Been in Ghana for a week now, and sad to say, I haven’t done much. Maybe it’s Jess being gone (in Kenya for now), maybe it’s the backlog of work that greeted me here. But a few things have taken place…
I have been given a warm welcome by my team: Naa, Oko, Naa Shika, and Naa Shormeh. Ghanaians are just fine, it seems, using about twenty names: roughly one name per million people. Might sound a little draconian in a land of baby name books, but look at it this way – at this rate, they’ll never get to Missy or Jazzmine.
I have learned the economics of driving a taxi while sitting in traffic: $6-10 per day paid to the taxi owner, $15 for gas, and then anything left over for you. Which, on an average fare of $1.50 and a glut of taxis in the city...
I have been amused that the steps up to my office are of random height.
I have met the Commissioner of Insurance, and lived.
I have become fascinated by Ghanaian hip life music, and the Ghanaian tendency to dance whenever music is playing, anywhere, at any time.
I have won $7 in a poker game.
I have passed an old Muslim woman in the street with two scarred Christian crosses carved into each cheek.
I have become accustomed to daily power outages in a town that is bursting at the seams. All the more interesting given that yesterday was Earth Hour, announced on the CNN website by this mind-bending headline: “AROUND THE WORLD, PEOPLE CHOOSE TO GO WITHOUT POWER.” My cynicism is quickly taking root.
I have perfected the ‘click’ at the end of the Ghanaian handshake, but have not yet been able to persuade a soul to speak Ga or Twi with me - or, rather, to return my Ga or Twi greetings with anything but a giggle and a response in the Queen’s English.
I have learned to be productive while soaked in sweat.
I have been to three church services – two voluntarily. The other one was an all-night service (10 pm – 5 am) at a large Pentecostal church outside my hotel window. If you can’t beat them…
I have paid $5 for a small grapefruit, and $2 for a huge draft beer.
Ok, that’s all for now. Thanks for your emails -
- PG
Sunday, March 28, 2010
Wednesday, March 10, 2010
Unrelenting Foreignness
Even when pre-planned, it’s unsettling to run into an old friend in Manila at midnight. Most midnights, I do nothing of the sort. But this past Saturday there I was, running into Mr. M.B., who Jessica and I knew when we lived in England. M.B. is a likeable, well-traveled guy, and big like me, which made for a great hug.
Hugging me, by the way, is a tough job. If you’re shorter than I am - basically everyone - you’re caught not only in the over/under game, but also the one-arm/two-arm game. Problem is, if you don’t think it through ahead of time, you don’t realize the second game until mid-hug. So you start out by going with what you think is a simple “over” choice. You reach up and hug two arms around my neck, but then realize that feels too much like a junior high dance, so then you readjust, going for the “under” option - only to realize that now you’re doing a face plant in my man chest.
Here, you unexpectedly realize the second game: the one-arm/two-arm choice. You might want to give me a warm, two-arm hug, but if you do, you’re doomed to the face-plant; so you go for the one-arm: a side hug. Thing is, you started with the two-arm hug, which I reciprocated, so now I’m hugging you lengthwise, my hands clasped around your opposite shoulder while you go for the under/one-arm choice. Tell you what – next time, just go for the under/one-arm to start with, which I can match, or commit to the over/two-arm and don’t back down. Thanks.
But back to M.B., who of course, doesn’t have your problem. Ours was a straight up, two-arm, big man hug. And it’s been about five years since we shared one. Double bonus points.
I’d been in the Philippines long enough to be offered an illegal liaison with my choice of partner (which is to say, long enough to visit the hotel restroom), when M.B. dropped the defining phrase of the night in describing the typical Western reactions to our environment. “Some people eat Southeast Asia up – I mean, I love it. The neon, the weird beeping sounds, it’s all great," he said. "But some people just can’t take the … well – unrelenting foreignness – of it all. Makes them go crazy.”
Jimi Hendrix had to take double the drugs, they said, because the regular dose only got him back to where everyone else was normally. Maybe M.B. and I are a little like Jimi in that way. For whatever reason, we just can’t get enough of new places and people. The more different and remote, the better. (Note to self: the previous statement probably says something about my concept of home that I’ll need to consider at length on a separate occasion.)
The thing about that embrace of ‘the other’ is that I’m now thirty years old. And one of the many great things about being thirty is the chance to inject some old-fashioned cynicism into that nubile idealism that so often carries M.B. and me from cloud to unfamiliar cloud. Gratefully, the Philippines offers plenty of opportunities for the thirty year old me to become prematurely bellicose.
Take, first of all, the karaoke bars: K-TV bars, they’re called, as if to disguise the awful, awful truth of what’s going on inside. They’re everywhere, they always seem to be full, and the proprietors blast not only the music, but the singer, well out into the street. The 3 o’clock hour in the office today was punctuated by a searing rendition of Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” somewhere in the street below, and on the way to lunch we heard someone doing a hearty version of the recent pop song, “Poker Face.”
Can you imagine what it must be like, rushing off on your lunch break down to the K-TV bar to impersonate … Lady Gaga?
I’ve seen karaoke setups in 100% of Filipino homes I’ve visited, although truth be told, that’s only two. The first home was owned by my counterpart here, William: a fifty-year-old, four-foot-tall General Patton who, karaoke habits aside, is a master of our craft. The second is (interestingly enough) back in Atlanta, where our Filipina friend’s karaoke setup is too ghetto even for our ‘hood. Just think of MIDI backup tracks of “Hotel California” with tropical islands on the TV in the background, and you get the picture.
Beyond karaoke, there is a second cause of my current bellicosity. After this trip, I’ve finally decided never EVER again to eat voluntarily any dish in Asia that is marketed as a “delicacy.” The word “delicacy,” I’ve decided, is Southeast Asian for, “Make American pay for screwing with us.”
I’ve eaten plenty of bona fide Asian food – Vietnamese, Chinese, Filipino, Thai – but I’ve never had any Asian “delicacy” and thought, ‘Oh my, I’d sure like to eat that again.’ Three basic grievances I have against the Asian delicacy:
1. Inexplicable proliferation of innards
Ok, I get that you have to use the whole animal. In America, we have these genetically-engineered chicken that can’t walk because their steroid-enhanced legs and breasts have to carry 216% more meat to keep Popeye’s in business. One of the things I actually appreciate about the rest of the world is that most folks just eat what exists in nature. And, it’s true, part of what exists in nature are some innard parts that have nutritional value. I just don’t get how those non-muscley parts are the special ones that should be reserved for the “delicacy” dish. Honestly, I haven’t seen a dish with a decent percentage of fleshy meat since I’ve been here. What ever happens to the meaty bits - where do they go? To feed the dog? I don’t get it.
For example, in the Batchoy dish – a “delicacy” in La Paz, a section of Iloilo City where I’m staying – I counted no fewer than five distinct varieties of pork innards. Five different bits of a pig’s insides. What was the development process like on this product? Why didn’t its inventor stop at, oh I don’t know – maybe just three types of innards? What did the fourth and fifth innard add? Texture? Color?
2. The smell of feet
Some things are universal. The smell of feet at the end of the day is, I’m fairly certain, detestable to all humankind, with one exception: where it adorns the Asian delicacy.
3. The awkward moment at the end where they try to serve you a second helping
The end result of my (and, I’m fairly certain, most of my tribe’s) encounter with the Asian delicacy is what must be an obviously awkward display where I gesture to my hosts (“Mmmm, that was very good, yes”) all the while leaving my food conspicuously cut to pieces and gathered in little piles on my plate (see: broccoli and eight-year-olds) and then, at the end, being a little too quick and a little too sharp in turning away the expected offer for another serving (“Oh no, no – quite full, yes, thank you”).
Your host will never show it, but I’m gospel-certain that the in-laws are holed up somewhere in a back room of the house, watching you on CCTV, cackling themselves to tears. I’d actually put money down that most Asian families have reams of videotape of this same, predictable sequence with all their Western guests. I’d watch it.
Followed by karaoke, of course.
PG
Hugging me, by the way, is a tough job. If you’re shorter than I am - basically everyone - you’re caught not only in the over/under game, but also the one-arm/two-arm game. Problem is, if you don’t think it through ahead of time, you don’t realize the second game until mid-hug. So you start out by going with what you think is a simple “over” choice. You reach up and hug two arms around my neck, but then realize that feels too much like a junior high dance, so then you readjust, going for the “under” option - only to realize that now you’re doing a face plant in my man chest.
Here, you unexpectedly realize the second game: the one-arm/two-arm choice. You might want to give me a warm, two-arm hug, but if you do, you’re doomed to the face-plant; so you go for the one-arm: a side hug. Thing is, you started with the two-arm hug, which I reciprocated, so now I’m hugging you lengthwise, my hands clasped around your opposite shoulder while you go for the under/one-arm choice. Tell you what – next time, just go for the under/one-arm to start with, which I can match, or commit to the over/two-arm and don’t back down. Thanks.
But back to M.B., who of course, doesn’t have your problem. Ours was a straight up, two-arm, big man hug. And it’s been about five years since we shared one. Double bonus points.
I’d been in the Philippines long enough to be offered an illegal liaison with my choice of partner (which is to say, long enough to visit the hotel restroom), when M.B. dropped the defining phrase of the night in describing the typical Western reactions to our environment. “Some people eat Southeast Asia up – I mean, I love it. The neon, the weird beeping sounds, it’s all great," he said. "But some people just can’t take the … well – unrelenting foreignness – of it all. Makes them go crazy.”
Jimi Hendrix had to take double the drugs, they said, because the regular dose only got him back to where everyone else was normally. Maybe M.B. and I are a little like Jimi in that way. For whatever reason, we just can’t get enough of new places and people. The more different and remote, the better. (Note to self: the previous statement probably says something about my concept of home that I’ll need to consider at length on a separate occasion.)
The thing about that embrace of ‘the other’ is that I’m now thirty years old. And one of the many great things about being thirty is the chance to inject some old-fashioned cynicism into that nubile idealism that so often carries M.B. and me from cloud to unfamiliar cloud. Gratefully, the Philippines offers plenty of opportunities for the thirty year old me to become prematurely bellicose.
Take, first of all, the karaoke bars: K-TV bars, they’re called, as if to disguise the awful, awful truth of what’s going on inside. They’re everywhere, they always seem to be full, and the proprietors blast not only the music, but the singer, well out into the street. The 3 o’clock hour in the office today was punctuated by a searing rendition of Bon Jovi’s “You Give Love a Bad Name” somewhere in the street below, and on the way to lunch we heard someone doing a hearty version of the recent pop song, “Poker Face.”
Can you imagine what it must be like, rushing off on your lunch break down to the K-TV bar to impersonate … Lady Gaga?
I’ve seen karaoke setups in 100% of Filipino homes I’ve visited, although truth be told, that’s only two. The first home was owned by my counterpart here, William: a fifty-year-old, four-foot-tall General Patton who, karaoke habits aside, is a master of our craft. The second is (interestingly enough) back in Atlanta, where our Filipina friend’s karaoke setup is too ghetto even for our ‘hood. Just think of MIDI backup tracks of “Hotel California” with tropical islands on the TV in the background, and you get the picture.
Beyond karaoke, there is a second cause of my current bellicosity. After this trip, I’ve finally decided never EVER again to eat voluntarily any dish in Asia that is marketed as a “delicacy.” The word “delicacy,” I’ve decided, is Southeast Asian for, “Make American pay for screwing with us.”
I’ve eaten plenty of bona fide Asian food – Vietnamese, Chinese, Filipino, Thai – but I’ve never had any Asian “delicacy” and thought, ‘Oh my, I’d sure like to eat that again.’ Three basic grievances I have against the Asian delicacy:
1. Inexplicable proliferation of innards
Ok, I get that you have to use the whole animal. In America, we have these genetically-engineered chicken that can’t walk because their steroid-enhanced legs and breasts have to carry 216% more meat to keep Popeye’s in business. One of the things I actually appreciate about the rest of the world is that most folks just eat what exists in nature. And, it’s true, part of what exists in nature are some innard parts that have nutritional value. I just don’t get how those non-muscley parts are the special ones that should be reserved for the “delicacy” dish. Honestly, I haven’t seen a dish with a decent percentage of fleshy meat since I’ve been here. What ever happens to the meaty bits - where do they go? To feed the dog? I don’t get it.
For example, in the Batchoy dish – a “delicacy” in La Paz, a section of Iloilo City where I’m staying – I counted no fewer than five distinct varieties of pork innards. Five different bits of a pig’s insides. What was the development process like on this product? Why didn’t its inventor stop at, oh I don’t know – maybe just three types of innards? What did the fourth and fifth innard add? Texture? Color?
2. The smell of feet
Some things are universal. The smell of feet at the end of the day is, I’m fairly certain, detestable to all humankind, with one exception: where it adorns the Asian delicacy.
3. The awkward moment at the end where they try to serve you a second helping
The end result of my (and, I’m fairly certain, most of my tribe’s) encounter with the Asian delicacy is what must be an obviously awkward display where I gesture to my hosts (“Mmmm, that was very good, yes”) all the while leaving my food conspicuously cut to pieces and gathered in little piles on my plate (see: broccoli and eight-year-olds) and then, at the end, being a little too quick and a little too sharp in turning away the expected offer for another serving (“Oh no, no – quite full, yes, thank you”).
Your host will never show it, but I’m gospel-certain that the in-laws are holed up somewhere in a back room of the house, watching you on CCTV, cackling themselves to tears. I’d actually put money down that most Asian families have reams of videotape of this same, predictable sequence with all their Western guests. I’d watch it.
Followed by karaoke, of course.
PG
Friday, March 5, 2010
First Trip to Ghana; or, On White Drug Addicts
We’re headed back to Atlanta after a little more than a week in Accra: first trip to our new home. Time for a few thoughts: not as though no obroni has ever had or shared thoughts about the place before, but I never have, so there you go.
True to its billing, Ghana is a wonderful place with people who are as warm as the weather, though infinitely more kind. You can walk on the street at night, become best friends over lunch, and pay $2 for a taxi halfway across town (more on money later). Accra even has a faster mobile phone network - 3.5G - than my provider in Atlanta.
Not to rose it up too much, of course. When you first arrive, you wonder why there are “Don’t Urinate Here” signs everywhere, until you see someone drop trou in front of an unfortunate spot that is not so designated. Oh - and it’s hot, as in, headed-to-a-meeting-wearing-a-dark-suit-with-hot-wind-blowing-in-your-face-through-the-taxi-window hot. Jessica got a sweet case of heat rash while we were there. We’re told July and August will be cooler, so we’re excited for that. Hot wind: how does that happen anyway?
In some ways, Ghana isn’t really that different from the old neighborhood back in Atlanta. Because we came here primarily to find a house, and because Accra is in the middle of a housing boom, we got to know a lot of real estate agents. Real estate agents are the equivalent of the corner drug boys back home – everyone can get you a house, or knows someone who knows someone who can. At one point, we had six people inside a circa-1992 Nissan Sentra taxi cab going to look at a house: the driver, Jessica, me, our Ghanaian friend John, a guy that said he knew some properties, and then a woman who actually had the keys to a property we were going to see. Most real estate agents wanted money just to show you around, and they all insisted on an 8-10% commission for what usually amounts to a few hours’ work. That’s 8-10% on at least a year’s rent, mind you…so it’s easy to understand why everyone’s in that game.
The properties we saw varied highly in quality. Some were newly built, some were Communist-era. Not that Ghana ever had many Communists, but it was a dead giveaway: dingy, dark rooms with low ceilings, and a singular metal fan slowly swirling all that hot air around. All were far too expensive, but it was clear the market could bear their prices. $2,500/month for a three-bedroom house 25 minutes north of town? Too bad, just rented out. $1,500/month for a small one-bedroom apartment in the city? Nope, that one’s taken too. Even worse, everyone wanted a year paid up front, sometimes two.
We ended up finding what we now consider a steal, after seeing around 30 properties all over the city. It’s in Osu, the heart of activity in Accra: a 2-bedroom house within walking distance of my office and the ocean. Even better, we were able to deal with a real property manager who conducted herself as one would expect, if one were planning to hand over many thousands of dollars in cash. Our Ghanaian friend John, who helped us to find houses and negotiate prices, assured us that this was not often the case!
Oh – but back to the old neighborhood. If real estate agents are the corner boys, then what’s the drug? Not property, really…I think it’s best described as community - or, better, connectedness - for which property is a means to an end. Relationships are the addiction in Ghana.
The Ghanaians themselves have it the worst; but they’re not just functional addicts, they’re truly soaring in their addiction to their fellow man. Whenever someone enters a store or a home or a government office, she’s greeted with, “You are welcome!” At night, walking through a market, young men will approach you in groups…in most places in the world this is a bad omen, but in Ghana it’s not threatening at all: they’ll just give you a fist bump and say innocent, spiritual things like, “I know you, man.” You can honestly get into meaningful conversations with people you meet on the street. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
If Ghanaians have this positive addiction, a sort of friend-a-holism, then the various white people you see around the city are a nice study in contrasts: the down-and-outers, if you will, with that intense need they seem never to be able to satisfy. Maybe it’s because of our time in the ‘hood, but we just aren’t scared all the time in Ghana, as so many of our fairer-skinned brethren and sistren seem to be. Nearly every time you’d pass a white person on the street in Accra, he always seemed to be in withdrawal…eyes darting to and fro, arms warming each other even in the 95 degree heat, toes inward and shuffling. Then, when he’d see you, his eyes would get wider, crazier - and he’d turn in your direction as if to say, “Oh thank God, you’re white – please…need friends…talk to me…”
The irony of course is that opportunities for relationship are all around him, relationships with wonderfully gregarious and sensitive Ghanaians with whom he might find, as we did, that he shares a great deal in common. But my skin color somehow tells him that we’re similar people, that we eat the same foods and follow the same football teams and liked the same girl in high school. And so he is unable to fulfill his need for relationships, all the while drowning in a sea of relaters around him. Heck of a twist on passive racism.
____________
So…our first 8 days in Accra. There’s more to say even about the first tour, but we can’t be a one-album band – let us work out a few of the hooks and bridges and we’ll get back to you with another demo. With any luck, we’re hoping a lot of good music will come out of this gig.
As we waited for the plane to London, it occurred to me that most of our fellow travelers were looking to take something out of Ghana. Diplomats want to take progress reports. Ghanaians want to take pride. Short-term missionaries want to take stories. Long-term missionaries want to take souls and self-esteem. Oilfield engineers from Aberdeen and Houston want to take the new black gold from the old Gold Coast.
It got me thinking: what do we want to take out of Ghana? One on level, we probably want a part of what everyone else wants. On another, we want nearly none of those things. At the risk of melodrama, though, after this week Ghana has taken on a larger role in the plot than we anticipated. And now we expect - no, we need – to take a lot from Ghana ourselves. We need to take its faith in God and each other. We need to take its heat - to flush out our comforts and complacencies, and those moments at the end of a long day when we don’t think we have time to show kindness. We need to take its unfailing, unreserved interest in the person in front of you. We need to take its willingness to give Jessica and me a little time together, for once. We need to take its color, its life, its vibrancy. And we need to be ready to take the many other things it will give us unexpectedly.
We’ll give back our open eyes and ears, our experience, and our very best efforts. But if we’re honest, our pockets are pretty empty, and we’ll more than likely rack up some debts to the house. For now, we think Ghana can handle that. Time to deal the hand.
- PG
True to its billing, Ghana is a wonderful place with people who are as warm as the weather, though infinitely more kind. You can walk on the street at night, become best friends over lunch, and pay $2 for a taxi halfway across town (more on money later). Accra even has a faster mobile phone network - 3.5G - than my provider in Atlanta.
Not to rose it up too much, of course. When you first arrive, you wonder why there are “Don’t Urinate Here” signs everywhere, until you see someone drop trou in front of an unfortunate spot that is not so designated. Oh - and it’s hot, as in, headed-to-a-meeting-wearin
In some ways, Ghana isn’t really that different from the old neighborhood back in Atlanta. Because we came here primarily to find a house, and because Accra is in the middle of a housing boom, we got to know a lot of real estate agents. Real estate agents are the equivalent of the corner drug boys back home – everyone can get you a house, or knows someone who knows someone who can. At one point, we had six people inside a circa-1992 Nissan Sentra taxi cab going to look at a house: the driver, Jessica, me, our Ghanaian friend John, a guy that said he knew some properties, and then a woman who actually had the keys to a property we were going to see. Most real estate agents wanted money just to show you around, and they all insisted on an 8-10% commission for what usually amounts to a few hours’ work. That’s 8-10% on at least a year’s rent, mind you…so it’s easy to understand why everyone’s in that game.
The properties we saw varied highly in quality. Some were newly built, some were Communist-era. Not that Ghana ever had many Communists, but it was a dead giveaway: dingy, dark rooms with low ceilings, and a singular metal fan slowly swirling all that hot air around. All were far too expensive, but it was clear the market could bear their prices. $2,500/month for a three-bedroom house 25 minutes north of town? Too bad, just rented out. $1,500/month for a small one-bedroom apartment in the city? Nope, that one’s taken too. Even worse, everyone wanted a year paid up front, sometimes two.
We ended up finding what we now consider a steal, after seeing around 30 properties all over the city. It’s in Osu, the heart of activity in Accra: a 2-bedroom house within walking distance of my office and the ocean. Even better, we were able to deal with a real property manager who conducted herself as one would expect, if one were planning to hand over many thousands of dollars in cash. Our Ghanaian friend John, who helped us to find houses and negotiate prices, assured us that this was not often the case!
Oh – but back to the old neighborhood. If real estate agents are the corner boys, then what’s the drug? Not property, really…I think it’s best described as community - or, better, connectedness - for which property is a means to an end. Relationships are the addiction in Ghana.
The Ghanaians themselves have it the worst; but they’re not just functional addicts, they’re truly soaring in their addiction to their fellow man. Whenever someone enters a store or a home or a government office, she’s greeted with, “You are welcome!” At night, walking through a market, young men will approach you in groups…in most places in the world this is a bad omen, but in Ghana it’s not threatening at all: they’ll just give you a fist bump and say innocent, spiritual things like, “I know you, man.” You can honestly get into meaningful conversations with people you meet on the street. It’s unlike anything I’ve ever seen.
If Ghanaians have this positive addiction, a sort of friend-a-holism, then the various white people you see around the city are a nice study in contrasts: the down-and-outers, if you will, with that intense need they seem never to be able to satisfy. Maybe it’s because of our time in the ‘hood, but we just aren’t scared all the time in Ghana, as so many of our fairer-skinned brethren and sistren seem to be. Nearly every time you’d pass a white person on the street in Accra, he always seemed to be in withdrawal…eyes darting to and fro, arms warming each other even in the 95 degree heat, toes inward and shuffling. Then, when he’d see you, his eyes would get wider, crazier - and he’d turn in your direction as if to say, “Oh thank God, you’re white – please…need friends…talk to me…”
The irony of course is that opportunities for relationship are all around him, relationships with wonderfully gregarious and sensitive Ghanaians with whom he might find, as we did, that he shares a great deal in common. But my skin color somehow tells him that we’re similar people, that we eat the same foods and follow the same football teams and liked the same girl in high school. And so he is unable to fulfill his need for relationships, all the while drowning in a sea of relaters around him. Heck of a twist on passive racism.
____________
So…our first 8 days in Accra. There’s more to say even about the first tour, but we can’t be a one-album band – let us work out a few of the hooks and bridges and we’ll get back to you with another demo. With any luck, we’re hoping a lot of good music will come out of this gig.
As we waited for the plane to London, it occurred to me that most of our fellow travelers were looking to take something out of Ghana. Diplomats want to take progress reports. Ghanaians want to take pride. Short-term missionaries want to take stories. Long-term missionaries want to take souls and self-esteem. Oilfield engineers from Aberdeen and Houston want to take the new black gold from the old Gold Coast.
It got me thinking: what do we want to take out of Ghana? One on level, we probably want a part of what everyone else wants. On another, we want nearly none of those things. At the risk of melodrama, though, after this week Ghana has taken on a larger role in the plot than we anticipated. And now we expect - no, we need – to take a lot from Ghana ourselves. We need to take its faith in God and each other. We need to take its heat - to flush out our comforts and complacencies, and those moments at the end of a long day when we don’t think we have time to show kindness. We need to take its unfailing, unreserved interest in the person in front of you. We need to take its willingness to give Jessica and me a little time together, for once. We need to take its color, its life, its vibrancy. And we need to be ready to take the many other things it will give us unexpectedly.
We’ll give back our open eyes and ears, our experience, and our very best efforts. But if we’re honest, our pockets are pretty empty, and we’ll more than likely rack up some debts to the house. For now, we think Ghana can handle that. Time to deal the hand.
- PG
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