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July 17, 2006
Me Tarzan
Last weekend we traveled to the Cape Coast area, home to some memorials to the international slave trade, where you can learn some of the almost undescribably horrific things that humans can do to one another.
It is also home to Kakum National Park, which has one of four rainforest canopy walks in the world. These bridges are narrow, wobbly and, we were assured, perfectly safe.
The cynics among us (ok, maybe just me and Christos) wondered why you would do this walk except to say that you'd done it. There were no land animals and only a few birds on view from 40 meters up above the forest floor. These seven bridges stood only as a feat of engineering. Aside from the massive adrenaline rush, there was not much to recommend it. Which means that if you're in the country, you must, must go.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 9:52 AM | Comments (0)
'I'm Getting the Bus to Ouagadougou.'
On my way to Bolgatanga, I kept getting calls from a young man who had helped Cathryn on her visit to Ghana last year. I had explained that, unlike her, I had no camera equipment that needed carrying or watching over. But he was very enthusiastic about joining me. And I, not knowing what lay ahead in Bolga, thought maybe it couldn't hurt to have him along.
When the public-transport bus arrived, eight hours late, in Kumasi, where he lived, he was clever enough to meet me at the fueling station, where we parked before moving to the bus stop itself. There, he hoped to talk his way on the bus before the people who'd bought official tickets.
It almost worked, but the bus was one seat short. To stay on, my friend would have to sit on the floor for the remaining nine hours of the journey. I thought, and almost hoped, he'd get off. He'd been flashing me almost constantly for the past hour, and I found his enthusiasm worrisome. He seemed to be leaning towards getting off, but then declared that he wanted to go for it. He looked at me expectantly to cough up the $14 for his fare. I did, and at nearly midnight we pulled out of the station, heading north.
My day had begun at about six, when I woke up and went to meet the driver for a member of parliament who had offered to help me go north to see farms, industry and infrastructure for my story about the Millennium Challenge Account. We took a little time to get to the bus station, and the 8 a.m. bus to Bolgatanga was full. There was a 10 a.m. going to Ouagadougou, the capital of Burkina Faso, that would stop in Bolga, where I could get off. The way to get a ticket was to find a fat man in a Panama hat and get him to take me past the long, motionless line at the ticket counter and into a personal conversation with the teller. "Can't you do something for me?" he asked when this transaction was over.
The 10 a.m. became the 11, and then noon, and then 3 p.m. The trip from Kumasi to Bolga was also longer than promised. (The bus, a big, air-conditioned coach, at least outshone some others I'd been on.) We'd stop at dark but busy markets in modest-sized cities, where fresh bread cost 50 cents and using a urinal in the pitch black cost about three. I had to jump back in mid-use when I realized that the urinal's contents were spilling directly out its bottom.
When we stepped off the bus in Bolga it was 9 a.m., 25 hours after I first showed up at the station in Accra. I had slept as well as one could in a rigid bus seat, and my friend got his own seat halfway there after someone else got off. After we checked into a nearby hotel, and I paid the bill, he asked me where my camera equipment was. Over breakfast, I asked why he'd come, and he said to help me, and for adventure.
We dove into a full day of reporting, interviewing politicians and farmers in several districts running right up to the Burkina border. Our guide was a man named Sadik, who works for the Catholic church in the area and runs an NGO setting up irrigation dams and employment for women.
Unlike the green, hilly south, northern Ghana is flat, dusty and dry, dotted with giant rocks piled like tossed dice and baobab trees within them as if they'd been blown in like dandelion fluff.
My friend's friends, back in the south, didn't believe that he was so far north, so we stopped to buy a phone card he could use to call their cell phones from a land line, to prove he was there. As we asked about the pricing on the cards, I turned to him and said, "Do you have any money for the phone card?" No, he said.
Later I learned that calls on his mobile network were free after 12:30 a.m. Before bed I asked if anyone would be calling that night. Yes, he said. Could he put his phone on vibrate? He rolled over. In the middle of the night, I woke up several times to what I've always thought was the most annoying of the generic cell phone rings.
In all, my expenses for the trip had nearly doubled, and there are no cash machines or check-cashers in this part of the world. On the way back, the bus fares increased from their stated prices on every leg of the trip, even when the bus out of Kumasi failed to start and we all jumped up and ran to another. (In Ghana's defense, these vans had 15 seats and held only 15 people. And before barrelling crazily down what passes for an interstate, the whole bus bowed its heads in prayer.) At the bus station in Accra, a homeless man who seemed to think he'd helped me find my taxi clung begging to the doorframe as we drove off and then reached into the car and punched me in the head. When I arrived at my residence, I had 2,000 cedis in my pocket. Less than 20 cents.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 9:39 AM | Comments (1)
Cultural Encounters, pt. 2
Two weeks ago we took a group trip to Kumasi, Ghana's landlocked, second-largest city. It's a commerce hub and home to the largest open-air market in the nation and perhaps in West Africa. Driving up -- a trip of more than four hours, some of it on roads under heavy construction -- the differences from a country like Mozambique were again evident.
Despite lack of electricity or running water, there was a sense of industry and action among people doing business on the side of the road. Instead of the idle woman selling homemade charcoal, people sold soft drinks, roasted corn, plastic bags full of water and snacks like that looked like empanadas. There were billboards advertising goods that were within reach of the people reading them. Also ubiquitous were "phone booths," just desks, staffed mostly by teens, on which rested old-style touch-tone phones. These have been retrofitted as cell phones, and for a small fee you could use them. Barbers and metalworkers seemed to be in high demand; every few miles we saw giant, intricate, shiny gates for sale. No one looked malnourished.
The sprawl struck me as we drove on and on through dense neighborhoods before finding the city center. At one point we crested a hill and looked down into what appeared to be a massive shanty town. Rusted metal roofs stretched as far as I could see, with no paved roads to break up the dirt paths between them. As the bus approached, things became clear: This was the market. Everything for sale. Shoes, bags, cloth, corn, brass and oil, fruits and vegetables, baby clothes and toys, firsthand and third-. In the raw meat section, all parts were available and the smell was literally dizzying.
Among our scheduled activities was a visit to the palace of the Ashanti king, the most powerful ruler in the nationwide monarchic system that coexists with the federal government. You can seek an audience with the king, but we were just there for the museum. Peacocks dotted the well-kept grounds of the palace, cawing at strangers like cats in heat. We learned about the old ways in which kings were chosen (matrilineal), and their symbols and artifacts--staffs and stools of gold. Without any irony, the tour guide showed us wax statues of the last several kings, preserved, frighteningly lifelike, for folks like us to come and see.
The more indelible cultural details came as we got on and off our tour bus. There, kids teenaged and younger crowded around the bus, banged on the windows and shoved goods in our faces: bracelets and necklaces; Black Stars gear; wood carvings and maps. They asked our names on the way into the palace, and if you told them, on the way out they'd have a bracelet made with yours on it. (They had back stock for common names.)
Just as unsettling was the way that some on our trip, despite having been here for several weeks, misunderstood what these kids were up to. (Not that the organizers provided any warning or guidance.) It is sometimes hard to separate poverty from opportunism, but a few things should be clear: These salesmen do not want your phone numbers and e-mail addresses in the hopes of pursuing romance. To them, "no thank you" means "maybe." No, he's not giving you that for free. Calling us "obruni" (the name for a white person or foreigner) and grabbing our arms -- they don't do it because we are unfamiliar; they do it because it works.
At our second stop this affair was repeated, and by the third some of us had lost our appetite for "culture." Over lunch, we Americans watched a group of Ghanaians drumming and dancing, performing routines that, traditionally, were not meant for the general public, and some of which had been "updated" by this troupe. More heartburn. I thought of this scene again a few nights ago when some of the (white) students here were at the local bar, demanding first American music, and then that the (black) bartender dance to it. They clapped, pointed and yelled instructions as the man got down.
In Kumasi, we stopped between a soccer field and a traditional weavers' workshop. The mob that greeted us was made up of children under the age of 10. They crowded around and asked us for money or pens, or to sign their books, in pitiable tones. They offered suggestions, throwing their arms around each other at the sight of a camera: "You take our picture. Look, take snaps! Look, we are best friends!" I wished I was back with the prostitutes in Mozambique. It was a lower-pressure sell.
A soccer game started up between us and the children, but it broke off every time someone raised a camera. One of the broadcast journalists tried to take video and had to be physically rescued from the crowd. The Ghanaian leader of our trip, handing out leftover rice from our lunch, became instantly popular. "They're not hungry," he told us later -- and indeed, they all looked hearty, and all were well-clothed. "They just don't know this isn't American food."
I looked back at the kids gamely running after the soccer ball, dodging around guys twice their size. Was that, too, staged for our benefit? When they got trinkets or money, which some in our group were passing out freely, the younger kids funneled the gifts through some invisible hierarchy to older ones who probably ran the show. Still, the kids were talented soccer players, and the weavers and printers made unique, beautiful cloth. But after this rude awakening some people kept to the air-conditioned safety of the bus.
Then, on a side road out of the city and back toward Accra, the bus broke down. After a few minutes some filed off to get drinks at a stand set up just a few feet behind us. A group of children came out of the shacks nearby to say hello. Some of us who had just bought African drums started playing, amusing themselves and the kids. Soon some older men who really knew how to drum emerged and took over, and quite suddenly we were having the most unmediated and positive experience of the day. While the old men drummed, some of the performance artists from the bus led an impromptu course in dance for the children. Culture, perhaps, lives after all.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 9:19 AM | Comments (0)
July 14, 2006
Blanket Coverage
The announcement came down in a press release from America yesterday: The U.S. Millennium Challenge Corporation and the government of Ghana are set to ink a $547 million aid deal on Aug. 1. How this money gets spent is the topic of much of my reporting here so far, and there are many fights in parliament and elsewhere over where it will and won't go.
But here is the story as reported by the Ghanaian Chronicle. Many other papers carried similar accounts. Here's the press release for comparison's sake.
Observe the number of sentences beginning "It noted" or "It continued" or "It further noted." Every average Ghanaian who I asked about this project had heard of it -- it was a hot topic. But no mention of controversy here.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 2:45 PM | Comments (0)
Cultural Encounters
It feels like just yesterday that I returned from a trip to Bolgatanga, which lies just a few miles from Ghana's northern border with Burkina Faso. It was an exhausting and overwhelming experience, so to keep the masses opiated I may just post pictures for a few days, starting with this one:
Yes, it is real, alive, spectacular, etc. I was filled with equal unease about whether the thing was about to whip around and bite me and about the environment in which this "ecotourism project" exists.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 2:40 PM | Comments (0)
July 7, 2006
My Fourth of July
To my immediate right is Ambassador Pamela Bridgewater. I believe we are dancing to "Sweet Home Alabama."
To get into the ambassador's residence for the July 4 party, you must start by knowing the super-secret location of the off-site parking. I thought showing up in a cab might be like Tom Cruise doing the same to the party mansion in Eyes Wide Shut, but it was not a problem.
Then I got asked for my invitation. "I don't have an invitation," I said. "I'm a U.S. journalist, from New York. Some friends said I should meet them here." All of this is true, though rarely is it a persuasive argument for anything. But I got waved onto the shuttle bus.
The bus drove us past security, through the big gate and up to the ambassador's lawn, where she stood in a receiving line to greet her 1,000 closest friends. The immense lawn was dotted with bar stations, tents and a booth marked "Coney Island Hot Dogs." Waiters circulated with trays of sweet corn, chips and guacamole, baked beans, bratwurst, burgers and, inexplicably, falafel. The gyro rotisserie sat not far from the swirling margarita machine. People of all races -- many in African robes, some draped in chiefly amounts of gold -- mingled.
Marines presented the colors. A piped-in national anthem played and slowly people gained the heart to sing along. The ambassador toasted the president of Ghana. The Ghanaian foreign minister toasted the president of the United States, albeit with a hitch in his voice as he pronounced the name.
The entertainment was a six-piece band made up of young naval cadets, all white. They wore spotless dress whites and matched their fine musicianship only with their earnestness on tunes such as "Hey Ya," "Supernatural" and, particularly, Toto's "Africa." How many people get to step up to the mic and yell a phrase like "Thank you, Ghana!" before age 20? The first set featured only a couple of dancers, perhaps the office drunks, but by the time the band reconvened and kicked into the Black Eyed Peas, the fireworks on the dance floor were under way. Sadly, that was the only place to find them.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 4:11 PM | Comments (1)
Parliamentary Procedure
It's nice to know that the art of scoring political points is alive and well in this part of the world. Today we spent a few hours in Parliament, and while waiting to talk to various members watched the proceedings from the public gallery. The session opened with a solemn procession and placement of a staff in the well. (Does that mean that they were in the Committee of the Whole?) Everyone stood as the speaker read several prayers, and then the minority and majority leaders had a chance to make statements.
Then came the question-and-answer period, in which members can call on ministers to address their whims. The minority NDC party called the minister of foreign affairs, a member of the ruling party, to ask whether, perchance, Ghana had donated any money to the United States to help with Hurricane Katrina recovery efforts. Yes, the minister said, $200,000 and a statement of sympathy from the president to President Bush. Is there a policy about such donations, the NDC asked. Nothing formal, the minister said, it depends on the relationship with the country. Has there been any similar assistance to, say, African countries affected by national disasters like flood and famine, the NDC asked. Apparently not.
It helps to be in power, though. The minister got the last laugh. When pressed about whether it would be a good idea to make a policy about such donations, or to regulate them in the future, he replied with one of the ultimate political euphemisms: "We'll look into it." Right away, I'm sure.
Journalistic footnote: Given my observations of journalistic quiescence (many stories read like press releases), I was a bit uneasy asking MPs any kind of confrontational questions. ("Your opponents respond to your point thusly. What do you say to that?") I could tell these were irritating to some of the people I talked to, but I was not prepared for responses to some things I thought were more innocuous. When I tried to ask broad questions, I repeatedly got: "Don't ask me that. That's not what your story is about. If you start to talk about that your editor will just get confused. You need to stay focused on what the story is really about here." I'll keep it in mind.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 9:32 AM | Comments (1)
July 3, 2006
Confession
For about $5, several of the beach hotels here in Accra let in anyone off the streets to use their pools for a day. You can get daquiris served by white-gloved waiters or a lesson from the tennis pro.
Though I didn't pose this picture, I noticed the resemblance immediately.
Posted by Adam Graham-Silverman at 9:48 AM | Comments (0)