Growth

The rains have begun, and they are a thing to behold. Everyone told us the rainy season around here would be dramatic, and it turns out they were employing phrases like 'the sky opens' and 'monsoon' in the literal sense. But what no one remembered to mention is the wind that goes along with the rain. It's unbelievable -- easily 50+mph gusts, ripping corrugated metal roofs off of shacks, sending dirt and debris tearing down the streets.

I passed the first of these storms in a tro-tro with a visiting friend. We were going to take a day trip to some botanical gardens outside of Accra, rent bikes, do the tourist thing. Somewhere in the hills north of the city, our van began to rock back and forth in the wind. We pulled over, and almost instantly, we were in the deluge, water pouring in the poorly-sealed (not even sure the use of the word "sealed" is appropriate here) windows. Over the course of an hour, we would occasionally move a little and then stop again. It was unclear what would prompt these decisions to drive on, as, to our untrained eyes, the conditions hadn't changed AT ALL -- rain still beating down, wind still blowing sheets of metal past us, lightning striking all around. I suppose this untrained eye is used to functioning wipers on vehicles, though, so what do I know?

Anyway, after a few hours, it stopped. This cycle has repeated several times over the past two weeks. Total celestial mayhem...and then, everything that survives is a bit greener and cleaner. The idea of rain as the dual-agent of destruction and renewal had until now been a metaphor to me. But in a place where the ramshackle and the rooted, the fortified and the vulnerable, are practically on top of each other, the power of the rain becomes quite literal. It highlights the already uncomfortable juxtaposition of extreme wealth and abject poverty that occurs in a place without much of a middle class.

In this post-rain light, I've decided to finally post my birthday thoughts for Ghana. (And appropriately, I got completely doused on my way to the cyber to do so.)

At 50, Ghana is being touted--both within and without--as a success. The slogan "Championing African Excellence" appears on tee-shirts, billboards, head scarves, television ads. It is clear that Ghana has many things going its way. Respectable democracy, peace, and a ton of money flowing into the country provide a very good base for growth...

...Along with "good governance," "growth" is definitely a favorite buzzword for this jubilee year. From our tiny perch, looking out at one small slice of this nation, it seems like all this talk about growth is no joke. The shops that were around when we arrived have doubled their inventories, little food stands have sprung up along every road, and there is construction (though often with suspicious scaffolding) in all directions. We've witnessed the birth of a new tro-tro station, the formalization of a new route, and the building and naming of a new bus-stop ("Block Factory"). Even our hostel is adding another floor.

[Editorial aside: (1) we have no idea where the "block factory" actually is...you'd think a huge decorative concrete block fabrication facility would be hard to miss, but apparently not. (2) Our hostel definitely has zero safety concern with this new addition, and bits of concrete rain down on the laundry area. However, just as drivers here believe that honking constitutes their sole responsibility vis-a-vis pedestrians, apparently because this construction is in fact visible, we have been duly warned. (3) Is it a 3rd floor or a 4th floor? Tough to say, and somewhat Escher-esque in that way. Thankfully it's not such a seismically active region...]

At first glance, all of this growth seems positive...but linger a little longer and it becomes clear that it's all private and the infrastructure is not keeping up...not even close. Accra is far beyond it's capacity in terms of garbage collection, sewage management, roads, water, electricity. The new residences springing up in this part of town are enormous, but they have no running water. Here's an image. Even without the open -- and blocked sewer (before the rains even started!) -- you get the idea:



And so I wonder about this growth when it can be counted in private new households, not functional neighborhoods; in individual fancy cars, not roads to hold them. While it is apparently easy to throw up a plantain stand next to the road, perhaps the most disturbing aspect of Ghana's lagging infrastructure is that middle-class Ghanaians who want to start on-the-books businesses here say that it's actually quite difficult. A woman down the street, born in Ghana but raised in London, moved back to open a cafe. It's finally running, but it took her two incredibly frustrating years. A friend of mine, Ghanaian but born and raised in New Mexico, just moved back here to start a sustainable mining company aimed at bringing the resources back to the mining communities. He's incredibly smart and has started and run successful businesses, but he wants to tear his hear out over the red tape and corruption. Shouldn't this be Ghana's dream? Educated Ghanaians who want to move back to the country and invest?!?

My birthday wish for Ghana is that growth continue, but that opportunities be accessible to everyone. I'd like to see the government get its act together to support all of these entrepreneurs in a tangible way. Make it worthwhile to be on the books; make it easier to start a business. Invest the resulting tax revenue in infrastructure -- water, electricity, roads, sanitation, transportation -- that will provide a stable backdrop for all classes to pursue better quality of life. Someone pointed out to me that the government spent as much money on the 50th anniversary celebration as the nation received in food aid last year. It's great - and appropriate - to celebrate 50 years of freedom. With a little bit of effort, though, Ghana could be celebrating across-the-board growth and freedom from food aid entirely. In a few years, the rains could be leaving everyone feeling renewed.

Absurdities (a team blog)

We've decided to laugh and categorize as "absurd" the things that might otherwise drive us crazy (like Dick Cheney or China's foreign policy).

1) The West African Concept of Time. A 2 p.m. wedding means 4p.m., a 10 a.m. meeting won't start - of course - before 11 a.m. If government officials are involved, 3.30 p.m. is code for 7.30 p.m. It's ridiculous... even by our standards. On the other hand, taxi drivers are surprisingly punctual... which means we've got the hurry-up-and-wait routine nailed.

2) It is finished... There's some weird belief here that people want to hear and see certain things, even if they are not true. People are always "just on the way" to meet us, even after we've waited twice the time it would have taken them to arrive. Restaurant owners offer a plethora of selections, 2/3 of which are never available. Vendors will keep their shops open, even on days with no inventory. No one ever wants to admit that they've run out of something. Instead, the conversation goes something like..."May we order dinner?" "Yes, please sit down." "What do you have today?" "Oh...the food is finished." The same, by the way, holds true for public services. It's not that the government isn't providing electricity or water. It's just that the water and power are finished.

3) The Religious Free-For-All in Benin. That man says he is Catholic, but he locks himself into his room to do Muslim prayers and he sent his daughter away for 3 months to a traditional healer. That woman says she is Christian, but she makes a daily hike down to the river to clean and maintain the fetishist site. This family is Muslim but they do some nightly incense ritual and all wear voodoo scorpion and snake rings. Everyone has a "kosher" religion that they outwardly claim, but most people are hedging their bets with some voodoo/animist beliefs as well. They're very quiet about these, but the signs are everywhere and so are the stories.

In Kalale, we ate with a family headed by an incredibly warm woman simply known as "Maman." (No one we asked could tell us her name; not that it matters, as it's what she wants to be called.) Maman is known for helping those in need, and her home is part family residence, part guesthouse, and part safehouse. One resident, Lucie, was brought to Maman by a Catholic missionary priest who spent many years in Kalale. He had been out in the bush one day and had run into Baby Lucie and her father. It turns out that Lucie had the misfortune of having her upper front teeth come in before her lower front teeth--a sign, according to her father, that she was a sorceress. He was on his way out into the bush to slit her throat. The priest managed to take Lucie away but it was clear she could never go home again.

The workers in the health clinic are having a hard time combating the prevalent practice of female genital mutilation (FGM) in the region. The Boo people have long performed this ritual on women on the night of their marriage in the belief that it promotes fidelity. In a terrible confluence of religious beliefs, the Boo have recently taken up the flag of the very Christian HIV/AIDS message being spread all over Africa. Now they say that FGM is the best way to prevent HIV/AIDS.

(4) May you go in Peace and not in Pieces. The one bus company with a semblance of professionalism in West Africa (i.e. the bus leaves on time), also offers its very own complementary pre-trip blessing. On our way to Benin, our bus-preacher sent us off with a prayer, screaming "In the mighty name of CHEE-SSUSS" into the microphone and wishing that we arrive as victors, and not victims; that we go in peace and not in pieces.

(Absurdity Add.1: every speaker in West Africa is used at twice its capacity. It's unclear how people get the message through all the feedback.)

(5) The art of asking twice. The foreign exchange bureau NEVER has the currency you need, but stick around and ask two or three more times, and it will eventually come out of the drawer.

(6) My survey enumerator ran off with my money. Enough said.

Ok... none of these is as bad as Dick Cheney or China's foreign policy... but you get the point.

For George W. Bush

Dear Mr. President,

We thought you'd like an update on your African HIV/AIDS initiative. The ABC's have really taken hold here.



Sincerely,

T.C.B.O
(The Concerned Bloggers at Omowe)

An American's Take...

We've returned safely from Benin and Niger, just in time for Ghana's 50th birthday celebration. Photos are up (see post below) and there's much to say, but we're trying to organize it into digestible pieces. Project updates, crazy stories, and Happy Birthday Ghana thoughts all to come in the next few days...

In the meantime, I thought I'd give my perspective on the slice of Francophone West Africa we visited so briefly. As has already been beautifully described by my fellow blogger, the changes are stark and immediate upon crossing the border. Benin and Niger are poorer by all indicators--income, growth, infrastructure, roofing material--but have superior public services. In a funny twist, the currency is stronger (the CFA is pegged to the euro) and everything is more expensive. This felt so...stereotypically French...that it got me thinking.

...and I'd originally planned to keep those thoughts to myself, but then something funny happened. Here in Ghana, people really think that CLA and I are sisters. In Benin and Niger, everyone--regardless of education level and before hearing my present-tense-heavy language "skills"--could immediately peg me as American and her as French. I got a lot of all-knowing "ah, mais oui! tu es americaine!" in two short weeks. Because I apparently stand out so sorely, I have decided to do a little "ah, mais oui"-ing of my own. I hereby *embrace* my sunglasses (the Sahelian sun is hard on the light-eyed), my vegetarianism, my ponytail, my Western Girl self...and give you:

The Reasons Francophone West Africa is SOOO French:

(1) Sidewalks. Seriously, where else are the dogs supposed to do their business? Combine this with the covered sewers and the calls on the bathroomless bus for "ARRET PEE-PEE!" (no joke) and you have a very French equation for who gets to do what where.

(2) Baguette. It may pale in comparison to the wonders of Paris, my dear CLA, but HELLO?!? It's BAGUETTE! Really, when it comes to colonial food legacies, you have to give it to the French. Ghana seems to have inherited from the British a taste for stale doughy white bread, mayonnaise, and prehistoric scone-wannabies appropriately called "rock buns." Benin and Niger feel like little slices of heaven in the morning with tiny breakfast stands everywhere offering up coffee and baguette for the equivalent of 20 cents. Which brings me to...

(3) Caffeine. Niger might be the most caffeine-addicted society I've ever encountered. Coffee/tea stands abound. Tuareg Tea (like the tea equivalent of Turkish coffee) is something, well, to be tried...preferably before noon. My favorite manifestation of this caffeine-craze is a particular breed of entrepreneur in Niger--the walking coffee-man. These guys troll the streets with a toolbox-shaped crate holding coffee and tea fixings, glass cups, and spoons in one hand; in the other hand they haul a perpetually-boiling pot of water sitting atop a homemade 1-gallon tin can stove. They'll stop and fix you a cup whenever and wherever, and prices are delineated by strength: 50 or 75CFA will wake you up gently, 100CFA will start your heart, 200CFA requires bravery, and 400CFA approaches the liquid-solid phase-change boundary. Apparently at more remote customs posts, the coffee-men simply pose the question: "2? 4? 6? 8?"...as in, "how many hours do you want it to keep you awake?" On top of all of this, there's the booming kola nut business. When we asked about trying one, we were told in a very dramatic manner, "You might as well warm up with cocaine." We decided to save it for the next trip.

(4) Cigarettes. Smoking is far more prevalent in Niger and Benin, and the evidence of the puffing colonialists is everywhere: cigarettes for sale on pharmacy carts (!), smoky odor in restaurants, and a sucking sound permeating the speech--even of non-smokers. This goes something like: "Blah blip blah bee blee blah blah [suck in between teeth as though inhaling]...et PUIS...[suck in between teeth as though inhaling] blah bee blee blah." Oh yes, and the French expats in Benin and Niger are, predictably, chimneys.

(5) Everyone speaks French. Before you think, "Uh, Duh!" I am actually getting at something deeper here. The English in Ghana is generally deplorable, except at the very highest education levels. At primary and secondary schools, the official language of instruction is English, but in reality most use an English/local hybrid with the (acknowledged) result that many students don't actually master either. On top of this, many Ghanaians display an unsettling eagerness in any conversation to switch away from English to Ga or Twi or Fanti or Ewe...to the exclusion of others who had been part of the dialogue. Even at the prestigious university in Legon, it is safe to assume that any students speaking English to each other are foreigners. Not so in Benin and Niger. My theory is that it's the legacy of French assimilationist policies: anyone who's been to any school at all speaks the language reasonably well, and it's widely acknowledged that business transactions, important meetings, school lessons, and public conversations all take place in French. People only switch to tribal languages as a last (or later) resort, and even with my remedial skills, I frequently found it easier to understand the French in Benin and Niger than the English in Ghana.

(6) "I can't be bothered with you" attitude. We got a lot less attention for being white in Benin and Niger, which came as a very welcome break. Here in Ghana, people are incredibly nice when interacting one-on-one. They really do go above and beyond--offering use of their phones if you look lost, making sure you get off the tro-tro in the right place, walking with you to your destination if you ask for directions, showing you the back market alleys so you can buy a soldering iron--and they take a lot of pride in their international reputation for friendliness. On the other hand, this can also manifest itself as something that feels far more shallow and race-based in a way that is very difficult to stomach and understand. I usually get asked for my phone number before my name, many people simply greet me as "obruni" instead of saying hello, and I've seen taxis pull high-speed u-turns in front of brakeless tro-tros at the chance for my business--when I wasn't even looking for a cab and someone on the other side of the street was. In Benin and Niger, the live-and-let-live feel is far more prevalent. Of course, there are two sides to every CFA...This also means that bank workers, hotel receptionists, and bus attendants could not possibly care less about helping you change money, fix the fan in your room, or reserve a seat. I had to laugh on our first morning in Cotonou when we asked for directions from a man sitting on the corner. He was immediately *exhausted* by the request, like it was such a thorn in his side to raise his arm to point. Even when it comes to business...maybe the taximan wants to go where you'd like, maybe not. Want to buy a mango? Think again. We got turned down for small purchases by countless vendors simply because this would require getting change...from the stand three feet over.

(7) Nomads. There's definitely a different feel to northern Benin and Niger due to the presence of the Peuhl and the Tuareg communities. Peuhl villages can be found scattered throughout the bush and on the outskirts of towns and cities. The women--dolled up with eyeliner and brightly-colored face decorations--will use the local wells and sell in the markets; the men will graze their cattle right through medians, backyards, the stadium...until it's time to move on. In Niamey, Tuareg men march their camels--laden with hut-building materials--right down the four-lane street, traffic be damned. "But wait!" you say, "This has nothing to do with the French whatsoever." I know, but doesn't the whole "I'll do whatever I please" just fit?

(8) Line? What line? Um, yeah. You have to laugh...birthplace of the Enlightenment, and somehow the complete inability to wait in line not only persists in the boarding areas of Paris-bound flights worldwide, but also in the ex-colonies. Reserved seats on the bus? Still a granny-trampling free-for-all. Teller at the bank? March right on up and dump your documents in the middle of the current customer's sentence. Ironically, the one place we actually took a number and calmly waited (and got) our turn--the Air France office! So maybe there's hope!

Photos V.2 are up!

We are back in Accra, where it took us a mere 2 hours to upload our latest photos! Enjoy... [click here]

The tro-tro, the zemi and the taxi

In this part of the world, most people have no clue how old they are, so it was wildly appropriate that I celebrate my 28th birthday last week in Malanville, at the Benin-Niger border, with neither internet nor phone reception. After a full day in bush-taxis, crammed together in a dying Peugeot with 7 or 8 other people (not counting children), we treated ourselves to an air-conditioned room and some wine in Benin's northernmost market town. It was downright pleasant. That's the good part of spending a few days in the bush of northern Benin, where running water, electricity and asphalt are nowhere to be found. The slightest return to civilization is a celebration.

Over the past two weeks, I got my first taste of sub-Saharan francophone Africa, something I had been looking forward to for a while now: what exactly did the French do here? The ABC bus transport headed to Lagos dropped us off in Cotonou at the Stade de l'Amitie (the Friendship Stadium), our first big surprise here, for it is a wide and vacant space. In Accra, this would have been a brilliant opportunity for another loud, smelly and bustling market. In Cotonou, it remained a majestic, empty plaza with Olympic size stadium and swimming pool. The country may not be growing as much, but it’s got its government services figured out: the sewers are closed, the roads are marked and the streets are lit. And lo and behold there are sidewalks here. I never realized how important sidewalks were until I tried to walk the hundred yards that separate our hostel from the nearest restaurant on our roundabout, in Accra, at night. Believe me. Sidewalks matter.

Yet Benin, being an ex-French colony and all, could use a bit more entrepreneurial spirit. You know the situation is dire when two academics start concocting a list of business ideas in the streets of Cotonou. The list below is just a beginning…

a) A private bus company that understands the concept of reservations. The country abounds in cell phones, yet bus operators in Cotonou are incapable of communicating with those in Parakou to let them know that the bus is full, or that it has only 5 seats left. The guarantee of a reserved seat for a slightly higher price is an idea that has got to be exploited here. People end up taking the more expensive bush taxis once the buses turn them away so my guess is that they would be willing to pay for this.
b) A system of street vendors who sell not only coffee but also pastries. Right now the bakeries have no coffee and the coffee stands offer only stale baguette. Let's bring the coffee and the chocolate croissant together, people.
c) A company that sends out employees throughout the city to sell small change (I must credit this idea entirely to JAB). I cannot even count the number of vendors who turned me down because they didn't have enough change for my bills. Perhaps they would be willing to pay a small fee, a really small fee, for readily available small change? Perhaps they could make up this cost with all the once-forgone sales they would then acquire?

Logistical inefficiencies aside, Cotonou is a rather charming coastal city with beautiful beaches. The tro-tros of Accra are nowhere to be found, giving way instead to zemis – or moto-taxis – that flood the tiled streets and roundabouts. Everybody rides the zemis. If they don’t, they have their own scooters. And – I’m sorry to say – helmets are few and far between. Yet making up for this is the unique sight of middle-aged women in traditional dress and sunglasses, zooming by on their little motorcycles. Seems like I will fit right in…

After a week in Benin, travelling from Cotonou to the North – where apparently they are in dire need of some solar power – we crossed the Niger River into Niger early Monday morning. We headed North and West toward Niamey, moving farther into the dry, the hot and the bare. It’s hard to believe there is ever a rainy season here. We emerged from kilometers of bush and dust, potholes and broken road shoulders, and entered the city on a wide boulevard under an overpass declaring "Bienvenue a Niamey!"

This place is as intriguing and uncanny as it gets. If you look at a map of Niamey, you could almost mistake it for Paris. The Niger River runs right through it, dividing the city into a left and a right bank. The right bank is the university. The left bank is everything else.

In Niamey, the heat is dry and aggressive; the four-wheel-drives share the road with taxis and camels; the call to prayer wakes you up every morning at 5; the women run at the public stadium with hair, elbows and knees fully covered; the street vendors are convinced that if you don’t want to buy their strawberries then you might be interested in their pineapples and if not in their pineapples then perhaps in their mangoes and if not in their mangoes then for sure in their coconuts; the children greet you screaming “donne moi cadeau” (“give me gift”); and the taxis take you where you need to go only if it’s convenient for them. Everytime I lean into the driver’s window, tell him my destination, and wait anxiously for his response as he ruminates over the decision, I think to myself… how very French.

And yet of the three urban centers we have explored so far, Niamey has by far been the prettiest and most pleasant. With more space and fewer people, the city is a lot more manageable. The Southern Sahelian climate blows the trash away to the outskirts so it need not congregate in the city center. And the couscous is almost as good as my grand-mother’s.

We return to Accra on Sunday, bus transportation willing. Here ends our reconnaissance mission. Accra, Cotonou, Niamey. We will not be complete novices again. In each country, we have acquainted ourselves with local cuisines, modes of transportation and Nigerian embassies… just enough local knowledge and local contacts to come back and pretend we know exactly what we’re doing and where we’re going.