Goodbye VSO

Five months has whizzed by, and having completed my second and final accountability survey and report I said goodbye to VSO Ghana last Friday. In terms of what I’ve been able to accomplish, I think like most people in this field of work, and certainly like the other VSOs in Ghana, I wish I could have done more. Perhaps it was the intangibility of the work that I’ve been doing: conducting surveys and writing reports about NGO accountability doesn’t exactly lend itself to immediate results. In some ways it was about the pace: in a culture that emphasizes process over results I found myself with too many slow days. Or maybe it was the nature of the work itself: accountability doesn’t scream of development urgency the way education or food security do. Yet I believe that the work I accomplished was important and hopefully in time the results will bear themselves. Again, in retrospect I’m sure things will become clearer, but on a personal level, I know the lessons I learnt from this experience will be useful for the next.

Thus with work out of the way it’s once again time to set sail for the open African road. My girlfriend Emma arrives on Wednesday (!!!!!!!!!!!), and along with Ghana we plan on visiting Burkina Faso (where???) and perhaps one other French-speaking West African country. As well as trying to fool her into partaking in weird initiation rites- and fraudulent tribal ceremonies- I’m really excited to be a part of her first experience on the African continent. So that’s that. Goodbye to VSO Ghana and hello (or bonjour) to some of what else West Africa has to offer. From the road…

Unbalanced Impressions

A number of hustlers, hawkers, hasslers, and touts exist in Ghana.  I seem to attract many of these people for a variety of reasons: I live in Accra, the biggest city; I am a white foreigner, which seems to stand out more than a non-white foreigner; I am young, which seems to make me more approachable or likely to be befriended than someone older; and I am a male, which seems to be less intimidating to the younger men (though not the older ones).  The worst place for touts in Accra is a strip nicknamed, ‘Oxford Street’.  Oxford Street is the most tourist-focused area in the city with a high density of popular hotels, restaurants, and bars.  The problem with touts on Oxford Street, as opposed to the myriad of other souvenir sellers in Ghana, is that they do not take rejection well.  I’ve been called a ‘white pig’ and ‘slave master’ on a few occasions, I was once grabbed violently by the arm and threatened on another, and countless times I’ve been sworn at, either for rejecting someone’s offer to buy something, or ignoring the Obruni (white) cat-calls that emanate from so many streets stalls.  When I walk down Oxford Street I begin to hate Ghana, and worse, I find my generalizing about Ghanaians.  These recent incidents have had me thinking about the unfortunate and disproportionate power of bad encounters.

I use the example of walking through a door.  How many times a day do you hold the door for someone else, or perhaps lean back with your arm to make sure it stays open while the other person walks through?  How many times a day does a person do it for you?  It becomes reflexive after a while, holding the door for someone, or smiling and thanking them for doing the same for you.  Now imagine how you feel the odd time that someone lets the door slam in your face.  Imagine how you feel when someone makes no effort or doesn’t even look back as the door imprints itself on your nose.  This doesn’t happen often.  However, when it does happen, I personally find myself forgetting the history of all the previous ins and outs where someone had politely held the door for me.  Suddenly all I can think about is that time, and the lingering impression of that rude and thoughtless person overpowers the rest.   

            I use this example in reference to Ghana because I think it’s really just an extension of the same situation.  The majority of people that I’ve met in Ghana have been very friendly.  Not only that, but I can assume that the overwhelming majority of people that I have not met are also friendly.  It’s safe to assume that I pass by great people every day who say nothing, just like in any other country in the world, but it’s the lousy people who are disproportionately more likely to approach me.   So despite all of the terrific people I meet every day, and the assumption that I’m also not meeting equally lovely people, I often find myself consumed with the unbalanced impression that the touts leave.

             Some of it has to do with the kind of comments that are made.  I’ve been insulted in Canada before, but being called a ‘racist’ and ‘slave master’ for ignoring the hawkers on Oxford Street is at times a little more than I can bear.  Initially I took the strategy of trying to rationalize with the touts.  I thought about what societal factors had perhaps led to who they are, and if in any way, it not justified, but made more understandable their actions.  Then I began thinking that it is entirely useless to rationalize with them, and that I should accept that some people in this world are simply irrational; moreover, some people are just plain lousy.

While I don’t think that it excuses those most abrasive and violent of people, any understanding of this seems incomplete without taking into account environmental factors.  Ghana is a poor but stable country, and thus has become an popular destination for many first timers to Africa, voluntourism companies, development workers, and exchange students alike.  This influx of foreigners, particularly in Accra, has created a showcase for the inequality between the local population and the far wealthier outsiders.  As meager as my monthly VSO allowance is, it is still far more than the average Ghanaian will earn over the same period.  It's the same for almost all foreigners, and where there is this wealth, there is an opportunity for local people to capitalize on it.  So the poorest of the poor beg, and many others sell souvenirs and trinkets, and most interact with foreigners very politely, accepting a person’s decision not to buy or not to give with typical understanding.  But on Oxford Street, many of the sellers take someone’s decision not to buy from them personally, and with much anger and resentment. 

I suppose it’s a way to vent their frustration for their situation, and I could never understand what it must be like to be as desperate and poor as so many here are.  However, the unfortunate part of the hawkers’ actions is that it not only hurts their business (beyond off-the-boat-tourists I know few people that would buy from them), but also the businesses of those kind and genuine people who work day and night on Oxford Street hoping for the odd sale.  But what it should not hurt, and what I had let it hurt for a few weeks in April, was my impression of the Ghanaian people.  A handful of abrasive and racist men on Oxford Street do not speak for Ghana anymore than drunken nationalists in a New Jersey hockey rink speak for the United States.  I think I had forgotten this for a few weeks.  Bad encounters may have a disproportionate ability to cloud an otherwise pleasant day, but they are certainly not representative of the Ghanaian experience. 

Travels in Sierra Leone.

Two Fridays ago I flew a few hours along the Northwest Coast of Africa to Freetown, Sierra Leone.  Freetown is a paradoxical city.  On the West side of the peninsula lie the tourist areas of Aberdeen and Lumley, saturated with chique hotels and expensive restaurants.  From there begins a beautiful stretch of coastline that can boast some of West Africa’s best, and still relatively clean and quiet, beaches.  Freetown is located on a peninsula and the only reliable option from getting from the airport to the city late at night, which was when my delayed flight arrived, is by hovercraft ferry.  The terminal for the hovercraft is in Aberdeen, thus it was this area that was my first impression of Sierra Leone.  After disembarking from the ferry, passengers are greeted (read: accosted) by dozens of touts and hawkers offering to find you a hotel (where they would get a commission) or take you by taxi to your hotel (where they charge you triple the price).  I met a man from Chicago on the ferry and we agreed to share a taxi and find a cheap hotel.  Quite the guy, for him the number 100 is significant for two reasons: he claims to have set foot in 100 countries, and claims to have slept with about 100 prostitutes.  After considerable confusion and hassle, and a screaming match with our taxi driver who tried to cheat us, we found a hotel and I was able to sleep for a few hours. 

            As mentioned, Freetown is a paradoxical city.  Only a few minutes drive away from the tourist-focused West, the city centre and particularly the Eastern part of Freetown stand as an encapsulation of Sierra Leone’s condition, in all its stereotypical African destitution.  In the morning I hopped on the back of a bike and asked the driver to take me up the snaking mountain road to one of Sub-Saharan Africa’s oldest universities.  From the top, Freetown appeared like a city bursting at its seams.  Hundreds of thousands of people fled to Freetown from the provinces during the country’s 11-year civil war; many of them never left once peace returned.  Countless shanty-towns are characterized by tin roofing held down by rocks, unfinished buildings with jagged metal protruding from its walls, and electrical wiring tangled in fire-hazardous clumps. The smell of petrol, the lovely smell of beans-oil stew, the ghastly smell of open sewers that waft particularly when it rains, and the smell of burning trash fill the street air.  Yet Freetown is quite a picturesque city, set against an ocean backdrop on hilly streets, shaded by massive cotton trees that erupt in the most arbitrary of locations. 

             After touring Freetown for a day I decided to travel to the largest national park in the country, located in the Northwest corner of Sierra Leone, near the Guinean border.  To reach Outamba-Kilimi National Park required that I first take a four-hour poda-poda (far more banged-up version of a Ghanaian tro-tro) to a city called Makeni.  From Makeni it was another four-hour poda-poda to a small town called Kamakwie.  The road from Makeni to Kamakwie was one of the worst I’ve ever been on in Africa.  The ‘road’, more like a horizontal slalom course, characterized by gaping potholes the size of refrigerators, was traversed in a poda-poda that should have been retired decades ago.  Unlike in Ghana, where there is at least some road-regulation, in Sierra Leone every car is packed to almost double its capacity.  Thus, in a mini-bus with about 18 seats there were close to thirty people, stacked, crammed, people on the roof- and for the first time since rural Tanzania I spent about four hours sitting beside a live, and very talkative, rooster. 

This road took us through dozens of tiny villages where I saw first-hand why Sierra Leone is regarded as the second most impoverished country in the world.  Little boys and little girls with bloated bellies suffering from malnourishment were absolutely everywhere.  Yet in the beautiful way that children live in the moment they all seemed quite content.  Climbing up and down mango trees, teasing goats with sticks, and running past the village women who’s exposed breasts sagged to their navels, the kids seemed happy as any you’d find anywhere.  But these isolated villages, surviving almost entirely on subsistence farming, are symptomatic of Sierra Leone’s bigger problems.  Sierra Leone cannot feed itself.  There is plenty of arable land, but a lack of machinery, lack of start-up money or training, and terrible roads that make trade very difficult, have essentially removed any incentives to farm.  A few people mentioned to me that the new government in Sierra Leone is now forcing people to farm, but until the time comes when faming is a viable economic vocation, Sierra Leone will continue to be dependent on imports- and thus be at the mercy of volatile global food prices.   

            From Kamakwie, I again had to hire a motorbike driver to take me by an even worse ‘road’ toward Outamba-Kilimi National Park.  I slept in a beautiful reed hut right on the riverbank for $3/night; and at dawn woke up and paddled an hour down the river to where 8 hippos were moving lazily in the water. Tiny little ears, beetie eyes, but an enormous jaw and body, make hippos just the most absurd looking animal.  It was so peaceful though, on the river, the kind of moment where I suddenly forgot everything but the present, sitting in a canoe in the Northwest corner of Sierra Leone, a matter of feet away from hippopotamuses.  Because of the effort and time to reach the park I had been the first tourist in months.  My guide was thus very willing to endure a barrage of questions that I had for him; and as things invariably do in Sierra Leone, the conversation turned towards the war.

The War

  The absolute stupidity and injustice of the war is what seems most frustrating to the people.  But I suppose that is typically the case in most wars: initiated and perpetrated by a few but affecting countless.  Lonely Planet West Africa writes that during the 11-year war approximately 90% of the county’s diamond wealth was stolen by rebel forces or outside governments.  Where would Sierra Leone be if they could have harnessed that wealth?  Where would they be if they could have utilized even just 50% of it for the good of its people?  The legacy of the war in Sierra Leone, which ended around 2002, is found throughout the country.  It’s found in the infrastructure.  It’s found in what’s there: crumbling buildings and unfinished construction projects.  It’s found in what’s not there: reliable electricity and water.  From 6am to 6pm the only places with electricity were those with a generator.  It’s found in the literally thousands of four-by-four cars that roam around towns bearing the emblem of some NGO.  The UN has a huge compound on the edge of the Freetown and its jeeps, helicopters, planes, and staff are found everywhere.  But mostly the war legacy is found in the people.  I walked around Freetown’s centre and must have seen hundreds of amputees in town.  Reminiscent of Phnom Penh, Cambodia, war victims are pushed around in wheelchairs outside of the city’s banks, nicer restaurants, and bus stations, begging for change.  

Everybody I met in Sierra Leone had a story about how the war had affected them.  Many became refugees in Guinea or Liberia, some fled to Freetown, and many people hid.  My guide in Outamba-Kilimi National Park told me a story about how he and his family were forced to hide in the park for three months as the Revolutionary United Front (RUF) burned their village to the ground.  They ate only what they could find in the forest, and when they returned to their homes after the RUF left, there was nothing to return to.  Some refused to go anywhere- as if refusing to let the war affect them.  I met a man in Freetown who had previously worked with WaterAid who proudly proclaimed, ‘I was here when the first shots were fired in 1991 and I did not move until peace was declared in 2002’.  For a people already brutally impoverished, the war in Sierra Leone set the country back more than a decade.

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After leaving the national park I spent the next few days exploring the other larger cities in the country and the little towns along the way.  It’s certainly the most difficult traveling that I’ve ever done.  Ass bruising seats combined with terrible roads and overfilled poda-podas made it feel more like a test of endurance than anything.  After a few days I reached a city called Kenema.  I had plans to visit a second national park to track elephants, but upon reaching the park headquarters I was told that due to the roads it would take me about 3 days to reach the wildlife- 3 days to travel about 80 km!!!  I could walk faster.  Thus, I resolved myself to exploring what Kenema had to offer: diamonds.  Diamond merchants are absolutely everywhere.  As the only foreigner around I seemed to arouse quite a bit of suspicion from people as to what my intentions were snooping around diamond stalls.  Perhaps thankfully, I don’t know a thing about diamonds, so once I opened my mouth the merchants quickly realized that I was just a silly backpacker and not some smuggler. 

As I set out on the long night bus back to Freetown a storm hit.  West African storms don’t flirt, they don’t pretend.  They arrive!  Bang, Kapow!!!  Powerful, deliberate, impatient, and then they’re gone; they don’t linger either.  Amidst the rain and sloppy streets, the bus reached Freetown early the next morning and I spent my remaining day touring around town and perusing some of the nearby beaches.  

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            Sierra Leone is a very difficult country to travel in.  It’s difficult not only because of the roads and mode of transportation, but because of the images that you see outside of your window.  I’m completely unable to understand what is must be like to live this kind of poverty.  A man I met on the bus from Kenema back to Freetown put it perfectly, ‘you could never understand what it’s like not to know how to get your next meal’.  I don’t.  What I saw on the bus between Makeni and Kamakwie seemed totally surreal.  It was as if I had suddenly been transplanted back to a couch in Canada watching a CBC news report of hunger in Africa.  But in Sierra Leone, a country essentially without a middle class, these images are all too real- brutally so.  So many idle men, so few idle children- as they’re busy selling every good imaginable- these images are everywhere.  Yet despite all of this hardship, the constant travails, what’s remarkable is that Sierra Leoneans appear optimistic about the future.  I suppose anything is better than the 11 years of conflict that they endured.  There is an incredible resilience to people, a perseverance built perhaps out of necessity, which I could never begin to understand, but that is so extraordinary.  Yet there is also a sense of urgency to people, not that the peace is fragile, but that this newfound peace presents an opportunity.  If ever there was a country that deserved an opportunity, if ever there was a country that deserved to have this hope realized, it is Sierra Leone.  

To Sierra Leone...

As my time in West Africa is quickly progressing, I have decided to take a short trip outside of Ghana.  West of Ghana, past the troubled countries of Cote D’Ivoire and Liberia, lies the tiny country of Sierra Leone.  When one thinks of Sierra Leone, the typical points come to mind: diamonds, the catch phrase ‘conflict diamonds’, the film ‘Blood Diamond’, and perhaps to a lesser extent child soldiers.  Not the most warm, cuddly, and inspiring thoughts.  Yet, it’s perfectly understandable why these are the ideas that come to mind.  Sierra Leone, ravaged by war throughout the 1990’s, regularly pinpointed as the prototype of what a failed state looks like, has hardly made headlines for anything but its problems.  In this sense, Sierra Leone reminds me a lot of Rwanda.  Just as conversations about Sierra Leone invariably revolve around the issue of diamonds, so are discussions of Rwanda habitually shadowed by the word genocide.  Such is the thing about history, it is impossible to change, and very difficult to escape the lingering impressions that it creates.

 A few years ago I crossed the Tanzania-Rwanda border on foot and spent about a week touring Kigali’s genocide museum and a few of the memorials that dot the countryside.  As I was squeezing anecdotes from anybody willing to talk, I was surprised at just how quickly Rwandans had rebuilt their country, as well as the bonds of trust between the people.  It seems that as many of us outsiders were busy bemoaning the history of this troubled country, Rwandans had taken it upon themselves to try to create a better future.  And so I hope is the case with Sierra Leone.  Yet, while there have been significant improvements in the political and security situations over the past few years, Sierra Leone is currently ranked by UNDP as the second poorest country in the world (Niger is the poorest).  And so, at least for the present, it seems impossible to discuss contemporary Sierra Leone without discussing the details of its very problematic past.  However, it is my sincere hope that, like Rwanda, after meeting some of its people and traveling through some its countryside, I’ll be able to leave Sierra Leone with impressions other than those of its infamous past.   

Photographic Ethics

No other part of the world that I’ve visited has stimulated me more to take photographs than in Africa.  Now, I’ve only set foot in 5 African countries, and hopefully I’ll have the chance to travel again on other continents, but what I’ve seen in East and West Africa thus far has inspired photographic ambitions.  Unlike in Europe, where photography tends to be directed towards historical sites, architectural constructions or works of art, I’ve found that in Ghana what makes for the most interesting photographs are pictures of actual living scenes.  The colours of the markets, the chaos of the lorry stations, the rhythm in the nightclubs, and the energy of the children, create such vividness to life that almost compels you to capture it on film.  Yet unlike Europe, where tourist sites are photographed so often that it leads to their corrosion, in Ghana, taking pictures of such ‘living scenes’ is often very difficult to do.  People are central to these pictures of course, and whereby the photographer may view taking a photo of a lively market as the benign action of a curious tourist, many local people do not see it as such. 

            Arusha, Tanzania teems with tourists, as it is the launching point for Serengeti Safaris and Kilimanjaro treks.  When I was there a few years ago, I remember seeing someone who was clearly a ‘just off the boat tourist’ roaming around town taking pictures indiscriminately.  With his very expensive camera he snapped some of the more desperate images of beggars and people selling goods on the street.  A poor woman who sat on the pavement with her child became very upset with the man and demanded in Swahili that he give her money for the photo.  The language barrier seemed to prevent him from understanding what she wanted, but after much commotion, and someone translating for him, he apologized and gave her a few Tanzanian shillings.  I had a somewhat similar experience during one of my first weeks in Ghana.  I went to James Town, one of the poorer areas of Accra, and home to a beautiful old fort, and roamed about taking pictures of the coastal surroundings.  The pictures I was taking were mostly landscape- with a few including broad shots of a nearby shanty village- and I didn’t think much of my actions.  Yet, as a stood on a hill to get a good perspective on the village below, I was accosted by two men who angrily told me to stop.  If I wanted to take pictures, even landscape photos, they told me, I would have to pay. 

            There are a variety of reasons why many local people here oppose picture taking.  Some, particularly in the villages, are superstitious.  They think when you take a picture of a person you capture the person’s soul in the camera.  Others think that the photographer may be trying to exploit local people.  There exist what are commonly referred to as ‘briefcase NGOs’, which are run by one person out of a briefcase, armed with charisma and a supposed cause.  These people use pictures of poverty and hardship to play on peoples’ sympathies to secure donations for their imaginary organizations.  Finally, some see tourist photography as a way to acquire extra money, and will actually encourage you to take photos of them, or of their home, but only for a price. 

            How does one resolve this issue of having so many beautiful and novel images to capture but being wary about peoples’ reactions?  Well, sneaking pictures rarely works.  Because I have white skin I tend to stand out in many of the areas that are not tourist centers.  There’s typically always some curious person watching me, and as soon as a camera flash goes off, people tend to take even more notice.  Some use the trick where you pretend that you’re taking a picture of your friend, but actually zoom in to an image beyond where your friend is standing.  Certainly not the most ethical way to take photos, and it doesn’t work if you’re alone or trying to take a picture from a bus window. So why not ask permission?  Of course!  Well, actually, it’s not always that easy, especially when you are trying to take a picture of a busy market where there may be hundreds of different sellers captured in a single image.  It’s not practical to ask every person, but if you take the picture without permission you risk being the center of some very negative attention. 

So what to do?  The guideline I follow is to ask permission when possible, but otherwise to be very discrete; and certainly not take a photo when permission is not granted.  Often it can be very disappointing to miss out on that ‘perfect shot’.  Cityscapes awash in a mismatch of colours, a lone mud hut floating in a field of grain, a beautiful mother wrapped in kente fabric with her sleeping child on her back- these impressions, like illustrations, seem to long to exist as something more tangible.  For fear of forgetting, for fear that the impression is perhaps too shallow to sustain itself in my mind once I leave this place, I find it so difficult to resist capturing these images on film.  Yet, perhaps so much of the beauty in these scenes lies in their uniqueness and novelty, in the idea that these images still remain distant, unspoiled, and not commonly circulated.  Thus, maybe it’s not as dreadful to miss out on that ‘perfect shot’ as it seems, but instead it’s more important to focus on capturing the picture in your mind.  It’s probably the case that a person’s internal canvas of experience, which absorbs these images, is more powerful than a high-powered zoom anyhow.  

Travel Blogs Interview

My sister Julia is quite sneaky.  Unbeknownst to me, she contacted the editor of a travel blog website and recommended my blog.  The editor offered to put a link to my blog on his website, and he asked if I would answer a few questions about my experiences in Ghana.  You can read the interview by clicking HERE.

The Nigeria Complex

Nigeria is the most populous country in Africa and the dominant power in West Africa.  Its products, cinema, and people spread far beyond its own borders, and as the world’s eighth largest oil exporter, its fuel is the lifeblood of the region.  However, Nigeria does not have a good reputation in Ghana.  As the Vietnamese perceive China and many Canadians regard the U.S., so Ghanaians seem to view Nigerians.  Officially the relationship is friendly and cordial, but among many Ghanaians that I’ve spoken with they seem to view Nigeria with both suspicion and resentment.  Nigeria is big, it’s loud, and I get the impression that many regard it as domineering.

 In 2006 when Nigeria put a ban on certain Ghanaian products like textiles it made many businesses very angry; and in February when a few Ghanaians living in Nigeria were rumored to have been roughed up following Ghana’s defeat of Nigeria in the African footfall championships it only furthered this displeasure.  The relationship between the two countries reminds me of a quote by Canada’s former Prime Minister Pierre Trudeau.  In reference to the United States, Trudeau said, “Living next to you is like sleeping with an elephant; no matter how friendly and even-tempered is the beast, one is affected by every twitch and grunt.”  Yet I don’t think that the tense feelings towards Nigerians necessarily depends on policy, but often speaks to a human desire to be noticed. 

Just as people want to be noticed by their peers so do people want their country to be noticed.  I find this with myself and other Canadians as well.  “Americans can’t even name the capital of Canada”, I’ve lamented and heard from others Canadians as well.  Many Ghanaians that I’ve spoken with complain, “Nigerians don’t care about anything that happens outside of Nigeria”.  I think that the smaller countries in these dichotomies often turn to bitterness as a way of dealing with this inferiority complex.  We Canadians often have a lovely way of spinning this inferiority complex into a superiority complex by boasting about our health-care system when compared to the Yanks, as well as our inclination towards peacekeeping compared with the American war-machine. Yet I doubt if other countries would think a health-care system ranked 30^th by the WHO and the 50^th most generous peacekeeping nation in terms of troop commitments to UN missions is anything to boast about.  Yet Canada has so much to brag about, but often seems consumed with defining itself not by who it is, but by who it isn’t.  The same I find in Ghana.  Ghana is a model of stability in West Africa, its government is trusted by foreign donors and aid agencies, and most importantly, its people must be regarded as some of the most friendly in the world.  Just as Canadians should not use the crutch of anti-Americanism to define what they stand for, so Ghanaians need not stand against Nigeria in order to see themselves in the mirror.  Ghana is defined by its people and in that respect they have much to be proud of.    

Traditional Dance and VSO Call Back

This past week I traveled for the second time to Tamale, the capital of Ghana’s Northern Region, for the VSO Call Back.  I was interested in attending Call Back for the excuse to hang out with 25 or so other VSOs. Call Back is the second part of the In-Country-Training and it’s purpose is for participants to discuss and vent about all problems associated with their living situation, the local partner they work with, and VSO as well.  The discussion was at times very parochial and tedious with minute details examined in excruciating detail.  However, most of the other participants’ placements are 1 or 2 years long, and, in fairness, things that might not bother me over six months can become a far bigger nuisance for long-term volunteers. 

One interesting moment in the conference came on the morning of the second day. VSO staff thought it would be ‘fun’ if each nationality could perform a traditional dance from their country.  Fun!  So up went the group of 5 Kenyans, then 4 people from India, 4 Dutch followed, and even the Ghanaian staff took their turn.  Before the group of 10 or so people from Britain were about to perform, as the only Canadian in the room, and the only person without a country contingent, I could feel the eyes of the room turning to me.  Unable to think of any traditional Canadian dance, I frantically tried to remember the words to ‘Land of the Silver Birch’, preparing myself to pass it off as a traditional Canadian poem.  “Land of the Silver Birch, Home of the beaver. Where does the mighty moose wander at will? Blue lakes and rocky shores…..Boom-didi-a-da. Boom-didi-a-da. Boom, boom, boom”.   Or was there only one boom?!?!?!?!  Oh no!!!!  Without great certainty, I seized the moment, claiming that my Irish and British lineage should allow me honorary citizenship.  Some curious eyes questioned me, but with great relief I joined the group from Britain and happily jumped around like a fool in a British dance.  

On Saturday a group of about 10 of us returned by bus to Accra.  On the way to Tamale our bus suffered a punctured tired and we were delayed a couple of hours as a new tire was found and replaced.  The notion of ‘making good time’ is a rarity by road in Ghana, and even without another puncture the last 30km of the return journey from Tamale to Accra took over 3 and a half hours- in total 16 hours to go 700km.  The rains have arrived in Ghana and the danger of flooding means the condition of the roads will only get worse.  Thus, long and longer bus trips are in my future.  Couple the delays with the Nigerian films- overacting exemplified- that blast on every long-haul bus, and traveling in Ghana can sometimes grate at your sanity.  While it’s difficult, there’s no sense in struggling against the conditions; and complaining to the point of exasperation only makes it worse.  Trying to submit to and appreciating the experience, being equipped with a good book, music, pen and paper, and most of all time on your hands, are the best solutions I’ve found so far for travel in Ghana.

Power Miracle Evangelical Chapel

Yesterday I was invited by Lydia, a woman who works for my landlord, to attend Sunday service at Power Miracle Evangelical Chapel International (PMCI).  I had attended a Presbyterian and Lutheran service in Tanzania, but this was my first time at a Ghanaian Church and an Evangelical service in general.  I know very little about what distinguishes Evangelicals from other Christian denominations-only what I’ve seen from the Mega-Church televangelism from the American South- but this experience certainly fit that stereotype. 

Enter the choir and a rousing rendition of a song with only a handful of words.  Jeeeeeeeeesussssss.  Oh Jeeeeeeeeesus.  Oh. Jeeeeeeesus Christ is bo-hhhhhhh-rn.  The song went on like that for another 10 minutes.  The Reverend then asked all those who were attending their first service at PMCI to make themselves known.  Lydia, a real stickler, forced me to stand up.  As the only white person in a crowd of about 400 Ghanaians I did not go unnoticed.  Everyone in my section then eagerly shook my hand to welcome me to the Chapel before the service resumed. 

The morning continued with few more songs, and a reproduction of Jesus healing the sick by a youth group, before the Reverend Prophet Michael Mensah entered the stage.  Amidst the roars and wails from the crowd Reverend Prophet Mensah made his way to the podium.  With the ability to go from a hush to a howl in an instant, and all the voice fluctuations for dramatic effect in between, Reverend Prophet Mensah had the stage presence of a celebrity singer.  As he began his sermon, the Reverend, seemingly so captivated by his own words, tossed his suit jacket aside and exposed his enormous belly and sweat soaked undershirt.  Now, dodging back and forth across the stage, pausing perfectly in time with the music ensemble behind him, the Reverend Prophet brought his voice to an almost uncontrollable pitch as the crowd of people heaved ‘Amens’ at every one of his pauses.  He then invited people to begin their personal prayers.  Personal prayer is possibly the most public part of the service as people pace around furiously, swinging their hands in the air, screaming to the sky while making every possible facial expression and contortion.  After the personal prayer was over the Reverend Prophet took it upon himself to single me out for not being enthusiastic enough and urged me ‘to copy the actions of those beside me’.

Next came deliverance.  R.P. invited people to approach the stage ‘to be healed’.  Wailing women rushed the stage, spastically flinging their limbs about, into the arms of R.P.  R.P. then grabbed each person’s face, poured water over their heads, and threw them back into the waiting arms of two of his assistants.  This happened three or four times with each person as R.P. would run back and forth screaming at the top of his lungs, launching the participants onto their back heels.  Then a man came to the stage with a limp.  R.P., having identified the problem, placed a bandage around his calf, roughly palmed the man’s face, and then threw him backwards, declaring him healed. 

It was now past 11.30am and I had been in Power Miracle Chapel for over 3 hours and the service was showing no sign of wrapping up.  Not being able to endure any more of the deliverance spectacle I made up an excuse to Lydia about needing to be at work for some meeting and I made a quiet exit. 

There was a lot to the Evangelical service that was quite pleasing to be a part of.  When it’s time for the collection, people assemble in two conga lines and dance their way to the front of the stage, sometimes twirling as they make their donation into the heaping box.  The energy and rhythm of the choir and musicians was also fun to observe.  However, I found the experience, particularly the healing and deliverance portion of the service, very bizarre.  Watching this leap of faith- that a man with a loud voice, large palms, and a cup of water can heal what ails you- was watching the theatre of the absurd. 

I wrote in an earlier entry that I had no resentment toward organized religion in Ghana.  However, I admit that lately it is beginning to wear on me.  To me, when religion is at its best, when it makes sense to me, is when it is at its more personal and most humble.  Yet I find Christian Churches in Ghana are always trying to proselytize- never satisfied with their numbers, always needing to convert, to conscript, needing more to be ‘awakened’. This seems to me why Evangelism focuses so much on the presentation of their message- the incredible spectacle of it all- and less on the message itself.  The Reverend Prophet’s comment to me during the service, ‘that I be more enthusiastic’, is an example.  Who prays enthusiastically!?!?!?  It’s as if these neo-missionaries view the strength of Christianity not in its history or doctrines, but in its numbers.  The service had much less to do with the teachings and morals of the Bible than it did with seeming to enlist people in a gigantic recruitment drive.  For a religion with the most adherents in the world, Christianity seems very insecure.        

The Volta

After a week of being glued to my desk writing the first draft of the report I’m working on, I decided to spend Easter weekend in the most Eastern part of Ghana, the Volta Region.

            The main reason for tourists to visit Hohoe, the second largest urban centre in Volta, is to find transportation further East to Wli Falls- reputed to be the largest waterfalls in West Africa.  I shared transportation to the falls with two volunteers from Cape Coast, and accompanied by a guide we made our way down a mountainous path towards the falls.  The lush forest and the chirping of thousands of bats masked the sight and sound of the crashing falls that lay ahead.  Without such a preview, when we reached the waterfalls after a forty-five minute walk, they appeared like a beautifully kept secret.  If these waterfalls had been anywhere in Thailand, Vietnam, or Australia, they surely would have been swamped with dozens of tour buses, gift shops, and people competing for photo opportunities.  Yet for almost an hour, seven or eight of us had sole license to this tranquil and touchable oasis.

            The only other people splashing around in the lower falls, a group of Canadians and Americans volunteering with Unite for Sight, invited me to join them on a trek to the upper falls.  Wli consists of 3 different drop-off points, and, while reaching the lower falls takes an undemanding 40 minutes on fairly flat ground, reaching the upper falls is a more ambitious hike at two hours uphill.  The upper falls, while no more impressive than the lower, are certainly worth the effort simply for the view.

            Unfortunately, a very good day was soured slightly when I returned to my hotel in Hohoe and found that someone had stolen $50 from my bag- a considerable sum of money in Ghana.  The lock on my room window was broken and because my room was on the ground floor it was quite easy for someone to hop in.  In a moment of pride and anger I stormed to the hotel management and told them if the money was not returned by morning I would turn their favorable rating in the Ghana Guide Book upside down.  The management was very apologetic, and there being no way to determine if they were involved in the theft, I have no intention of pursuing my threat.  Somewhat of a bitter taste, but also a lesson learnt. 

Saturday morning I set off by tro tro in search of Amedzofe, at 611 meters above sea level it is the highest human settlement in Ghana.  I reached a village called Fume (Foo-May), the closest base to Amedzofe, but was shocked at the price that the only person capable of driving me up the bumpy mountain road was asking for.  ‘Don’t fret’, a friendly local hunter said, ‘You can walk.  There is a path.  It’s steep but it should only take about an hour’.  With my ego nicely massaged from the previous day’s trek, and the enduring hubris from the Kilimanjaro climb, I thought one-hour uphill should be but a pleasant stroll.  With only half of a small bottle of water in hand I set off through the thickets of forest and up the rocky trail.  Very anxious to reach the top before noon I moved at far too quick a pace.  After about an hour of walking, and with the last droplet of water gone, I was certain that I had taken a wrong turn.  Every blind rustle in the forest had me convinced that a predator had strayed from one of the surrounding national parks and was now stalking me.  I continued forward, my pace now slowed to a crawl, the sun baking my skin, and my body dripping with sweat.  When I began to feel dizzy I knew that I was in trouble.  My legs collapsed under the weight of my backpack and I keeled over onto the root of a tree.  For some time I laid in the shrubs around the tree feeling like I was going to vomit, but without the energy to contemplate my next move.  Finally, not confident in the prospects of beginning a life as a bush nomad I used my remaining strength to chart a path straight up the hill.  Stopping every few minutes, calling for help with every third breath, I finally came upon what looked like an abandoned concrete structure.  As I inched myself closer to the building, two young girls came running up to me.  Seeming curious as to my desperate state they asked me questions in their local language before running to find their mother.  Their mother, a kind and caring woman, took me into her home, and told me to rest while she offered me water.  With great thanks to her I felt much rejuvenated and was able to complete the final stretch of the trek without further incident.

            After spending much of the trek cursing the local hunter who had urged me up the path, I was now singing his praises.  Amedzofe was well worth the walk for the view of both Mt. Gemi, one of the highest peaks in the country, and a panorama that stretched all the way to Lake Volta.  Still feeling the effects of heat exhaustion I was very fortunate that it was market day in Amedzofe, and rather than having to walk back down to Fume I was able to catch one of the tro tros that was doing laps to and from the regional capital Ho. 

            I spent Sunday in the town of Akosombo, home to the largest dam in Ghana.  I was lucky enough to meet a family from Cote D’Ivoire who offered me a spot in their car while they toured the dam.  The Akosombo Dam is responsible for 60% of Ghana’s electricity, and in terms of surface area the dam regulates the largest artificial lake in the world-Lake Volta.  After our tour was over the Ivorian family was kind enough to give me a lift back to Accra in the luxury of an air-conditioned car. 

What was for me a considerable fear while lying by that tree somewhere near Amedzofe is also something that draws many others to this part of the world.  The opportunity to get lost, to find yourself completely isolated somewhere on a mountain, is not a prospect that exists everywhere.  Canada is certainly home to a beautiful and rugged natural environment, but the demarcation between city and countryside is far more pronounced in Canada.  For so many Ghana continues to exist as a traditional frontier state, where the natural environment is not something to be viewed as part of a weekend getaway, but rather seen as the crucial provider of resources and life.  I certainly was not thinking this while dry heaving somewhere on that mountain near Amedzofe, but after having chugged down two liters of water, filled my stomach with yam and pepper, I realized just how fortunate the experience was.