff to live in, which I am kind of coordinating. I’d had a phone call from my boss the day before. “Alison. I’m at Alan’s house. It’s Primrose and Pink. What Are you thinking?”

Oops. Well, I’d known the ‘ivory’ had come out slightly yellow, and figured once the ‘tan’ was on it would make the yellow slightly less yellow. However, they had run out of tan, so I had given instructions to get ‘Dark Beige’. So I decided to go on the way to work, to see if my boss was being melodramatic and ‘stirring the shi*’. Nope. Dusky Pink. And the yellow made the pink more pink and the pink made the yellow more yellow. Even with the very light cream curtains, it still looked, well, feminine. For a single gentleman nearing the end of his career.

So, never trust paint colours in Ghana, they mix them in the shop. With whatever they have left from the day before I think.

My driver took me back to site, and on arrival I was told I Would be going to the ‘pouring of libations’ ceremony that was scheduled for the day, and I would be taking photos. I had rather hoped I could sit in the office while this ceremony was to take place, but on the other hand was glad I had no choice in the matter and was ‘forced’ to go. This was about 8.15, and we were told it would be 8 – 9 ish. Gradually Ghanaian gentlemen in the traditional dress (I’m afraid I don’t know what it’s called... worn like a toga but either the Kente cloth or the printed cloth with significant symbols all over it) turned up and wondered around site. We all disappeared to get on, and eventually we were all called into the conference room, past the boy with the umbrella, where the six tribesmen were clustered around at the far end of the table. The PM introduced us, which was translated by Emmanuel, our enormous (but as competent as he is huge) foreman, and I am sure when he got to me the phrase ‘Mammy’ was heard. Oh well, I’ve heard it’s a mark of respect here! Second from the right stood up, adjusted his cloth to show full chest (it looked official, maybe he was just itchy?) and introduced the party – the man who goes in front of the chief wherever he goes, the messenger who’s responsibility it is to tell the community whenever the chief has a message, the deputy, the linguist who speaks for the chief, the left hand man (who was the gentleman speaking) and, “last but not least”, the chief himself. Throughout this, the chief was winding his finger in each nostril in turn. We were welcomed to the area, and told they would be doing this ceremony so that the ancestors would watch over the project and there would be no accidents or programme hold ups. Yah, opens up a Plethora of theological debates.

We then had to wait for another chief, so that was another half hour wait. Finally we piled into the cars and went the 500m down the hill to the lakeshore. There was a lovely fluffy white goat tethered to a post. The ghastly growls coming from it suggested it somehow knew it's fate. We ‘obrunis’ gathered some way back; I didn’t want to get too close, not quite knowing how my slightly squeamish self would react to the slaughtering of animals in front of me. I wish in a way I’d have had someone who could translate and explain what was happening, there was a lot of splashing of gin on the ground, some drinking of gin, a lot of chorused agreements to things, and then the slaughtering of chicken and goat. Really, it passed with little excitement. The colourful spectacle though of the chiefs sat beneath their velvet umbrellas was rather eye-catching.

So I think my second learning point of the day was something of a small insight into tribal culture in Ghana.

Now, with the formalities of pink paint (I went WITH them and chose ‘Suede’ which I have since been told is ‘looking rather good’. Phew) and dead goats (they ‘gave’ the heart to the lake. By this point, I was back in the office dealing with how we would ensure minimal accidents, in an altogether more Western way) dealt with, I could deal with the Real excitement of the day.

My first ever football match.

Egypt – Cameroon.

In the opening group C match of the African Cup of Nations. In the stadium in Kumasi. Near my house. £7.50. For seats on the halfway line.

My driver was having kittens about the traffic, but I had to change into my Ghana shirt!

I think I was like a small boy who is first taken with his dad to go and watch his beloved Arsenal or Man United. The excitement as we walked up to the ground was amazing, and it wasn’t even a home match. The stadium has been refurbished specially for the occasion too so it’s all shiny and clean, towering above people trickling towards the gates. I was taking photos like a proper tourist. Once inside the ground tho, I couldn’t sit still. I must have been grinning for England. Or Ghana, should I say!

There’s a few things that have made me giggle about this tournament. Firstly, the nicknames. I watched the Pharaohs against the Indomitable Lions, and then the Nile Crocodiles face The Bullets. I believe the Elephants played the day before, as did the Squirrels. (squirrels? I was discussing this with some American ‘soccer’ fans (yep there are some) and we were hoping African squirrels are slightly more frightening than the western version. Flying squirrels maybe?) Today, Bafana Bafana are playing (the boys the boys). Personally, I’m with the slick-sounding Black Stars all the way!

Secondly, the fact that at the start of the Mali-Benin match, as the anthems were being sung, the entire stadium was plunged into pitch darkness. For fifteen minutes. This international match that was being beamed to all corners of the African continent, live on BBCi, live on the BBC world service I believe, and probably streamed on the internet too. And the Most Polite British commentators were apologising for this, saying ‘I’m sure the problem will be rectified imminently’, trying to explain it, but, to be honest, I wonder how much information they were getting! I just had this picture of some Ghanaian in a control room somewhere falling asleep with their head on the big red ‘power’ button, oblivious to the world’s expectations.

The last thing that made me particularly giggle was the fact that the flags of the majority of nations in the cup appear to be a variation of red, green and yellow. So if you turn up at a match wearing one of these colours, you’ll be sure to be supporting at least one of the teams playing...

The atmosphere was fantastic, the sun shining, and (I say as a complete novice) the football great too! An experience I was to repeat...

March and a bit of April 08...

2008-05-14T10:36:00.000Z

Life here in Ghana is much more exciting now we have actually started construction!

The first six –eight months of my time here saw the site mobilising – it was a real experience to see how much there is to do to get a job going here, but I think everyone was ready to start seeing something actually happening. The team is growing now too, we are taking along a lot of local staff and also we have a student engineer out for the summer from the UK – my new housemate. At the moment we are excavating a 40m diameter, 6m deep ‘hole’ in which we will be building the first of the water treatment modules. This one is a Clariflocculator, in which particles clump together and then sink to the bottom where they are scraped off and taken away, and the clean water allowed to trickle off at the top of the structure. It is nothing like what I have done before... I have been known to whisper several times “never building another house as long as I live...”!

However, starting the work has coincided with the hottest time of the year! It is sweltering; we try and get as much of the work on site done first thing because by ten o clock you are sweating from bits you didn’t even know sweated! It sounds like I will be getting a tan, but unfortunately I am developing a bit of a Builders Tan... arms, face, v shape at the neck! Nice. Stripey.

Easter was a bit of a non-event as I couldn’t find raisins to make hot cross buns, couldn’t find any Easter eggs, and had to work all weekend anyway! We did get Sunday off though – and I went to an amazing service at 7.00am (favourite worship lyrics... “It is such fun to see, such fun to see, Satan Lose... It is such fun to see, such fun to see, Satan Lose... Cos Jesus is the Winnerman, the Winnerman, the Winnerman”... but the overheads actually read “...such fun to see Satan Loose”... which kind of changes the whole meaning...!), and then to Lake Bosomtwe with our design engineer from site. This is a naturally-occurring lake, created when a meteorite hit goodness knows how many thousands of years ago. It is my favourite place to just go and relax, the forest scenery creates an amazing backdrop and makes it so quiet and peaceful!

We got a long weekend the following weekend instead, Friday I spent in my pyjamas all day (a rare luxury!); then a couple of friends from Accra were travelling in the area on the Sunday and Monday, so I met them at a Butterfly reserve just outside Kumasi. We explored some of the old fetish shrines and then Kejetia Market – allegedly the biggest market in the whole of West Africa! I love it, for all it’s smells, colours, people, noise, chickens, cows stomachs, cloth, beads, shoes... infact, I am sure you can buy almost anything you may imagine in that place!

My new housemate and I had a Bacon Buttie on Saturday morning with the last of the Waitrose bacon I smuggled back from the UK at Christmas! For me, it was spoilt by the quality of bread that you get here in Kumasi. I find it sweet, dry, and goes stale the same day! This brings me on to one of the most exciting things that has happened to me recently... (Africa changes one’s expectations...) I Found A Bakery! I had heard rumours of a ‘food court’ style place, similar to one they have in Accra, but never had time to really explore. On Saturday though, I was showing the new guy around a bit so I thought we may as well have a look.

I think my reaction would have been funny to see. There was a pizza place, a fried chicken place, a Nando’s style chicken place, a bakery which sells real bread, and an Ice Cream Parlour. I stood gaping at the array on offer for about ten minutes. The grin on my face didn’t go for about two hours. I never thought I would be so excited about finding an ice cream shop. I couldn’t decide what to have!

It’s actually quite nice to get such joy from such simple things. I’ve noticed it too when I have been able to go to Accra, the excitement I get from bacon and avocado sandwiches with an iced mocha is crazy! It has definitely taught me how much I take for granted back in the UK, but also has taught me that we can all cope without the little luxuries that we think we ‘deserve’ after a tricky day at work!

Driving Madam (Crazy)

2008-03-03T11:05:00.000Z

Before I embark upon this Discourse, I would like to make a small disclaimer, in that all statements and opinions are given from the point of view of Passenger/Back Seat Driver/Lady What Lunches (etc.). What, me, drive?! Pah! Although, I do sometimes think being in the right-hand seat (the one without the steering wheel, to clarify for all my cross-continental readers) can be a darn site more frightening.

Maybe the best place to start is with the roads. One of the most important factors in development, they tell us, having a decent network of good roads in order to get around easily, safely, and quickly.

In Ghana, the roads vary from being newly surfaced, smooth, well drained, and white lined – to dirt tracks with half-metre deep craters across half the width – and literally everything in between. Around Kumasi, you get some roads which are paved, then a bit further along, some potholes will have developed, a bit further the potholes have taken up half the road, and a little further along you think you are bumping along a road that has never seen an inch of tarmac… and then you spot a small sliver of grey, and realise that that 10cm wide, metre long strip is all that remains of what was once a perfectly smooth road.

As you can imagine, the potholes which are found in most roads do add a certain amount of interest to the journey. If they are mild, or you are on a busy road and so the driver Deems it best to drive straight over them, well, you best have packed your hardhat. (A lesson I have learnt: always use the toilet before you leave. The seatbelt jerking in your bladder area Whilst you are being shaking around like a jelly at the same time do not make for a pleasant trip). If potholes are particularly bad, or you are on a road with little traffic coming the other way, the driver may decide the best method of attack is to swerve dramatically from left to right around the holes, choosing the path of least resistance. HowSoEver, as you can imagine, if a driver from the Other direction has chosen the same tack, you are in a Situation. Many a time we have been heading directly towards a vehicle, coming head on, full speed, and as I am screwing up my eyes and uttering an almost-audible plea to the good Lord, either we or the oncoming Transportation swerves in the nick of time back to the correct side of the road.

There are many road projects going around Ghana at the moment. This in itself adds to the excitement. At first you think ‘wow, they are actually doing something with this terrible section of road’. But, as I used to say to my mum when she would ask me why I hadn’t tidied my room, things have to get worse before they get better. And worse they are, for months. And months. They dig up the half-road that was there, and you are driving along laterite (the orangey clay which makes up most of Ghana!) roads. Which is fine for a while, but they don’t hold up for long. And then the works companies stockpile their sand/cement/aggregates actually On the roads, some one side, some another, so driving past them is rather like a slalom run, the width of one vehicle only. Read earlier for Passing Something Coming The Other Way!

On the bigger road works, they will employ guys to stand at either end and act as temporary traffic lights. This sometimes involves the use of red and green flags, sometimes merely a hand gesture, where upside-down wiggle of the hand means something entirely different from a right-way-up wiggle of the hand, and I am very glad I am not driving, because I cannot tell the difference! Sometimes, they have a guy in the middle communicating to his colleagues at either end what is going on. The effectiveness of this is debatable. I think one of my scariest moments was sitting halfway along a stretch of roadworks, in the middle of the road, half on paved road, half on laterite, with a heavy stream of traffic coming at us on one side, and a huge piece of Construction Equipment coming at us on the other…

Unwritten Rules

2008-03-01T13:14:00.001Z

A story from a few weeks ago...

I had to giggle today at this weird Ghanaian Hierarchy. We went shopping, my driver and I, for a few bits for the houses. It seems I am not allowed to carry Anything; once or twice if I've snarled enough and Glared at the person trying to take things off me, I have been Permitted to carry a small plastic bag with a couple of toothbrushes in it. It seems, however, that my driver can carry nothing more than about the size of an ironing board, and we have to find (and pay for) a labourer to carry the mattress I had bought (who slung it on his head and proceeded to take out everyone within a 4 foot radius of himself in comedy slapstick style).

Why I couldn't have carried the ironing board, Duku the mattress and saved the 15 minute wait for labourer (and 1 Ghana cedi although that equates to about 50p its hardly a problem), I Do Not Know.

Lunch and Language

2008-03-01T11:51:00.000Z

I first wrote this Observation On Life in December, but dammit, it makes me giggle still, so I thought I'd share... with a small Add-on!

So. I am in Accra and my friend Kwaku* just took me out for lunch. At a 'chop spot'. I.e. a small shack with those garden screen things for walls and woven beach mats for a roof. And plastic chairs.

And I had rice and veg stew. Which was fine. And he had fufu. Fufu is plantain and cassava boiled and then pounded so you get a lump of what looks like raw pastry but its altogether more sticky and blander. And a bit gritty. And that sits in a bowl of soup (well sauce or gravy I guess) with (on this occasion) lumps of various bits of goat. And you get a bowl of water with it with which to Wash your hands. And then you launch in. pick bits of the fufu off with fingers. Or knuckles in this case. Face close to bowl so you don't get it all down your shirt. And you also get a bottle of washing up liquid to mop yourself up with after wards.

I asked him if they had anything special for Christmas, and he said, no, just usual food. And I got the giggles thinking of my family in England sat around our Christmas dinner table with crackers and the like tucking into a bowl of fufu and goat. And couldn’t stop giggling. Especially with the likes of 'While Shepherds watched...' playing over the stereo as we ate.

*So Wednesday born. Only he's not. He’s named after his uncle. My driver's called Duku which means eleventh born. But he's not. He’s named after his father. Who is eleventh born. Oh and ever wondered what happened if you have two babies born on the same day of the week? Don’t worry, you just add an 'again'. 'Obaa'**. So if your first and second girls are both born on Thursdays, never fear, the first is Yaa, the second Obaa Yaa. So simple. Why didn’t we think of that?

** Only this week (Feb 08), we saw a tro-tro with 'Obaa Pa' on the back of it (that's another story entirely) and I asked the very same driver what that meant and he said 'very beautiful lady'. Now I know 'pa' is 'very', or 'lots', so 'Obaa' must be lady. Who knows? This little Story highlights the Challenges one faces in Communication...

I think I need Twi lessons.

water, water...

2008-02-18T14:38:00.000Z

I write this at three o clock on a Thursday afternoon. On Tuesday when we arrived at work, on the site of the water treatment plant, the aerators were not aerating – a rare site, and a sign that the plant was not operational. Usually, if and when it does happen, it is because they have ‘light off’ at the plant – despite the country’s problems with the electricity, the WTP has 24hr supply as it is doing such an important job. However, it did not start aerating all day, and we found out mid-afternoon that it was not a power problem, but overnight a pipe had burst in the main pump house, on the main transmission line to the city. The pump house was flooded, and the people who run the plant were not doing all that much to fix it. They eventually had it all pumped dry by 11pm on the Tuesday night.

Now, I’m not particularly au fait with such workings, but I am told that the solution to the problem was relatively straight forward – a days job maybe.

But here we are and they have only just started the first step.

Meanwhile, the city of 1.5million is without water. This WTP must supply about 60% of the city with drinking water. For a small section of the populace who have storage tanks at their houses, it is not yet a problem. But for the poorer, less fortunate ones, it is more than a mere inconvenience. On my way to work this morning I saw countless people wandering down the roads with buckets and billy cans, as they have been without water since Monday night. And for the really poor families, the ones who have nothing and cannot afford bottled water, one wonders how they survive. And what of the businesses that need water to stay afloat – the schools, the hotels, the restaurants, the museum, the football stadium at this crucial time? And what of the hospitals, surely water is a staple of all they do? Not to mention the extra cases they may get due to dehydration, and diseases from drinking unsuitable sources of water.

I have just been for a wander around the plant. There is one guy doing some welding of the critical piece, and six others stood around him watching. There are a group of the management sitting on chairs under a tree. And upstairs inside, I could hear football coming from a TV.
I can’t help but try to imagine this situation back in the UK. 60% of Manchester without water for nearly three days, with no warning, and no explanation. A tabloid reporter sneaks into the plant and snaps a few of the guys watching a repeat of Ronaldo’s wonder-goal from last night, then manages to get a peach of a photo of senior management sitting around in the board room eating bacon butties having a right old chinwag about who will win this year’s European Cup. Back out at the plant, he sees one guy idly do a spot of welding, with several others watching. These photos would be printed next day alongside letters from many a disgruntled resident of the city. The local radio stations would be wall to wall with irate housewives calling in disgust. The council would be getting letters, phone calls, the MPs for the city would be getting a barrage of complaints. And the water company would pay for it, not only through a large fine, but maybe with their jobs.

But here, the water will maybe be back on by Friday night, and the incident will be forgotten. No statement of apology will be made. No-one will be taken to task. No-one will write and complain. Or if they do it will be ignored. Nothing will be put into place to ensure it doesn’t happen again. No investigation will be done to see why it took over 48 hours to find the relevant parts.

I wonder why this is? Is it merely because people know nothing will be done even if they do complain? Are people so used to it they do not realise how unacceptable it is? Is it that people don’t know how it should be? Or am I just so westernised and spoilt by living in the UK that I am complaining about nothing?