Sermons and Ceremonies

The Emmanuel Eye Center sits in a pristine white building two steps down from our hostel and across from Doris and Dan's. It is an anticlimactic establishment on our roundabout, and I have wondered for the past four weeks how an eye center in ghana got such a clean, nice, gated building. It was not until last sunday that I saw, peering through the opened gate, a few dozen people sitting quietly and listening attentively to a man standing above them with a microphone. The Emmanuel Eye Center, I realized, is also a church.

And it seems that every time a nice, neat, concrete building stands out among the packs of shacks, it is inevitably a church. Presbyterian. Episcopal. Methodist. Anglican. Baptist. Charismatic (that one's new to me). Catholic. The churches, along with Shell and Western Union, are doing well in Ghana.

I have attended a couple church services so far (my search for subjects knows no bounds), and I have found them entirely confusing. The preacher screams into a microphone. The content of his sermon is unintelligible to me. The congregants follow the service actively, breaking into a "Hallelujah!" here and there. There is music, sometimes there is dancing; and there is always a big pot for offerings, inevitably full by the end of the service. It's lively, it's colorful, it's loud, and it's got a whole lot of "Jesus". But at the end of the day the precise take-home message remains unclear to me. According to the little I understood of these sermons, and to the weekly Christian paper here, it sounds like Christians in Ghana are told to pray an awful lot.

My husband lied to me about his faith and has disappeared and turned off his cell phone, what shall I do? Pray. My child has been sick for over a week, what shall I do? Pray. My business isn't turning any profit, what shall I do? Pray.

I guess this religious perspective on life would not bother me all that much if every single part of Ghanaian society was not infused with it and praying was not the first obvious alternative to people's woes. All the retail vendors lined up on the side of Accra's streets seem to compete for the most ridiculous religious references on their storefronts. By His Grace Cleaners. Glory Tires. Consuming Fire Fast Food and Catering Services. God Is Great Beauty Salon. I used to think that Nyame was a really important politician I did not know about because that name also appears on every storefront and tro-tro window. Last week, however, I learned that Nyame was merely the Twi word for God.

To be fair - and scientific as us political scientists are - I had to balance out my flirtation with Christianity with an encounter with Islam. Hence we could not refuse an invitation to a Muslim Yoruba wedding last Sunday at the Lebanon House Club. I did not know what to expect of course, but was told that there would be plenty of people and was thus hoping to blend in discreetly on the sidelines or in the background.

When we arrived, we were directed straight to the stage to sit with all the Al-Hajis, next to the bride and groom. We sat down to face an audience of 200 men in robes, staring right back at us. After an hour of people watching and introductions and kneelings and greetings, and after the 3.30pm prayer, the ceremony began. In a blend of Hausa, Yoruba and English, the Imam declared a minimum monetary amount, launching the "Donation Auction" section of the wedding. Audience members came up to donate money while a band of drummers praised each Al-Haji around us in hopes of extracting a 5,000 cedi bill (about 50 cents) out of them. Once the minimum amount was achieved, and we realized this money was going to the Imam and not the newlyweds, we proceeded to the "Refreshments" section of the ceremony, where meat and rice and meat and meat and meat were served. The men and women sat on separate sides of a large square; we, however, were told to sit with all the men at the VIP table, where we were served first. Apparently two obrunis from America can transcend all religious customs here.

This was no random Muslim wedding. This was a high-society Muslim wedding. There must have been a good two thousand guests there; and the MC, who happened to be my contact to all this, invited us two obrunis on stage to introduce my research and the purpose of our presence. When he handed the microphone to me, I tried out one of the many Yoruba greetings I learned last quarter at Stanford: "E Kaasan!" Fortunately for me, greetings are tremendously important in the Yoruba tradition: no conversation truly begins without at least two backs-and-forths of greetings. So my pitiful attempt was enough to delight many a guest and an "aaaahhhh!" of surprise buzzed through the crowd. This, too, is fieldwork?

Later, the bride and groom came into the square to dance and receive, literally, showers of money. By the end of the night, a hoard of kids in torn t-shirts and shorts zigzagged around the labyrinth of tables, scavenging for leftover food.

Blatant income inequalities aside, however, the ceremony - filled with music, colorful Yoruba and Hausa attires, and many many greetings - was a truly and uniquely beautiful experience.

Though I couldn't stop wondering, throughout the night, how many other wives the groom had waiting for him back home.

A Mixed Bag of Justice

A few days ago, a man hired a taxi to our building and then ran without paying the fare. He jumped the fence and took off down the street; as cries of "thief" amplified and reverberated, seemingly every young male in the vicinity joined in pursuit. The startled building residents and several women and old men nearby gathered, watching down the street even though the thief and his followers had disappeared. Apparently, a few people recognized him and said he was known to have done this type of thing before. Lots of "tssk tssk"-ing, head-shaking, and looking into the void...and then, triumphantly, a gang of 15 or so young men appeared around the corner in the distance, marching the perpetrator back up the street to the scene of the crime. Kofi, our building owner, was called out to give the man a stern talking-to, and then he was taken to the police. In the United States, some generous do-gooders might have tried to help in a similar situation, but their actions would have been considered extraordinary; elsewhere in Africa and Asia, people would have eagerly pursued the thief...and then have beaten or even killed him.

...

As guests at a huge high-society traditional Yoruba wedding on Sunday, we watched as immense quantities of food were served down the power chain. The (male) community leaders were fed first (along with us, their guests), followed by elders, other high-powered males. Then the wives of community leaders, female elders, women of influential families, etc. Then onto the subsequent tiers. At each phase, uneaten food was taken back to be recycled and served out to a lower group. What started out as a distinct pairing of rice-plus-sauce for the elite became saucy-rice for the ranks. After a few hours, the already enormous wedding became an open free-for-all, with community members flooding through the gates of the courtyard...some dancing and celebrating, but most looking around for leftover food and drink, or party favors that might later be hawked. Meantime, even after countless courses had been dished to all tables, we were given additional "takeaway" plates. These met with approval at our table, everyone nodding in support of the benevolent extravagance of the hosts.

...

Knowing we would never eat them, we wrapped our takeaway plates in a plastic bag. A particularly industrious boy had been flitting around behind us gathering used cups and bottles and washing them. He clearly had a plan to reuse or resell the cups and to return the bottles for the deposit at the distributor. He wore nothing but tattered shorts, and had a very distended stomach. I quietly called him over. "Yes, you...come here," I urged when he looked at me shyly, unclear as to why I was interrupting his work. When he understood, he slipped over and I handed him the bag, but as he smiled and turned away, a large teenage boy ripped it from his hands. Again, the cries went out, and everyone nearby--young and old--jumped to the cause, ensuring that the little boy got his bag and the big kid got "tssk tssk"-ed. Even when everyone is hungry, theft is inexcusable around here. But what happens when the story doesn't end at the police station? Did giving the boy that bag of food put him at greater immediate risk after the party than his hunger?

...

And then, the stories this morning: suicide bombing in Eilat extraordinary rendition, carnage in Baghdad, and Bashir may be the next head of the African Union. It's hard to say what type of injustice causes the most heartache.

photos!!

Last week saw repeated power outages around Accra, and the lack of fan (or even breeze) stifled any ability to think clearly. So we made a break for it, slipping away to the Cape Coast area, ~150km west of Accra. We visited Kakum National Park, one of the last bits of pristine rainforest left in West Africa, and Cape Coast Castle, a hub of the slave trade for centuries. We spent a lovely shabbat outside the hustle-and-bustle, and returned to an Accra eerily quiet due to the funeral of the long-time Chief of the Ga.

Check out photos and some commentary from our trip here. For the most part, they're very low-res, as uploading is slow and unpredictable. We'll be happy to pass on full-res versions in, oh, a few months.

Doris and Dan

The Catters Hostel, our new home in East Legon - just north of Accra and south of the University - is a 10-by-15 room we call home. And since this is our home in Ghana, we have made it our business to get to know the neighborhood.

We discovered the bread guy on our way to that little French bakery one morning. He sells whole wheat bread out of the back of his van, which he parks on the side of the road, where there is no sidewalk. But don't let this fool you: this guy is all-business. He's got exact change waiting in his shirt pocket; he keeps a close inventory of his supplies and his sales on the little clipbox he hugs close to his chest; he wears a suit and sunglasses; and somehow he does not sweat. His whole wheat bread, by the way, is quite tasty.

We happen to live off one of the main roundabouts in and around Accra. This means two things: (1) it's easy to commute to and from home, and (2) the craziness of Accra's traffic and tro-tros awaits us as we step out the front door. Yet at the center of this circle lies an oasis of calm where Golden Triangle Chinese Restaurant offers disco lights and pretty damn good (if not HOT) Chinese food. Note that the vegetable curry comes with shrimp.

We recently met Doris and Dan in our search for groundnut paste (a.k.a. peanut butter). They own the little shack two steps down from our hostel. Shacks in Accra are microcosms of the NYC Deli. They sell anything from ginger cookies to canned mackerels to toilet paper to candles to wine-in-a-box to malt drinks to cereal. We entered, hesitantly looking around for groundnut paste. Doris smiled and said the groundnut paste was "finished" - an ambiguous term meaning she did not have any - but that she was happy to trek over to Makola market downtown to get us some. When we came back the next day, I immediately noticed three jars of groundnut paste - a small, a medium and a large - displayed on the shelf. Doris and her husband Dan welcomed us. I picked the medium jar, and Doris revealed her business strategy to me as I took out my money: she had payed 15,000 cedis ($1.55) for it at Makola market and was selling it to us for 16,000 cedis ($1.66). That mark-up was certainly not enough to cover her transportation to and from the market... or maybe she was deceiving me and I was naive enough to believe her. Yet Doris and Dan were friendly. Their little shop was neat and tidy and with now two additional jars of groundnut paste on display. I payed her 20,000 for the groundnut paste, not really sure whether I was being nice, duped, condescending, or just plain fair...

My third week in Accra is coming to a term and the turf is slowly gaining familiarity. We have found our running circuits; we know where to escape to for Chinese food; we have learned how to cross the road when vehicles have *absolute* priority; we have a bread man, a mango lady, and doris and dan; I have experienced a wide range of interviews: some are laborious and disappointing; others are random and invaluable; still others are complete misunderstandings. The other day I found myself asking a Nigerian "businessman" to stop calling me "baby" and to stop giving out my number to random people who thought I was in town to "have a good time, baby". Not all interviews will make it into this dissertation.

Our hostel is off a road called Lagos Link. It's on a roundabout named Tetteh Quarshie, a traveler who introduced cocoa to the country in the late 19th century. It's a 2 minute walk from a French bakery. And a 15 minute walk from our running circuit on campus. In sum, it's home... for now.

Address

For those of you who have asked, here it is.

Our names (or just mine if it contains treats!!!)
Catters Hostel, Room 101
PO Box 1539
Cantonments, Accra
Ghana

Mixed Blessings?

yesterday, i accompanied my energizer-bunny, field-working better half to two interviews, figuring i could do my own work and help if needed. the first meeting, at a fancy hotel (named shangri-la, perhaps for the absence of view of accra's main road just beyond the gate), was with a nigerian community business leader. i sat nearby with my own reading, and then went on a little investigative exploration. i had seen a sign out front: shangri-la goes solar! "no way," i thought, and having read a lot of papers recently about the role (and fate) of PV/solar in developing countries, i thought, "let's find out how the system is doing." of course, no one could really tell me much. person 1: the system is for water heating...nice, i thought, though truth be told, i haven't missed hot water in the slightest. it's probably a must for a hotel catering to the elite, though. person 2: the system is partially installed but not fully working...uh-oh, i thought. "when was it installed?" answer: oh, about a year ago. mmmm. me to person 3: "can you show me the system?" person 3: blank stare and giggle. no one really knows where "it" is, though i try to explain that "it" might have several parts that look like...in the end, the idea of the obruni trolling around on the roof was just too much.

after the interview, the businessman offered us a ride to the next meeting location. ghana is a land of incredible hospitality. this man absolutely expected that he would take us; people we meet simply have it ingrained in their bones that they will offer us a soda or snack and we will accept. this notion of how to receive guests is foreign to even the most welcoming westerners. any doubt or polite refusal on our part--from "are you sure you don't mind giving us a ride 40 minutes away?" to "thank you so much but i am not thirsty right now"--is confusing, insulting, or both. here, you accept the drink, and if you don't want it, you leave it aside. here, you accept the ride, even if it puts you where you were going 2 hours early.

so we accepted the ride, in what turned out to be the most tricked out vehicle i've ever seen-- the mercedes version of a land-rover, with all possible gizmos included--video screens on the backs of the headrests, thumping audio system, controls everywhere. and then we rolled across town to a very run-down neighborhood. as is frequently the case, such juxtapositions are hard to stomach. the man, devout in his right (he'd come to the interview after early morning mass) was telling us that religion is peripheral in ghana, it has no political relevance. as he spoke, however, along a 3km stretch of shanty-town, we passed over 30 signs for churches, and every -- literally, every -- tiny shack, curio store, and food stand bore a name with some religious reference. from the top down, it's good to hear that politicians are not obviously using religion for leverage. from the bottom up, however, separation of church and state seems to have taken on a different meaning entirely. i fear--based on tv, radio, sermons blasting out into every neighborhood--that the poorest of the poor are being told from the pulpit that their personal is not political.

the tro-tro game

i stood near the bus stop as tro-tro after tro-tro rolled by with mates twirling their arms out the window, vaguely waving them around and around and calling "sick sick sick" (indicating travel to "circle" a.k.a. kwame nkrumah circle, a main intersection near accra). i was heading that way, but which one to take? there always seems to be an infinite number of tro-tros from which to choose along any given road, so today i made a stab at creating a quick numeric guide.

first, the basic visual inspection is a must. four good tires, no screaming brakes as it pulls over, no big dents, good doors, and no obvious wobbles or i am a no-go. fortunately, this first pass actually doesn't eliminate too many vehicles. now comes the fun part.

(A) rear-window stickers: anything in Twe (i have no idea what any of it means, beyond "welcome") = 0 (neutral); anything having to do with miracles, redemption, salvation, resurrection = -1; blank, subtle, slightly commercial or slightly religious = +1.

(B) driver: nice shirt, relaxed looking = +1; hunched forward and muttering = -1.

(C) mate understanding of "efficiency": stuffing vehicle = -1; getting moving = +1; telling you to sit down = 0 (unclear which of the previous this portends).

(D) seat availability: front two benches = +1; outside seats = 0; back inside corner = -1.

(E) music: news or HITZ 103.7 (beyonce...ghana hearts beyonce) = +1; gospel = 0; radio preaching = -1.

(BONUS) nice mate who doesn't try to rip you off and is kind about stopping, letting you out, etc. = +1

today i scored a 6.

Because raw vegetables have more vitamins...scattered thoughts from day 1

The sound of my mom's voice over a crystal-clear cellphone connection almost made me cry. On one level, there's just nothing like a call from home to simultaneously infuse energy and draw out tears from unknown places. On another level, the little orange plastic sim card I bought for peanuts has already made this a very different experience from the last time I spent significant time in a developing country...it's a tiny piece of rock-hard evidence that technology can make a difference and that alternative models of development are possible.

The itch has been building over the past six years (nothing like grad school to make one feel bound and tied) so it's nice to finally be outside of the walls and to feel the unique grit of travel. I arrived in Ghana safely and despite my immediate pulmonary reaction to this region's particular grit--the Harmattan winds, a lovely weather pattern by which some not-insignificant portion of the Sahara's dust is sucked into the air and sent southwest to hover and settle on Ghana/Togo/Benin/Nigeria--I am happy, healthy, and excited to contribute to the blog. I promise to be more polished in future postings.

To give a bit of a physical sense of our daily life...our apartment is in East Legon, between Accra and Legon, home of the University of Ghana. I spent the first day getting to know the area and fighting jetlag. We hit up the tiny French bakery down the street (anyone want to hazard a guess as to the main reason behind the apartment choice?), walked up to the university, then went into Accra to visit the immigration office (the man at the airport only gave me 30 days on my stamp, and I will probably not leave for Niger and Benin for project work until late February), and enjoyed dinner outside.

Not surprisingly, sidewalks are makeshift or nonexistent and street vendors abound--near our apartment, one can buy pleather recliners, exercise bikes, wheelchairs, mangos, rice, whole wheat bread ("and so much more" according to the ad on the side of the bread truck), phone cards, sponges, skirts and shirts. Here, the cabs and tro-tros (think 20-person Japanese Vanagons) hail you, the pharmacies have names that would never get past marketing (like "Pills and Tabs"), and it's just as fascinating to be an obruni as it is to be a gringa...only, as a bonus, it's not quite as evil.

Beyond the expected developing-developed world differences, two wonderful Ghanaian gems stood out to me on day one. First, the confident and firm "that's RIGHT I'm a female physicist" handshake got me a few winces. Here, it's relaxed and lingering with a little mutual snap at the end. Amazing--an entire nation of surfer bros. I like it. Second, the sign above the student hall at the university reads: "Taco Bell: Where Nice People Meet." Man, that was NOT the case in New Mexico.

It's great to be here.

That tro-tro ride home (I)

This weekend I took a shot at washing my own clothes. I asked Cynthia, Dominic and Ester's house girl (though technically, she is Ester's cousin) to show me which buckets to use. As I started to soak my first pair of pants into the soapy water, she laughed and yelled ''wash!'' I looked at her quizzically. I thought I was doing just that. She grabbed the pants from my hands, and showed me how it's done, scrubbing every single inch of fabric together with fervor, soaking and scrubbing and soaking and scrubbing. This was not going to be the pleasant hour of clothes-washing at sunset that I had envisioned. I observed Cynthia, then tried to emulate her strength and skill, but she only laughed disapprovingly. ''Wash,'' she yelled, ''wash!'' My pride was slightly wounded and I remembered my advisor's warning that fieldwork would be the most humbling experience in every possible way. I'm not sure he had laundry-time in mind when he said this to me, but his words helped nonetheless. I tried to imagine him washing his own clothes in a bucket of soapy water and I laughed.

My first full work-week in Accra has been one of adjustments: waking up before six every morning to beat traffic and rush to every corner of the metropolis to meet my first few research subjects; catching a cold when all I've been doing is sweating; calling it a day at 9 p.m. when Dominic and Ester's two and five-year-olds are still running around in hyper-activity; introducing my taste buds to the savors of fufu and tz, the country's maize, yam, cassava and corn staples - when I really miss those Harvest salads at Bytes Cafe; and for the first time in my life, washing my own clothes in two buckets of water when I really miss laundromats... I am adjusting.

But I've decided I should always give myself two weeks to do just that. After an intense week of logistical frustration, I was afforded a friday evening gift. My tro-tro picked me up at the university main gate, and I was given one of the front seats - the best seats in the entire vehicle if you ask me - from which one enjoys an almost-panoramic view of Medina market winding down on a friday evening. In the tro-tro, no one can accost me in an attempt to make a sale; nobody realizes I'm an obruni (well, sometimes they do but by the time it hits them, I'm already gone). With the windows down, I am a part of the scenery yet removed just enough to observe and absorb in peace. This tro-tro blasted local music rather than Christian preaching (it's usually one or the other), and the traffic was surprisingly fluid. We were cruising home. The music, the breeze, the market. It was one of those moments, and I caught myself breaking into a goofy grin. We stopped at a light. A ten-year-old school girl got out of the tro-tro with her mother. She looked back at me. I waved and smiled. She broke into the biggest smile and waved back, turning her head to see if her mother had noticed. She hadn't, so the moment remained between her and me. The light turned green and my tro-tro drove away. Hesitantly, she waved again. I smiled and waved back and she jumped in excitement. I did not really understand why this moved her so, but it moved me too so I stopped wondering. I arrived at ''housin' down, block seventy nine,'' shouted out ''BASSTOWOP'' (bus stop) the way the locals do, hopped off, and walked the rest of the way home. The regular kids ran out into the path to greet me with an 'obruni!' My friend at the car shop invited me over to gather around a small TV screen with a dozen others to watch the next football game on Sunday (which I unfortunately had to miss as my research duties called). The candy lady across the street shouted ''You are welcome!'' as I walked by. And I arrived home after a long week of commuting and interviewing and bargaining and navigating crowds, happy to put it behind me as I orient myself clumsily through this new city.

Not all tro-tro rides are like that. In fact, most are crowded and stuffy. All you can see are a dozen heads bobbing up and down. All you can smell is petrol. All you can feel is the drip of sweat running down your temple, and that one dripping off your nose, and that other one racing along your stomach. One evening a lady refused to take our tro-tro because I was in it. She spoke in Twi, so I had to venture a guess. But watching her approach the van, notice me, and walk away as she muttered some Twi and an ''obruni'' was enough for anyone to interpret. I was, after all, the only white person in the car.

Last night, Dominic and Ester's boys, the hyper-active ones, Datame and Geybem, practiced their good-byes. Good-bye, Aunty Cleh!

Today, I am moving to East Legon to be closer to the University and Accra. I will have shorter tro-tro rides, running water and access to a washing machine. Not to mention a brand new obruni partner in crime to share all of it with. I have a lot to look forward to.

the obruni has landed

It's Harmattan season in Ghana, which means that the air was the first thing to hit me when I stepped off the plane and onto the tarmac of the runway at Kotoka International Airport last Wednesday. I landed in Accra and was immediately reminded what it felt like to sweat without moving. I am trying to plow through this unfamiliar and uncomfortable phase as efficiently as possible, reminding myself that it takes at least a couple weeks to start letting down your guard a little. But for now... the glares and calls of the locals feel hostile; the five-paved-road system in the suburbs of Accra seems incredibly complicated; the accents, maneurisms and expressions are difficult to parse. I amass a collection of landmarks to find my way, waiting impatiently for that moment when everything begins to look just a tad familiar.

Yet some things already are... like the national obsession with football (soccer), or the sound of Shakira and Wyclef Jean at 6 a.m. in the streets of 'my neighborhood'. If all else fails, we should seriously consider the role that Shakira and football might be able to play in establishing world peace.

I stay with a family in Adenta, a suburb north of Accra. Dominic and Ester are wonderful, welcoming me with a generosity that would seem strange back home. They refuse rent. They forcefully stop me from cleaning their dishes. And they offer to make me dinner every night. Dominic enjoys wine and the fact that he now has someone to drink it with, so I even get to enjoy a glass of red every now and then. I'm at a loss for how to thank them. Dominic assures me it's ok, that this is the 'Fra-Fra way' (Fra-Fra's are one of the many tribes here). I've realized that the only way I will be able to thank them or pay them back will be by sneaking in groceries on a regular basis, and rent money the day that I leave. That's the 'Western way', I suppose.

Adenta has no running water, not because it cannot afford it or does not have the infrastructure for it, but rather because the suppliers of water tanks pay off Adenta's MP to maintain the status quo. So I'm learning to 'shower' as efficiently as possible with one bucket of cold water, which isn't such a bad way to fight off the weight of Ghana's humidity on my poor little obruni body.

It's the little daily victories that bring the most hope and excitement in my days (beside sitting around Dominic's living room and watching his 5-year old and 2-year old boys misbehave). My greatest feat so far has been learning the language of the tro-tro conductors and feeling empowered by getting to know Accra's public transportation system. The tro-tro, just like the matatu of East Africa, is a 10-passenger van seldom carrying less than 15 passengers. It has one driver, whose job it is to find that makeshift lane on the side of the road to curtail traffic (think L.A. rush hour on one lane), and one conductor whose job it is to yell out unidentifiable destinations and wave his hand in such a way that everyone knows where we're going except for me. Five days into this adventure, I've gotten to know those key destinations that are somehow missing from my little Ghana Bradt Guide, and I'm learning where the roads go when the maps end. This, too, is fieldwork?

But if these observations sound like complaints, I will not have done my first week in Ghana justice. True, the locals do stare at me curiously. As Dominic remarked, they stared at him just as much in Pleasanton, California. And if I actually overcome my timidity and say hello to them, they break into a wide smile and reply enthusiastically. It is also the case that every single person I have met, from Dominic's friends to perfect strangers, has gone out of his/her way to help me out somehow. And now and then, when I catch a glimpse of what this place will feel like once I have gained familiarity with it, my heart thumps into my throat in excitement, to the beat of the sound of Shakira.