I took all the photos that day, and now I'm officially quoted on the interet saying 'shrek-esque.' I miss it more than I have any right to.
http://www.villageexchangeinternational.org/Development%20Files/News/3rd%20Open%20Day.html
Tuesday, December 30, 2008
Thursday, December 18, 2008
Home, as in Durham
I'm back. I've been back for a couple of weeks. I need to write something up about Kumasi. I need to write something up about some of the VEG-related projects I'm still working on. Soon, I hope. For now I just miss Ho and I'm trying to figure out what this all means.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Photographic Evidence: Ghanaian Children
Julia and I went all over Ghana this weekend. The trip ended up taking four days though we only planned for three, but it was the most satisfying of our journeys and a fitting last outing for the two of us as a team. I'll post more detail but for now I'd just like to post what I'm calling...
Photographic proof that African children are, in fact, more adorable than all other children of the world. It's a sad fact, but a fact none the less. Taken in the village of Abono right by Lake Bosumtwe in the Ashanti Region while we waited for a taxi. We drew a crowd of thirteen bright sunny children. It was intensely cute even after they started bugging us for toffee and money.
I swear I have an amazing tan, these kiddos just make me look frosty white.
Photographic proof that African children are, in fact, more adorable than all other children of the world. It's a sad fact, but a fact none the less. Taken in the village of Abono right by Lake Bosumtwe in the Ashanti Region while we waited for a taxi. We drew a crowd of thirteen bright sunny children. It was intensely cute even after they started bugging us for toffee and money.
I swear I have an amazing tan, these kiddos just make me look frosty white.
Thursday, November 13, 2008
How I Met Sergeant Jacob or Travels, Cape Coast
Frankly, I'm getting a bit fatigued with documenting my run-ins with the police and explaining them via email, etc. So I apologize in advance, this might be a bit short...or it might not.
The charming thing about living in Ho is that they're just beginning to develop their tourist attractions. Volta Region, in general, is a haven for eco-tourism sites, but it's just beginning to draw more than a cluster of hippy backpackers from around the world. As a result, yevus are still a silly novelty. We're cute, priceless and a bit charming.
Then there's Cape Coast and other areas. Quick history... Cape Coast is the home of two of the largest slave trading castles in Ghana and Ghana was the home of the majority of the exportation of slaves. Literally, millions of slaves were deported from the castle in Cape Coast to the Americas. Hundreds of thousands of them died within the castle before making it to the ships and who knows how many died during the journey and beyond. Because of this historical importance Cape Coast and Elmina (home of the second castle very nearby) have been slammed with white tourists for far longer than little Ho. Being a yevu woman in Cape Coast is something completely different than being the same in Ho.
I know this going into Cape Coast. I know I should be careful. I know that I shouldn't do anything like... walk down to the castle at night with no protection but a heavy duty flashlight and two other female tourists. But somehow when traveling in a group you end up with the problem of the secret majority. None of us felt safe striking out on our own after dark to find food and beer in a strange town, but none of us said it because nobody else mentioned it and so we went. Come on, I've lived in Ho for more than a month and never had the slightest problem with traveling in a group at night. I know what I'm doing. We all do.
So we talk to the castle. It's gorgeous and overwhelming approaching it at night. You can't help but think of how many people have seen this castle and how they felt when they did so. The absolute terror of being taking here against your will. It's directly on the coast so I'm also getting my first glimpse of the ocean from Africa. It looks like any other ocean, but more dangerous. The currents here tougher, nobody swims in the ocean like they do in Florida, and you can see why. We finally hit a well lit area and I put away Marta's heavy-duty self-defense flashlight and we laugh about my even having it out in the first place.
Five minutes later we're walking past Oasis Hotel and there's distinct footfall. Fast footfall, because they're running. Two men come out of nowhere and grab my purse. I pull it to my chest and it stays there. The fellow the grabbed for it was running so fast that he speeds past me empty handed but he stops and turns around. Then we're looking at each other for at least 7 seconds but it seems longer as these things always do. We have something in common right then, we're both horrified and wondering what happens next. I'm thinking about getting the flashlight out, but not wanting to open my purse. I'm so used to Ghanaians poking fun at me that I'm actually waiting for him to laugh. He's wondering if he has time to try again. I'm wondering if he has a knife. He rushes again and gets a better hold of me and this time manages to tear the straps on my purse. I watch the straps fall on the ground while the rest of the purse runs off with the two men towards to beach. Then I scream, because that's what you're supposed to do. That's when I realize how fast everything has just happened. Marta and Julia don't actually understand what's gone on. They think I've been stabbed or something! Poor girls.
The police station is close by and we wander down there with the help of a young boy. There's a female police officer on duty sitting outside with another woman and I'm silently relieved because the women in Ghana are far easier to deal with than the men. But alas, when we tell her what's happened she actually laughs. Stupid tourists, what were you doing out after dark, hm? This isn't your country, you have to be careful, you're in Africa now.
She doesn't want to file a report or make any notes, but Marta convinces her otherwise so she takes some notes on a scrap of paper that I'm sure was thrown away. They make jokes the entire time, pointing to a man standing in the station, "Was this him? Could you even tell? Don't we all look the same to you? Maybe he stole your purse." More laughter. The door the the holding cell is made of only bars and you can see right in. It's packed. People are sick. People are drunk. They're calling for the white woman. I'm exhausted. The female officer tells us to come back in the morning and visit Sergeant Jacob to file a report and we leave.
Back at the hotel we get shitfaced, stay up far too late and make too much noise. It was essentially amazing and what everybody needed. I'll always remember that as one of the better nights I've had in Ghana.
Visiting Sergeant Jacob goes as expected. He sits me down for my report and I have to rewrite everything I gave last night because the woman didn't keep the paper. He's laughing at us and so is everybody else in the office. More talking about this not being my country and me being a moron. What makes it worse is that I can't disagree. I just want to file the report, I'm not claiming that I wasn't a moron but they aren't hearing that point. They've been confronted by so many moron tourists over the years and we've formed into one unchanging person. Jacob tells me there's nothing to be done. Tells me he doesn't actually believe it happened because I have no witnesses. I point to Marta and Julia but he snickers and tells me they don't count because we're all the same color. He needs a Cape Coast witness to legetimize my claim and I didn't think to bring one. He also doubts that I even had a camera and cellphone in the purse because I'm not carrying a receipt for them. Apparently I've come all the way to Cape Coast to file a faulty claim for about $400. Does he have any fucking idea of how much money I spent to get here?
He lectures me for about 30 minutes on being a tourist in Africa and then finishes his report. I ask for a copy to give to my insurance but he refuses to give me any written confirmation because he doesn't believe I was really robbed and somehow things that if he gives me proof that I visited him he'll be implying that he believes my story. Marta asks and restates the need for a non-partial report about thirty times but we just receive the same, "That's not how we do it here." speech in about thirty variations. The meeting deteriorates and we leave.
After we met with Jacob we walked over to the castle and took the $7 guided tour. You're lead through dungeons where hundreds of thousands of men died. You're lead into the killing chamber which was designed to cut off the air supply for its inhabitants. The people that died there suffered so much that there are indentions in the walls and floors from fingers: clawing, screaming, hurting so much that you can literally make a mark on stone with your bare hands. We stood inside of it paralyzed. I've never shaken so much, it was almost a vibration. We walked through the door of no return that leads out to the beach and, in the past, the awaiting ships. We were shown a lookout area above the tunnel leading from the dungeons to the beach where the British sat and sniped sick people on their way to deportation. All for the better really, if you were sick and made it all the way to the ship and somebody noticed you're illness they'd throw you overboard while still alive.
The whole time that I was walking through the castles I'm thinking of all of the people that have died there. These walls were the last sight for so many. Did they have any inclination of what would happen next? That within a century the very decedents of their captors would be walking these empty halls crying? Their decendents would be returning from abroad to walk the same halls? The disapora. Does it make anything better? Sure, I'm crying, Julia's crying but then there's the guy from Texas with us that's complaining of the heat the entire time and leaves early to hit an air-conditioned bar.
And that was my Halloween.
Last weekend I took a break from traveling, but this weekend I'm traveling to Kumasi with Julia. I'll try to scoop some pictures of Cape Coast and Kumasi from Julia as my camera was in my purse when it ran down to the beach.
Be home in two weeks.
The charming thing about living in Ho is that they're just beginning to develop their tourist attractions. Volta Region, in general, is a haven for eco-tourism sites, but it's just beginning to draw more than a cluster of hippy backpackers from around the world. As a result, yevus are still a silly novelty. We're cute, priceless and a bit charming.
Then there's Cape Coast and other areas. Quick history... Cape Coast is the home of two of the largest slave trading castles in Ghana and Ghana was the home of the majority of the exportation of slaves. Literally, millions of slaves were deported from the castle in Cape Coast to the Americas. Hundreds of thousands of them died within the castle before making it to the ships and who knows how many died during the journey and beyond. Because of this historical importance Cape Coast and Elmina (home of the second castle very nearby) have been slammed with white tourists for far longer than little Ho. Being a yevu woman in Cape Coast is something completely different than being the same in Ho.
I know this going into Cape Coast. I know I should be careful. I know that I shouldn't do anything like... walk down to the castle at night with no protection but a heavy duty flashlight and two other female tourists. But somehow when traveling in a group you end up with the problem of the secret majority. None of us felt safe striking out on our own after dark to find food and beer in a strange town, but none of us said it because nobody else mentioned it and so we went. Come on, I've lived in Ho for more than a month and never had the slightest problem with traveling in a group at night. I know what I'm doing. We all do.
So we talk to the castle. It's gorgeous and overwhelming approaching it at night. You can't help but think of how many people have seen this castle and how they felt when they did so. The absolute terror of being taking here against your will. It's directly on the coast so I'm also getting my first glimpse of the ocean from Africa. It looks like any other ocean, but more dangerous. The currents here tougher, nobody swims in the ocean like they do in Florida, and you can see why. We finally hit a well lit area and I put away Marta's heavy-duty self-defense flashlight and we laugh about my even having it out in the first place.
Five minutes later we're walking past Oasis Hotel and there's distinct footfall. Fast footfall, because they're running. Two men come out of nowhere and grab my purse. I pull it to my chest and it stays there. The fellow the grabbed for it was running so fast that he speeds past me empty handed but he stops and turns around. Then we're looking at each other for at least 7 seconds but it seems longer as these things always do. We have something in common right then, we're both horrified and wondering what happens next. I'm thinking about getting the flashlight out, but not wanting to open my purse. I'm so used to Ghanaians poking fun at me that I'm actually waiting for him to laugh. He's wondering if he has time to try again. I'm wondering if he has a knife. He rushes again and gets a better hold of me and this time manages to tear the straps on my purse. I watch the straps fall on the ground while the rest of the purse runs off with the two men towards to beach. Then I scream, because that's what you're supposed to do. That's when I realize how fast everything has just happened. Marta and Julia don't actually understand what's gone on. They think I've been stabbed or something! Poor girls.
The police station is close by and we wander down there with the help of a young boy. There's a female police officer on duty sitting outside with another woman and I'm silently relieved because the women in Ghana are far easier to deal with than the men. But alas, when we tell her what's happened she actually laughs. Stupid tourists, what were you doing out after dark, hm? This isn't your country, you have to be careful, you're in Africa now.
She doesn't want to file a report or make any notes, but Marta convinces her otherwise so she takes some notes on a scrap of paper that I'm sure was thrown away. They make jokes the entire time, pointing to a man standing in the station, "Was this him? Could you even tell? Don't we all look the same to you? Maybe he stole your purse." More laughter. The door the the holding cell is made of only bars and you can see right in. It's packed. People are sick. People are drunk. They're calling for the white woman. I'm exhausted. The female officer tells us to come back in the morning and visit Sergeant Jacob to file a report and we leave.
Back at the hotel we get shitfaced, stay up far too late and make too much noise. It was essentially amazing and what everybody needed. I'll always remember that as one of the better nights I've had in Ghana.
Visiting Sergeant Jacob goes as expected. He sits me down for my report and I have to rewrite everything I gave last night because the woman didn't keep the paper. He's laughing at us and so is everybody else in the office. More talking about this not being my country and me being a moron. What makes it worse is that I can't disagree. I just want to file the report, I'm not claiming that I wasn't a moron but they aren't hearing that point. They've been confronted by so many moron tourists over the years and we've formed into one unchanging person. Jacob tells me there's nothing to be done. Tells me he doesn't actually believe it happened because I have no witnesses. I point to Marta and Julia but he snickers and tells me they don't count because we're all the same color. He needs a Cape Coast witness to legetimize my claim and I didn't think to bring one. He also doubts that I even had a camera and cellphone in the purse because I'm not carrying a receipt for them. Apparently I've come all the way to Cape Coast to file a faulty claim for about $400. Does he have any fucking idea of how much money I spent to get here?
He lectures me for about 30 minutes on being a tourist in Africa and then finishes his report. I ask for a copy to give to my insurance but he refuses to give me any written confirmation because he doesn't believe I was really robbed and somehow things that if he gives me proof that I visited him he'll be implying that he believes my story. Marta asks and restates the need for a non-partial report about thirty times but we just receive the same, "That's not how we do it here." speech in about thirty variations. The meeting deteriorates and we leave.
After we met with Jacob we walked over to the castle and took the $7 guided tour. You're lead through dungeons where hundreds of thousands of men died. You're lead into the killing chamber which was designed to cut off the air supply for its inhabitants. The people that died there suffered so much that there are indentions in the walls and floors from fingers: clawing, screaming, hurting so much that you can literally make a mark on stone with your bare hands. We stood inside of it paralyzed. I've never shaken so much, it was almost a vibration. We walked through the door of no return that leads out to the beach and, in the past, the awaiting ships. We were shown a lookout area above the tunnel leading from the dungeons to the beach where the British sat and sniped sick people on their way to deportation. All for the better really, if you were sick and made it all the way to the ship and somebody noticed you're illness they'd throw you overboard while still alive.
The whole time that I was walking through the castles I'm thinking of all of the people that have died there. These walls were the last sight for so many. Did they have any inclination of what would happen next? That within a century the very decedents of their captors would be walking these empty halls crying? Their decendents would be returning from abroad to walk the same halls? The disapora. Does it make anything better? Sure, I'm crying, Julia's crying but then there's the guy from Texas with us that's complaining of the heat the entire time and leaves early to hit an air-conditioned bar.
And that was my Halloween.
Last weekend I took a break from traveling, but this weekend I'm traveling to Kumasi with Julia. I'll try to scoop some pictures of Cape Coast and Kumasi from Julia as my camera was in my purse when it ran down to the beach.
Be home in two weeks.
Tuesday, November 11, 2008
Intermission
I've decided now would be a good time to take a break from my adventures of late October and tell a story about the good side of Ghana. I came to this realization after talking to a friend back home for a few minutes and quickly realizing that she'd somehow come to the conclusion that I am totally fed up after all of the mishaps. But, honestly, I'm not at all. Not much has really happened that's of negative note. I've learned a good deal through making some typical first-time-in-Africa mistakes, but otherwise this is the life.
That being said, here's a positive story conveyed to me via some fellow yevu colleagues at VEG. It represents the best part of Ghana: the people. The continuous laughter, smiling and mostly friendly bickering and insults and the hospitality and almost frightening dedication to being helpful.
These two friends of mine have been in Ghana for just over a year and have spent many weekends traveling to different regions of Ghana and countries in West Africa. On one of these trips the ended up being continuously delayed in transit and the trip took hours more than predicted. When they reached their destination they were turned away from every hotel in town because they were booked up for the night. It was already dark and they were in a strange town looking pale and carrying backpacks... this is equivalent to shouting, "Please, come rob me. I have all these valuables I want to get rid of!"
After getting turned away from another hotel and starting to feel desperate they're greeted by a young man, probably about 18 years old. He offers to help and they tell him it's not necessary because it's been a long day and you never know what somebody really means when they offer you help in a foreign country. But, he's persistent and they're exhausted so they cave. By this time it's raining and he tells them to wait it out in the lobby and that he'll go try and find them a place on his bicycle. He heads out in the rain and actually returns 30 minutes later. He's checked all the hotels and they are all booked.
He offers them a place to stay at his place and because there are no other viable options they accept. Then he piles their belongings onto his bicycle and pushes it back to his place with them trailing behind. It's his first place and consists of one or two bug littered rooms and communal showers, etc. To make it more accommodating he actually leaves and goes to stay with his mother leaving these two complete strangers, alone, in his house.
This is an extreme example, but in general the people of the Volta Region in my experience will drop almost anything to escort you places, give detailed directions or answer any question you can imagine. Get lost in the rain and run under the awning of a nearby house for shelter? It's likely that the inhabitants will invite you in and cook you a meal. Waiting for a taxi that just doesn't seem to be coming? Somebody in a private vehicle will inevitably stop and offer you a ride. Sitting on the tro-tro near somebody that's eating and they'll share. I'm continuously surprised by how above and beyond people here will go to be helpful. At least in Ho...
That being said, here's a positive story conveyed to me via some fellow yevu colleagues at VEG. It represents the best part of Ghana: the people. The continuous laughter, smiling and mostly friendly bickering and insults and the hospitality and almost frightening dedication to being helpful.
These two friends of mine have been in Ghana for just over a year and have spent many weekends traveling to different regions of Ghana and countries in West Africa. On one of these trips the ended up being continuously delayed in transit and the trip took hours more than predicted. When they reached their destination they were turned away from every hotel in town because they were booked up for the night. It was already dark and they were in a strange town looking pale and carrying backpacks... this is equivalent to shouting, "Please, come rob me. I have all these valuables I want to get rid of!"
After getting turned away from another hotel and starting to feel desperate they're greeted by a young man, probably about 18 years old. He offers to help and they tell him it's not necessary because it's been a long day and you never know what somebody really means when they offer you help in a foreign country. But, he's persistent and they're exhausted so they cave. By this time it's raining and he tells them to wait it out in the lobby and that he'll go try and find them a place on his bicycle. He heads out in the rain and actually returns 30 minutes later. He's checked all the hotels and they are all booked.
He offers them a place to stay at his place and because there are no other viable options they accept. Then he piles their belongings onto his bicycle and pushes it back to his place with them trailing behind. It's his first place and consists of one or two bug littered rooms and communal showers, etc. To make it more accommodating he actually leaves and goes to stay with his mother leaving these two complete strangers, alone, in his house.
This is an extreme example, but in general the people of the Volta Region in my experience will drop almost anything to escort you places, give detailed directions or answer any question you can imagine. Get lost in the rain and run under the awning of a nearby house for shelter? It's likely that the inhabitants will invite you in and cook you a meal. Waiting for a taxi that just doesn't seem to be coming? Somebody in a private vehicle will inevitably stop and offer you a ride. Sitting on the tro-tro near somebody that's eating and they'll share. I'm continuously surprised by how above and beyond people here will go to be helpful. At least in Ho...
Thursday, November 6, 2008
How I Met the Ho Municipality Police Chief
Continued from "Negative Culture Shock"
If you recall, my SIM card turned up stolen on a Monday. This is the same day that I went down to the cellphone shop to yell and generally raise hell like the uppity white woman that I apparently am. After lodging my complaint the shop owner asked for a few days to deal with the situation. I left him my bill with the phone numbers dialed from Ghana and the promise that'd I'd call the police myself if something wasn't done.
When I returned on Wednesday it was to discover that he'd tricked a woman from the number list into giving up the identity of the person using my card. The person turns out to be a young man that can't be over the age of 19. I know this because I've met him. I've met him because the police arrested him Monday afternoon and left him to sit in a cell until I returned because Lawrence (store owner) had lost my phone number and couldn't find me.
After arriving at the police station and meeting this kid I watch a series of detectives yell, "I know you have the chip! You stole it from Lawrence!" at him while he responds "I threw it away when it stopped working. I found it on the ground." It's a movie about a drug bust gone horribly wrong.
I was shuffled upstairs to the police chief's office with Lawrence. Mind you, all the way through the police station Lawrence is stopping to chat with friends, investigate cellphones and taking orders for future cellphones. It quickly becomes apparent that he's practically best buddies with every police officer in Ho. The same is true with the police chief.
The police chief plops me down in a chair directly in front of his desk. His office is packed with huge pictures of him with crowds of white people. It appears that he's been to many, many UN sponsored training sessions. Later I will discover that this has made him bitter towards us yevu.
Immediately after sitting down he starts to talk over my shoulder and address only Lawrence who is sitting behind me. He's talking in Che, which I don't understand, obviously. He's complaining about volunteers and how we only come here for sight-seeing and to smoke cigarettes. I know this because Che borrows many words from English including sight-seeing and because he gestures with his hands more than you would believe. (Ghanaians, in general, are horrible at being clandestine.) Next he starts in on my tattoos. Not as people typically do in the US, but as in "Why are you stealing black culture? Tattoos are black culture." I've no idea of how true this might be, but I answer him with some nonsense about it being part of my Native American culture which he gladly accepts and comments that I do, in fact, look Native American. Next he moves on to discussing my love life. I tell him I'm married, which I often do, and show him the ring I wear around my neck on a chain- which is technically my father's, but whatever. He tells me that regardless, if I'm here for 2 whole months I need a Ghanaian boyfriend. He goes even further as to say that I need to "taste black flavor," before returning home. You've got it, the chief of the motherfucking police has just said this to me while supposedly investigating a theft case.
But wait, there's more. After our introduction he invites the parents of the boy they arrested for the card up to the room. He exchanges some sentences with the mother in Che. She cries a lot and leaves the room. I ask him what the hell they had just talked about as this is my case and I'd like to stay informed and he scoffs and tells me that he doesn't have time to translate for me, I'd better ask my, "friend Lawrence" later and shoves us out of the room.
I ask my buddy Lawrence and he explains that the police chief has given the family less than 24 hours to come up with 400 GHc. Mind you, these are farmers in a country where rent in the villages rarely exheeds 3 GHc per month. Mind you, I'm here as an aid worker. I may not be deluded enough to think I'm saving anybody, but I'm certainly not here to extort some poor farmers because a rich business owner that happens to be friends with the police doesn't want to compensate me for his stupid mistake. I explain this to Lawrence on the way out but he reminds me that this isn't my case anymore, it's his. He says we'll just wait until the money arrives tomorrow and give it back if need be.
Thursday, 12:00. I return because the chief told me to come at 11:30 and nobody in Ghana is ever on time. He giggles and says "Oh who told you to come at noon? The detective for this case won't even be in until 2. Come back later." I can't come back later because I'm traveling to Takoradi so I leave it with Lawrence who promises to drop charges and take care of things while I'm gone. I don't exactly trust Lawrence, but nobody at the station listens to me anyhow so I'm not sure what else was to be done.
When I made my final visit on Monday things appeared to have been resolved. The mother of the culprit was very happy as she'd been unable to sell her farm to get the 400 GHc anyhow. Lawrence is supposed to set up a meeting, which I would normally avoid but I think I'll go through with it just to be sure he didn't take the 400 from her and tell me it'd been settled.
I've gotten very used to be a minority to the extreme in this town. I've lived here now for six weeks and when you're fully immersed in something you get used to it, no matter how strange. Besides, I hail from Durham, NC not the Great White North ;) Even so, on the streets of Ho I'm a novelty or something silly. I'd yet to experience being a minority when I want to be taken seriously in a culture already lacking in appreciation for the independent woman. I can be witty about it now but at the time it felt like nothing I've experienced before. Not that I've ever not respected being such a visible minority in the United States, but now I can much better respect the anger that comes along with it. I'm not angry, but if this happened every time I attempted to visit the police for my entire life I can't say I'd feel the same.
But worry not, I'm still having the time of my life. I adore this country and the people here. I'm just at the point where you start to better appreciate the complicated relationship between Africa and Westerners.
I got an even better understanding of that during my trip to Takoradi by getting my purse stolen right off of my arm directly behind a castle where more then 300,000 slaves died during the slave trade. The police in Cape Coast make the chief here seem far more manageable, and as luck would have it I got to visit both of them in one day. I'll update about that later. For now there's work to be done. I've still got people to save through my generous work at the NGO, afterall.
If you recall, my SIM card turned up stolen on a Monday. This is the same day that I went down to the cellphone shop to yell and generally raise hell like the uppity white woman that I apparently am. After lodging my complaint the shop owner asked for a few days to deal with the situation. I left him my bill with the phone numbers dialed from Ghana and the promise that'd I'd call the police myself if something wasn't done.
When I returned on Wednesday it was to discover that he'd tricked a woman from the number list into giving up the identity of the person using my card. The person turns out to be a young man that can't be over the age of 19. I know this because I've met him. I've met him because the police arrested him Monday afternoon and left him to sit in a cell until I returned because Lawrence (store owner) had lost my phone number and couldn't find me.
After arriving at the police station and meeting this kid I watch a series of detectives yell, "I know you have the chip! You stole it from Lawrence!" at him while he responds "I threw it away when it stopped working. I found it on the ground." It's a movie about a drug bust gone horribly wrong.
I was shuffled upstairs to the police chief's office with Lawrence. Mind you, all the way through the police station Lawrence is stopping to chat with friends, investigate cellphones and taking orders for future cellphones. It quickly becomes apparent that he's practically best buddies with every police officer in Ho. The same is true with the police chief.
The police chief plops me down in a chair directly in front of his desk. His office is packed with huge pictures of him with crowds of white people. It appears that he's been to many, many UN sponsored training sessions. Later I will discover that this has made him bitter towards us yevu.
Immediately after sitting down he starts to talk over my shoulder and address only Lawrence who is sitting behind me. He's talking in Che, which I don't understand, obviously. He's complaining about volunteers and how we only come here for sight-seeing and to smoke cigarettes. I know this because Che borrows many words from English including sight-seeing and because he gestures with his hands more than you would believe. (Ghanaians, in general, are horrible at being clandestine.) Next he starts in on my tattoos. Not as people typically do in the US, but as in "Why are you stealing black culture? Tattoos are black culture." I've no idea of how true this might be, but I answer him with some nonsense about it being part of my Native American culture which he gladly accepts and comments that I do, in fact, look Native American. Next he moves on to discussing my love life. I tell him I'm married, which I often do, and show him the ring I wear around my neck on a chain- which is technically my father's, but whatever. He tells me that regardless, if I'm here for 2 whole months I need a Ghanaian boyfriend. He goes even further as to say that I need to "taste black flavor," before returning home. You've got it, the chief of the motherfucking police has just said this to me while supposedly investigating a theft case.
But wait, there's more. After our introduction he invites the parents of the boy they arrested for the card up to the room. He exchanges some sentences with the mother in Che. She cries a lot and leaves the room. I ask him what the hell they had just talked about as this is my case and I'd like to stay informed and he scoffs and tells me that he doesn't have time to translate for me, I'd better ask my, "friend Lawrence" later and shoves us out of the room.
I ask my buddy Lawrence and he explains that the police chief has given the family less than 24 hours to come up with 400 GHc. Mind you, these are farmers in a country where rent in the villages rarely exheeds 3 GHc per month. Mind you, I'm here as an aid worker. I may not be deluded enough to think I'm saving anybody, but I'm certainly not here to extort some poor farmers because a rich business owner that happens to be friends with the police doesn't want to compensate me for his stupid mistake. I explain this to Lawrence on the way out but he reminds me that this isn't my case anymore, it's his. He says we'll just wait until the money arrives tomorrow and give it back if need be.
Thursday, 12:00. I return because the chief told me to come at 11:30 and nobody in Ghana is ever on time. He giggles and says "Oh who told you to come at noon? The detective for this case won't even be in until 2. Come back later." I can't come back later because I'm traveling to Takoradi so I leave it with Lawrence who promises to drop charges and take care of things while I'm gone. I don't exactly trust Lawrence, but nobody at the station listens to me anyhow so I'm not sure what else was to be done.
When I made my final visit on Monday things appeared to have been resolved. The mother of the culprit was very happy as she'd been unable to sell her farm to get the 400 GHc anyhow. Lawrence is supposed to set up a meeting, which I would normally avoid but I think I'll go through with it just to be sure he didn't take the 400 from her and tell me it'd been settled.
I've gotten very used to be a minority to the extreme in this town. I've lived here now for six weeks and when you're fully immersed in something you get used to it, no matter how strange. Besides, I hail from Durham, NC not the Great White North ;) Even so, on the streets of Ho I'm a novelty or something silly. I'd yet to experience being a minority when I want to be taken seriously in a culture already lacking in appreciation for the independent woman. I can be witty about it now but at the time it felt like nothing I've experienced before. Not that I've ever not respected being such a visible minority in the United States, but now I can much better respect the anger that comes along with it. I'm not angry, but if this happened every time I attempted to visit the police for my entire life I can't say I'd feel the same.
But worry not, I'm still having the time of my life. I adore this country and the people here. I'm just at the point where you start to better appreciate the complicated relationship between Africa and Westerners.
I got an even better understanding of that during my trip to Takoradi by getting my purse stolen right off of my arm directly behind a castle where more then 300,000 slaves died during the slave trade. The police in Cape Coast make the chief here seem far more manageable, and as luck would have it I got to visit both of them in one day. I'll update about that later. For now there's work to be done. I've still got people to save through my generous work at the NGO, afterall.
Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Grafitti in Ho
The only piece of graffiti I've ever seen in Ghana. This is written on three walls of the building. I found it across the street from one of our small-to-medium enterprise (SME) client's establishment.
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