The brilliance of Google has allowed me to spare those uninterested parties the nuisance of a group email, and instead allow you the liberty to read or avoid, comment or condemn this blog at your leisure. To begin; Unaware of the infamous grade 7 typo that renamed me “Brain”, I’ve since begun to be referred to as Kofi by some in my neighborhood. Kofi is the Twi word for Friday and in the Twi language, as one of their many names, people adopt the name associated with the day of their birth. Thus, happily, I share a name with the most celebrated Ghanaian of all, Kofi Annan. Annan’s name headlines boulevards, peacekeeping and IT centers, and, less appropriately, tin beer shacks.
I’m in Ghana on a VSO-funded internship, researching and writing a report on the Ghana Accountability Project and Civil Society’s efforts at becoming more responsible to the communities they represent. Sounds dry, I know, but it’s actually a very interesting project. I am in the process of interviewing the partnered NGOs, local community NGOs, the donor agencies, and an MP with links to civil society. The project will send me to the North of the country in two weeks time where I’ll be doing most of the qualitative work before returning to Accra to draft a report.
While things have picked up nicely the past week, they began at quite a protracted pace. I’ve come between VSO intervals and have not received the benefit of the normal two-week orientation. In a few weeks some 15 VSOs arrive and time permitting I will take part in that orientation. I spent my first few days at the toe of a girl name Joseline, who works as the administrative assistant to my boss Adelaide. Very helpful, she is hoping to gain immigrant status and reunite with her mom in Baltimore. I’ve met 7 other VSOs of the 12 who are scattered about in the Greater Accra region and was surprised to hear that there are some 75 VSOs from around the world working in Ghana. Those I’ve met so far, Kenyan, British, Irish, Pilipino, American, are from quite diverse backgrounds. Disability workers, professors, IT specialists, and health professionals are just some of the many different backgrounds of the VSOs.
VSO found me accommodation in the guesthouse of a French expatriate and his Ghanaian wife. They work in advertising and marketing and have been very welcoming and kind to me. My apartment has character. Complete with a kitchen and breakfast table I even have a microwave and an air conditioner. However, anyone who knows Ghana understands that the water situation in residential areas is not good. The kitchen and bathroom faucets do not function, nor does the shower, and the toilet must be manually refilled. I bathe by splashing myself with 30 or so mugs of tepid water from a basin that sits underneath my non-functioning sink.
The lack of research I did on contemporary Ghana was made remarkably clear once I set foot on its soil. How did I not know that Ghana was hosting the African Cup of Nations? It’s possible that these past few weeks have taught me nothing about the country and once the tournament ends Ghana will present its true identity. More likely, however, is that football in Ghana is not simply an opportune passion but the most intoxicating and catalyzing elixir in the country. A handful of VSO interns and I secured tickets to the match that saw the BlackStars defeat Morocco last Monday and took part in the carnival of Ghanaian colours, beer, and merriment that followed.
I have yet to meet anyone for whom Accra inspires sincere love of genuine loath. It’s a city disconnected that seems to base its identity on manicured roundabouts. Accra appears like an English professor’s exercise in teaching juxtapositions. The natural beauty of the Gulf of Guinea coastline in the South of town is eclipsed by the architectural nightmare that you find in the centre. The concrete jungle representing the government ministries erupts as a series of pockmarked, obnoxious, and dull behemoths throughout the downtown core.
Urban Ghana presents its challenges not least of which is the traffic. I felt a certain hubris after 4 months in Vietnam thinking that nothing could compare to the sea of motorbikes that engulf every intersection. Accra is certainly less congested than Vietnam, but by no means more pedestrian friendly. There is hardly such a thing as a sidewalk and any excess space has surely been taken up by some makeshift tin stall or lotto vendor. I’ve bought a bicycle and learning to evade the sliding doors of the tro tros or dodging the chasms that are the gaping pot holes has been a challenge. Tro tros serve as the main mode of transportation. Rusty reformed mini-buses whose shocks are blown, seats stripped, speedometer and gas lights non-functional, service passengers for about 15 cents a trip. Naturally, the one thing that does work, far too well in my opinion, is the horn. Horns in Ghana are the most important part of the car, possibly more than the wheel or gearbox.
Life is public in Ghana and there is no such thing as solitude in numbers. Regardless of whether you are an expat, long time local, or off-the-boat tourist no walk is lonely as you are immediately included in the happenings of town. Take a trip to the local market and you’ll suddenly find yourself surrounded by shoe and bracelet hawkers, football enthusiasts, or dazed children mouthing, “Obruni”, meaning white person.
Eating in Ghana is like being hooked to an intravenous of carbohydrates. A combination of rice, beans, yams, plantains, and the local staple fufu, a tasteless dough, are the main components to every meal. The smell of fried beans and chicken is ubiquitous and no return trip from a bar is complete without a peppered sausage kebab.
Like every developing country of which I’ve visited the focal point is invariably the markets. The main market is particularly Ghanaian, replete with authentic djembes, kente fabrics, and beautifully carved wooden masks. Not far away is the claustrophobic Makola market and environs where you can find almost anything in the world. A sweaty and dizzying area where sellers outnumber buyers 5 to 1, Makola is a cacophony of noise if only a rite of passage.
Ghana is overwhelmingly Christian, save the Northern border with Burkina Faso where there is a strong Muslim population, and almost every denomination is represented. Sunday Church is an extravagant affair with women in hats of every imaginable colour, men and boys in neatly pressed trousers, and a pastor on an outdoor stage baiting calls for salvation and hallelujahs! The music is wonderful, boisterous and rhythmic, and there appears not the sense of obligation and ennui that has become common in Canadian Churches.
It’s currently the Harmattan season in West Africa when dust and sand from the Sahara travels to the Gulf of Guinea. The dust protects pedestrians from the sun but also seriously obstructs visibility and constricts breathing. Every day is an effortless 30 degrees and when the rainy season begins in April, 45 degrees Celsius will be the norm.
The poverty in Accra is less obvious than I had imagined. Hardship and need, yes, but there’s less of a visceral desperation than I witnessed during my brief time in East African metropolises. Seems ridiculous to say there’s hope and opportunity with children weaving “I love Ghana” bracelets and women working to sell packets of water, but it’s more of a prospect than many in impoverished countries have. West Africa is the poorest region in the world and Ghana, ranked 135th on the Human Development Index, is certainly not free from the shackles of extreme poverty. However, there does seem a sense of optimism in Accra and relative to its Northern neighbour, Burkina Faso, Ghana is a success story. Possibly a skewed analysis after only three weeks, and I hope to learn more as I visit the rural areas, but I maintain that one’s impression of Accra is not reflexively about poverty.
Life in Accra is certainly different from the tent that was home for two months in a remote village in Central Tanzania. In Accra it’s easy to allow the path to be dictated by paved roads, bypassing communities that come after the concrete ends and dirt begins. The often seamless transition from one air-conditioned room to the next makes it simple to overlook the city outdoors. The temptation to reason, “once you’ve eaten at one sidewalk stall you’ve eaten at them”, provides comfort when you’re grappling for justification. Yet it’s only when I’ve wandered off the grid in Accra, taken the less obvious left, that I’ve discovered the neighborhood that I’ve been missing. It’s when I’ve taken the tro tro to nowhere, landed in the middle of a drum circle or been escorted hand in hand by a 9-year-old boy who wanted to show me his classroom, that I learned what draws people to this place. The organized chaos of the street and markets is slowed by the traffic, the heat, and the congestion of Accra. It’s also slowed by a rhythm that is casual, sociable, accommodating, in essence, authentically Ghanaian.
These are simply first impressions. I hope that I have the chance to elaborate, clarify, and contradict in the coming months.
Go Sens!
ps. What the feck is goin' on with the Sens!?!?!?!?!
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