blo me filla now

I’ve gotten bored with learning straight-up Twi, so now I’m cornering the slang. Blo me filla now is actually Ghanaian English slang (I think); I translate it as “blow (tell) me filler (information) now. Basically the same as “s’up?” I’ve also learned some bad words and gestures. The gestures are especially great. In one of them, you put your hand out in the same pose as if you were going to shake someone’s hand, but you spread your fingers far apart and shake the hand up and down and make a mean face. For another, you stick out your fist as if you were going to give a thumbs up, but instead you wave your thumb up and down a bunch and again with the mean face.

**Adult Content Alert **

Things have been busy. I spent the first part of this week at an abortion workshop for the media. The workshop was sponsored by an American organization called the Population Reference Bureau. The thrust of the workshop was pretty much: women are dying horrible deaths from unsafe abortions because they don’t know that abortion is legal in Ghana. Abortion, like premarital sex and children out of marriage, is highly stigmatized here, and so women don’t like to admit they’re pregnant in the first place, and then don’t like to ask for help if they need to terminate the pregnancy. And, while everybody seems to know about contraception, contraceptive use is very low; women who insist upon it are assumed to be promiscuous, and therefore unattractive. Men seem to think that condoms anyway reduce their pleasure. And there seem to be lots of misconceptions about how to use contraception, especially among young people. Myths about reproduction abound; one we heard about a lot was that many people seem to think that a woman can’t get pregnant the first time she has sex. Parents don’t talk to their children about sex, and I think “family life education” isn’t taught until higher education, so children learn only through their peers. The whole society is set up for an epidemic of unsafe abortion deaths; and in fact it is the single largest cause of maternal mortality (15-30%--numbers vary b/c of secrecy).

It was very interesting to watch the participants over the course of the workshop. At the beginning, nearly all of them thought that abortion was wrong and some even thought that women who die because of unsafe abortions deserve it. We didn’t count or anything, but I’m sure that all of them were either Christian or Muslim, and quite serious about it too. But as the presentations and activities continued, they were completely swayed. Part of it was just the getting the facts straight: knowing that abortion is in fact legal, and not just when the mother might die—so there’s the factual legal aspect. Another part was the overwhelmingly gruesome statistics—the practical aspect of women dying unless... They were also called upon to fulfill the journalist’s duty as educatoràunsafe abortion, and abortion at all, might happen much less frequently if the press took an active role in educating people in general about reproductive health, and targeting parents and young people especially. They heard a lot about their unique capacity to hold politicians and policymakers accountable. For instance, we took a tour of the post abortion care facilities of the biggest teaching hospital in Ghana, and it has one nurse, who comes in the afternoons. The gynecological surgery area (they called it the gynae theatre) had been refurbished (it was literally falling down, I think) and the President had a big news conference about opening it up last year—and it is still sitting empty, no tools, no furniture, nothing. So while the President got some political capital, the people actually got nothing. But I think many, or at least some, were also actually swayed from being pro-life to pro-choice. This was incredible to me, coming from the U.S. where, in abortion “debates,” nobody ever actually listens to anybody else or changes their minds about anything. It was also interesting because the pro-choice arguments that were used were sometimes pretty terrible. But (I think) they had not really been previously armed with pro-life arguments; they had only been told that it was wrong by their pastors and mothers and newspapers and everybody else. So when they were presented with actual arguments, even though some were bad, they didn’t have much with which to combat them.

I think they also learned a lot about straight-up journalism: how to tell a story without judging the players, how to research a story, and also how to advocate.

Toward the end of the third day, I was pretty tired of listening to other people have a conference, but on the whole I think it was (from the point of view of the organizers) a very successful conference. It was also, as a whole, quite interesting to me, first because I just learned a lot about abortion in general and abortion in Ghana, and second because I watched that transformation of people’s beliefs.

** End of Adult Content **

Oh, and Ghana lost to #1 Brazil, 3-0. Boo. But the Black Stars are returning home today, and the city is again abuzz.

The hotel we stayed at was quite posh—hot water! and air conditioning! (which we didn’t even use). And a balcony overlooking the sadly dirty and rocky beach, and clean and rock-free swimming pool. The food was great (ostrich! is! good!) although something decided I was having it all too easy and attacked my digestive system. There was also a guy there whose job it was to weave kente cloth, just for tourists to watch, and another couple of dudes who carved gigantic mancala boards in the shape of alligators. Perty sweet.

In other news, I have completed my selections for my clerkship applications. The whole process starts ridiculously early—the clerkship wouldn’t be till after I graduate. But interviews are in September or October, and I guess it takes a long time to assemble the application packets (letters of reference, resume, writing sample, cover letter, for 70 judges). I’ve been getting lots of pretty clothes and other things made with the wacky wax fabric they have here—my seamstress, Auntie Vera, lives right in my driveway in a little blue rectangular prism, and she does great work. I think I’m probably paying her rent right now. I think this weekend Kristin and I will take a day trip or two, hopefully at least one of them to a pristine beach somewheres. We have Monday off for a national holiday—I think maybe an Independence Day sort of thing? but there’s no big celebration or anything, so the beach should be a fine way celebrate. And I hope to go to the U.S. Embassy’s invite-only party on the Fourth; my boss has an invitation.

The overhead light just went out for some reason.

One crazy thing I saw in the hospital on our workshop site visit there was thousands of files marked confidential tied together with twine and sitting in a big heap on the floor of the obstetrics unit lobby. I would have taken a picture but I didn’t want to violate anyone’s privacy.

I want to upload the right video but using this connection it will take 3.5 hours. It will have to wait.

Enough writing for one day.

. . .

hmm

rumor has it that I accidentally uploaded a short video of a man scratching his belly instead of the jubilations I intended to share. I'll try to rectify this soon.

Time to retire to my hotel on the beach. bye bye.

party movie

Hey everybody. I uploaded a very short and fun movie that I took on my digital camera to www.yousendit.com, which hosts the movie for 7 days or 100 downloads. It's from yesterday, a large group of people celebrating the Black Stars' victory. It should be available here.
My friend Zach also uploaded a movie to the site, which you can see here.

let me know if it doesn't work.

. . .

Ghana Beats US 2-1

sad and happy. But I'm just about the only one. The rest of the city is jubilating, as they say. Everybody is wearing their Ghana shirts today, and many people were wearing one that said Blaster Ghana, including ol' Kofe at our hotel. I asked him what "Blaster Ghana" meant, and he was like, duh! Blackstars! And he's right--that's exactly what it sounds like when they say it (well, mostly--it sounds a little more like Blastah!). So it's a pun! Blaster! Blaster Bashè! Black Stars Will Win!

Next the Blaster have to play Brazil, though--Brazil's supposed to be the best. But if sheer energy is worth anything, Ghana has it in the bag.

water with little green bits in it

Sometimes people here like to reuse water bottles--we are cautioned to check and make sure that there's still a seal on the cap before we drink it. This morning a little old lady nearly got me--I was trying to buy a bottle of water through the window of a cab at a stoplight--she handed me the water, snatched my money, and the light turned green, and, I then noticed, so was the water. Fortunately my cab driver was amenable to turning around, so I returned the water for a full refund.

I missed out the other day on wishing Rachel P. Yung a happy happy 28th birthday! Happy birthday Rachel! and happy anniversary to Alan and Heidi Rubenstein!

And finally, a request--please let me know if you've gotten postcards from me--I want to know how long it takes them to get there. or if they don't get there at all, I need to send more! thanks!

. . .

sick of the Africa posts?

try this! sent in by Alert Reader SWT. Thanks SWT.

. . .

Don't Mind Your Wife Chop Bar

Hi Everybody!

Kumasi was great. The market is fabulous and the town is chill. Kristin and Zach and I stayed at the Presbyterian Guesthouse, which has beautiful grounds, is comfortable enough, and is conveniently located near the bus station. While Kristin and I expected a 4-hour bus ride from Accra, it turned out to be a very bumpy and cold six hours, with an added hour wait beforehand. So we didn't get in till after 11, and managed to scare the crap out of Zach, who'd expected us hours before and had gone to sleep, only to be woken up by the hotel man banging on the door and yelling "ya sistahs ah heeer! ya sistahs ah heeer!" We were all exhausted and delighted to find that the three of us were expected to share 2 single beds. Yes. So we went downstairs to see if there was another room we could rent, and the very nice hotel man gave us his own mattress to put on the floor! I guess he just couldnt bear the thought of us spending an extra $8 just for an extra bed. And was incredibly nice.

So the next day we woke up, bought Kristin's and Zach's tickets home for Sunday, and then wandered around looking for breakfast, which we ended up getting at our hotel anyway. They actually had french toast! and pancakes! mmm! AFter breakfast we wandered down to the market, the amazing market. What seems like miles of tiny little stalls, some so narrow and covered that they're always shaded, others in the bright sunlight mere feet from train tracks, some are permanent structures, others look like they could fall apart if you frowned at them. And thousands of people. And since Zach, Kristin, and I were all wearing Ghana-flag bandannas, both because they're useful in mopping oneself off, and in supporting the Black Stars, the Ghanaian World Cup team, we received countless shouts of " 'ey! BLAKstahs! Ghana! BLAKstahs! You sapport Ghana! Say BLAKstahs! Say Ghana! 'ey!" over and over, so much so that in some places we felt like WE were the BLAKstahs. It was incredible. I've never felt so loved by a myriad of strangers. Besides the people, and the stalls, the market was full of wonderful products: traditional kente cloth, delicious coconut toffee, leopard skins, huge heaps of flour, spices, tomatoes, fish, snails, onions, tiny peppers, used clothing, new clothing, candy, dish soap, towels, little bits of metal, everything. It defies description.

AFter we had exhausted ourselves in the market, we went to the National Culture Center. The NCC consists of huge, quiet, grassy, tree-y grounds, with a few giftshops and some artisans workshops. It was nice to walk around and look at things quietly after the market madness. And the stuff sold there was quite beautiful--skirts and shirts and placemats quilted with batiks, wooden figurines, pottery, stationery, etc. AFter an hour or so at the culture center, it was time to find a bar to watch the Ghana-Czech Republic game.

The game was amazing experience of the day number 2. We really wanted to watch it with Ghanaians, so we tried a few places that were in the guidebook, but they were either filled with obrunis or didnt have the game on for some crazy reason. We mentioned our plight to one fellow, though, who very nicely showed us first to one bar, but their reception was off and they were only getting soap operas, and then over a big footbridge over the train tracks to another little bar, where about 15 Ghanaians had gathered to watch the game. We settled in, got some beers, and the game began. The Black Stars scored in the first three minutes, causing so much excitement that many could not contain themselves and had to run in and out of the bar, shouting and yelling and singing and dancing. It only got better from there. The Czech Republic never scored, Ghana scored again in the second half (more ecstatic celebrations), and when the game was won, the bar erupted into a wild dance party. Truly incredible. After the wildness got a little too wild for us, we walked home amid the unbelievably happy city, shouting and yelling "BLAKstahs! Ghana!" to every person we saw, dodging and waving at the honking taxis, and just having a gay old time.

After that, anything would be a letdown, and so it was. We watched the US-Italy game at our hotel, along with a bunch of Canadians. The ref tossed out three players, two of which were Americanos, and so we played a man down thru a lot of the game--we were lucky that it only ended in a tie. After that game, rather deflated, we ate ourselves silly at a delicious Indian restaurant, and hit the sack.

On Sunday, everything was closed, so we just went back to the market, which was weirdly empty. Many many traders were at church, or just took the day off, so it was much quieter. I asked one lady if everybody was at church, if that was why it was empty, and she said yes, and asked me why I wasnt at church too. I cant remember exactly what I said then--I think I tried to equivocate--but whatever it was, wasnt satisfactory, so she then asked if I believed in God. Not sure what I was getting into, but not wanting to lie outright, I said no, and asked if she did. "Of course!" she said, and told me she was a Jehovahs Witness (the apostrophes are broken on this keyboard). Fortunately or not, some distracting thing happened then and we walked off without any attempts at conversion (if that was indeed what was about to happen). Not much else happened there--we went back to the hotel, rested a bit, and then Kristin and Zach got on the slow bus back to Accra. Me, I wrote postcards, watched some soccer, and hung out with some ex-Peace Corps Volunteers. After a street-food dinner of rice and sauce, I took a taxi to the place where I met my boss, Nana, and two other interns, Sasha and Neisha (both in their first year of University in the UK).

The place where we were staying was sort of a hostel for public servants. It was your basic hostel--shared toilets and showers, small room with two twin beds, a tiny desk, a wardrobe, and a fan. I slept horribly that night because my neighbor was listening to his radio quite loudly, until I asked him to turn it down, which he did, but then got up and started playing music with a surprising amount of bass at 4am. Up for real at 7am, we met downstairs and then the workshop we were there for started.

Note--the contents of the following may not be appropriate for children.

Nana was doing a womens rights and gender and politics training session for members of the National Commission on Civic Education. People in this group are supposed to provide civic education to other people, I guess. Anyway, it was eye-opening. When Nana said that any penetration after a woman says no is rape, even if she has previously consented to sex, most people in the room (mostly women) started laughing. When she asked people what they thought about this, many of them said that they thought it was physiaclly impossible for a man to withdraw when he was already engaged in sex. This is just one example of the many views expressed which I found rather disconcerting. The man in charge of the NCCE told us that because men have billions of sperm and women have only millions of eggs, and since the number of eggs she has decreases over time, men and women aren't equal, and we should only speak of humanity. The superiority of men was constantly raised as a view both women and men share that prevents women from progressing here. This sort of thing went on and on. It was hard to know how to react--sometimes I couldn't help but laugh. It was hard not to jump in and lay down the law, but I'm guessing that wouldn't have been very helpful for anyone, so I'm glad I didn't.

Back to the G-rated blog.

After the workshop, Nana and the other two interns and I hopped in the SUV she'd rented, along with the driver, and drove back to Accra in the most harrowing drive of my life. Most of it was in the dark, in the rain, and at speeds of between 120-160 kilometers per hour (I think this is between 100 and 133 mph?), passing huge, Highly Inflammable No Smoking trucks on curves uphill. Truly terrifying. I have never been so convinced I would die any second, and certainly not for 4 whole hours. The other two interns managed to sleep through it all, I have no idea how. One nice thing about the trip, though, was I could ask Nana all the weird Ghana questions I'd been accumulating. I learned that cocoa is its largest source of money, followed by gold, of which they have lots. I learned that foreigners may not buy land in Ghana, probably because otherwise the whole country would be owned by foreigners. Instead, they have to lease it from the gov't in 50-year swatches. Most of the rural land is owned by the chiefs, which is why they have remained so important in Ghana (I guess they have become more obsolete elsewhere). The British apparently tried to nationalize all the land when Ghana was still part of the Gold Coast Colony, but the Ghanaians opposed it so strongly that it failed. HOwever, the chiefs owning everything in trust for the people hasn't worked out so well--some are corrupt, and take the money they get from leasing the land for personal use, others are just not very good managers and make bad deals. I also asked Nana if she could carry stuff on her head--she can, but just one bucket and she has to hold it. I found out that she is one of 12 children--her father had two wives (quite common here), and her mother had 4 children, her step-mother 8. Her father was a big-time government accountant, her mother a nurse, in charge of nursing in one of the major hospitals in Accra. So unlike many Ghanaians, she had strong role models who emphasized education a lot. It was nice to have some time to just chat with her, as she is usually so busy that it's all businses. She's quite kind to us interns, though.

So that was my big weekend in Kumasi. Nana told me that I'll be attending a workshop to inform the media about abortion from Sunday to Wednesday, and staying at what sounds like a nice hotel on a nice beach not far from Accra.

Last Friday, before I left for Kumasi, I went with Cynthia and Sasha and Neisha to the jail to see the prostitutes whose HIV status was forcibly tested and then announced in court. We didn't get to see them for a long time because the police commander at the station insisted on giving us a very long lecture before he would let us see them. He told us a confusing version of the facts of what had happened to the women, and then worked himself up until he was yelling at us, why, if prostitution by women who knew they were HIV+ was so great and we were here to help them, why weren't we out on the street doing it ourselves? huh? huh? Once again, I was utterly at a loss for how to respond, and chose wrong--laughing. But it didn't matter too much--I tried to explain to him (the other interns and Cynthia were just silent, which he didn't seem to want) that regardless of the crime they were alleged to have committed, they still had rights. This argument didn't get very far--he then sailed off into a 30-minute description of how great his human rights record is. But for the most part he remained good humored, and eventually permitted us to see the women. We were led downstairs to their cell--nine of them in one little cell. Several were sleeping, the others were just sitting, and had probably been just sittin for days. Unfortunately, I had bus tickets for 4pm to Kumasi, so I was only able to interview one. Her english was not so good, but eventually we established that she had not, in fact, been ordered to an HIV test by the judge, and she insisted that she was not HIV positive. I had to leave shortly thereafter, but as it turned out, none of them had been tested by the judge--it was the completely wrong group of prostitutes (which its hard to understand that the commander didnt know, since he gave us such a long version of exactly what had happened to them). Apparently the prostitutes we are looking for are in an actual prison somewhere (I dont know why) and the red tape is such that it will be impossible for us to see them before their trial on Monday.

So anyway, I had just left the police station to catch a taxi back to my place to pick up my stuff to go to Kumasi when the police commander called me over to his van and insisted on giving me a ride back to my neighborhood and taking my phone number (I am too slow to forget that I have a cell phone). Hes nice enough, though--we chatted about his visits to the US--hes been to 15 states, all in the name of police-chaplain-evangelism (there was jesus stuff all over his office).

While Ive been writing this, Ive been downloading information about judges for my clerkship applications, which are due on Friday. But it takes forever and Im hungry and tired of not looking at the porn that my neighbors are surfing for, so I think I will stop.

. . .
p.s. The title comes from the name of a chop bar (relatively fast food establishment) that I saw on my way home from Kumasi.

the editorial

http://allafrica.com/stories/200606150586.html

Court. Was. Cool.

Tony, the husband of my boss, Nana, is a partner in a law firm here and very kindly invites us interns to come to court with him when there's stuff to see. He is the former First Lady's attorney, and was arguing a motion in court this morning. Anyway, he was running late this morning. By the time we arrived, the courtroom was standing-room-only, the protesters and police (on horses) were in full swing, and there was only a very short wait before the judge entered the courtoom to being proceedings. I was standing at the side, right up near the front, so I could see everything and hear mostly everything.

The judge here, I guess as in England, is called My Lord, or Your Lordship. And the judge and all the attorneys wear blond raggedy wigs that look ridiculous (to me, anyway). Each attorney for the more than 10 defendants introduced himself in the hushed tones that for some reason Ghanaian men seem to prefer. This makes it very hard to hear them, especially over the phone or over a large group of chanting protesters with drums and other percussion instruments.

Tony spoke first. He was making a motion to dismiss the case, because exactly the same facts are involved in a civil suit that has been ongoing for the last 2 years. He argued two courts trying the same case and potentially reaching contrary results would be unfair and affect the public confidence in the courts (which is probably not too well founded to begin with (see previous post)). In order to make this argument, he had to argue that the court, using the Ghanaian Constitution, had the power to curtail the AG's prosecutorial discretion. This has not been established in Ghana (I think), so he had to rely on cases from the British Commonwealth, of which Ghana is a part. But those cases have only persuasive force in Ghana (they are not binding precedent). This particular Republic of Ghana, the Fourth, is very young, just 12 years old, and the other republics have been broken up by longer military regimes, from which, presumably, there aren't many useful judicial opinions. So it's kind of exciting to be a lawyer here. You get to make lots of new arguments.

It seemed to me that he was essentially reading his brief on the motion to the court. The arguments were clearly new to the judge, and Tony had to spell out the names of the cases that he referred to for support so that the judge and others could write them down. So I'm guessing that one doesn't submit briefs in advance (the parties also do not share evidence with one another). Needless to say, this has a very inefficient feel to it. And it's unfair, too, because the parties don't have the opportunity to construct the best arguments they can because they do not know what arguments their opponents will make.

Anyway. Tony spoke for, I think, two hours, and then the Attorney General of Ghana responded. His position was that the AG has complete discretion over prosecutions and that the court does not have the power to dismiss cases on grounds of capriciousness or arbitrariness. The AG was much briefer, probably only about a half an hour, and then Tony was given 5 minutes (but took about 10) to respond. Then it was over and the circus began. The former President, J.J. Rawlings, and his wife were both present, and they are wildly popular here, so there was a big crush of people around him (he has bodyguards that pushed me out of the way several times (gently)) and the protesters were going nuts, and everybody was yelling. Quite impressive. Then they got in their big car and drove away.

The next installation of this story will have to wait until July 13th, when the judge will make his decision. It seems likely that Tony will lose because in the lower courts the judges, and this judge in particular, are generally unwilling to make big juicy new law. But he can appeal, of course, so the actual trial, even if he loses his appeals, probably won't start for months and months, at least.

Tomorrow night, if all goes as planned (which really means something here), Kristin and I will leave for Kumasi, in central Ghana. I'll be there thru Wednesday for work, some kind of civic education regarding gender. Kumasi is famous for its market, the largest in Western Africa. More on this soon.

. . .

newspapers and prostitutes

big news! My article on the right to information was printed in the Daily Chronicle, p.3! They didn't print my picture (the newspapers tend to fill space with pictures of whatever, including the authors), but it did get a whole page (thanks to the very large pictures of the Minister of Information and the Attorney General). They also quoted a big chunk of it on the editorial page and said that it "clearly should have been the clarion call of particularly media practitioners and all lovers of democracy who crave for openness in governance and democracy." I'm a star! It's possible that the newspaper will put it online sometime today or tomorrow: http://www.ghanaian-chronicle.com/

Also, yesterday I visited a Ghanaian jail for the first time. My boss is (rightly) very upset because when 9 alleged prostitutes were picked up by the police and then brought before the judge for indictment, he ordered that they be given HIV tests without their consent and then announced the results in open court without telling them first. Seven of them were HIV+. Some of them were pregnant, too, but the judge called them liars and refused to grant them bail. So yesterday we went to a jail to meet them, so that today we interns plus a woman from my office, Cynthia, the-always-fabulously-coiffured, could go interview them about what exactly happened, starting from when the police picked them up till the whole business with the HIV.

So I saw the jail, and a little bit of a holding cell, which was dark and crammed full of people. My boss told me that people being held in jail do not eat unless their family brings them food. She also told me that a third of the prisoners in Ghana are people awaiting trial, and some of them have waited much longer than they would have been in jail had they been speedily tried and found guilty. Shocking. Anyway, the police wouldn't let us see the prostitutes, because the case has been in the news and he was concerned about PR problems, especially since one of the people was my boss (as I said, she's famous--two complete strangers greeted her by name at the jail), and four (me and 3 other interns) of them were clearly foreign. So since his boss wasn't there, he wouldn't let us talk to them. But my boss supposedly cleared it for us to go again today, so we'll see. I don't know how she decides which unbelievable human rights violation to try and improve. Seems like the jails and prisons are ripe for it. I think I will see more of them later, which I am a little apprehensive about.

I am going back to court this morning for the next part of the Rawlings trial. It should be very exciting, although it's raining cats and dogs right now, so maybe the protesters will be discouraged.

I wrote the next post, about mangoes, a couple of days ago on my computer and just uploaded it today.
. . .

How to Eat a Ghanaian Mango

written on Tuesday, June 13th.

Mangoes are Magnificent! They are so sweet and big and juicy here that really they’re better than cupcakes, even. The best way to eat them is to go to a fruit stand on the street. They are run by what we like to call “Fruit Ladies” (the food stands are almost always staffed by women, as is most agriculture and trading here). I don’t know where the Fruit Ladies get their mangoes, but I’m sure glad they do. Anyway, they are incredibly adept with their big knives, and they can skin a mango and cut it into pieces, dump it in a bag, and then in another bag, without ever touching the flesh of the mango with their hands. This is how it works. You approach the fruit stand, which usually has a very decoratively piled pile of mangoes, another of pineapples (I like them too but they just don’t have the star quality of the mango and they get in your teeth even more), usually a big pile of bananas (nature’s immodium), sometimes oranges (the oranges are a whole nother story—have I mentioned them yet?), and papaya. If you’re like me, you especially like to try out your Twi on the Fruit Ladies, so you might wish them good morning (maachee), or good afternoon (maaha), and maybe ask them how they are (woHOtizein), in response to which she might smile or laugh, and say she’s well (muHUyay). Then you tell her that you want ¢4000 (about $0.40) worth of ripe/soft mango (some people like them harder and tarter). A ¢4000 mango is smaller than a ¢5000 mango, but still plenty for one person. Then your Fruit Lady will pick out a ¢4000-size mango, wash it off in a bucket of water, and then pick up a clear plastic bag (they call them rubber bags), put it over her left hand, and then hold the mango in that hand. With her right hand, she’ll pick up a big (approx. 9” long) knife, and very quickly slice off half the rind. Then she will cut up the peeled side of the mango in a grid, and slide those pieces off into a clean bowl. Then she’ll turn the mango over on the bag hand, peel and slice the second half. After all the pieces are in the bowl, she’ll slide the pieces out of the bowl into the bag she’s been wearing on her hand (but not on the part that’s been touching her hand), tie a knot in it, stick a toothpick in it, and put the clear plastic mango bag with toothpick all together. Delicious.

In my last post I think I mentioned that Ghana made it to the World Cup for the first time ever, but forgot to mention that last night (Monday) Ghana actually played in its first World Cup game ever. They are in the same round-robin group (whatever that is) as Italy, the Czech Republic, and the U.S. I gather that this is a tough group to be in, and that Ghana is not expected to win. Everyone is nevertheless very excited and if I hadn’t been sick I would have been watching it too. I plan on watching the Ghana-C.R. game on Saturday (perhaps in Kumasi?) for sure. And most definitely the Ghana-U.S. game next week. Anyway, we (Ghana) lost last night. Zach watched it with many many Accranians (?) in Independence Square, a huge, soviet-looking, nearly-always-empty square with gigantic bleachers downtown, and Kristin on the roof of a bar with many others. I wish I could have gone. But Saturday for sure.

. . .

maaha (=good afternoon in twi)

Hello! I’m back!

Weeks are busy here. Last Monday Kristin and I moved into what we affectionately call “Obruni House,” which means “White People House.” Our landlady, Auntie C (Auntie/Uncle is a term of respect for an older person; if someone were more my peer but still older, I might call her Sister/Brother), also owns a big apartment building and two other houses (at least), all in the same compound, and which she rents out to short-term obrunis (hence the nickname). So the entire compound is filled with (for some reason a high concentration of) Germans & Danish, plus now at least three Americans (Kristin, her colleague Katrina, me) and one Canadian (Zach, my colleague). Auntie C is a tough old lady who can’t be bothered to keep us all straight. So anyway, we live in one of the houses, Kristin, Katrina, Zach, Simone (German) and me. Our house is very basic, but pleasant. We each have our own room, plus a kitchen and living room, two showers and two toilets, a nice porch, and 3 ½ refrigerators, of which only 1 ½ work, and one of the working ones will shock you if you touch it in the wrong place.

I suppose I should mention that here race doesn’t have quite the tension that it does in the U.S., at least in my experience. People here (especially children) shout “obruni” at me, quite good-naturedly, as I walk down the street, to which I respond with “obibiní,” “black person,” to the giggling delight of all. Everyone stares at and talks to me, and this is normal and doesn’t make anyone feel guilty or embarrassed. I suppose if this regularly had negative consequences (other than being sort of annoying and getting charged more for stuff), I would begin to resent it more, but people are generally so nice that it’s hard to feel bad about it.

No one here EVER expects me to know any Twi, which I have learned a few words of, so whenever I say “thank you,” (medaase) there’s always a doubletake, and usually either more giggle or a smile, and if they get over their astonishment quickly enough, the appropriate response (oso medaase, I think). It’s kind of sad that so few white people here ever learn any Twi that they’re shocked when I say anything in it.

Anyway, on with the news. Our new place is great, serves our purposes nicely, and costs about half what we were paying at the hotel. It’s nice to have a kitchen and common space to hang out in. Unfortunately, we also have much less contact with Ghanaians. At the hotel, we chatted daily with our hoteliers, Kofe and Kofe and Kwabna, and Akan, as well as other hotel dwellers, plus our daily strolls around the neighborhood to buy fruit, bread, water, and dinner resulted in very nice regular interactions with several people. That doesn’t happen so much in our new neighborhood, Osu. Now we live with white people instead of black people, so of course we see less of the black people. Also, Osu is a tourist neighborhood and general city hangout, so it is much more impersonal and less overtly friendly. So we miss Asylum Down, our old residential neighborhood, quite a bit.

One nice woman we have met in our new ‘hood is Auntie Vera, our new seamstress. She’s a wonder at copying our western clothes. I wore right through the bottom of my favorite brown linen pants, and now I have two new pairs, exactly the same, in brown linen and blue. I have most recently asked her to copy a dress from a picture, so we’ll see how she does. If there’s something wrong with it, alterations are free, so I’m sure it’ll turn out great.

Work is fine. My boss has returned from the U.S. and she utterly changes the atmosphere of the office. People are constantly calling and stopping by to see her, suddenly there are constant meetings, and plenty of work to do. She’s a local celebrity—sometimes the newspapers (which I love to read—they’re comically dramatic, partisan, and will do anything to fill up space) will insert her picture for no apparent reason next to any story that might conceivably have anything to do with human rights, regardless of whether or not she’s involved in the story or was interviewed or anything. I think that today we will submit an article I wrote about the status of a right to information bill (like the Sunshine Act) and why we need it to the newspaper, which I think they will print as “news” (like I said, they need to fill space). And more recently I’ve been researching reproductive health—what obligations the government has through international and regional covenants, and the constitution, what it has done to fulfill those obligations, and what it has yet to do. There is a lot of research required for this, but I haven’t progressed very much because of all the other stuff going on at work. Last week I accompanied my boss and our Police Accountability project manager to the Office of the Minister of National Security (!!), where they debriefed him on the PA project and duly received his support. That was pretty cool. And so little security involved! no patdown, no id required, just a polite request to turn over any phones, cameras, or recording devices. The Minister himself was a typical politico, liked to talk, but gave Edmund plenty of time to talk about the project before his speechifying. My job was to take notes of the conversation, minutes, which I’ve never done before, and which inspired me to want to learn shorthand (and then I quite coincidentally found a book teaching shorthand and the market this weekend!).

Did I mention before my trips to the courts? The first time, a couple of weeks ago, we went to the Supreme Court, where three justices read out their opinions (more than an hour each), and 2 justices concurred. The reading of the opinions was quite boring, first because we knew little about the case (after listening for quite a while I discerned that it was a procedural matter, rather than the conclusion of a case), and second, because it was very hard to understand the justices, all because they spoke softly and the microphones were inadequate, and some had very strong Ghanaian accents, which takes some getting used to. So it was a slow way to spend a morning, but it was still exciting to have gone to the Supreme Court. The second time we went to the equivalent of District Court to see my boss’ husband defend Mrs. Rawlings, the wife of the former president of Ghana, against criminal charges (I think conspiracy to defraud the state, or something similar). We got there quite early, which was good because later the courtroom became incredibly packed with family (including her husband, who is something of a cult figure here) and supporters and opponents of her husband’s party, lots of police in riot gear, and the press. There was one short case that was adjudicated before Mrs. Rawlings’ case, and after it the judge announced that all further cases that he would hear would be moved to another courtroom. It’s possible that this was meant to fool people into leaving, so as to make more room for security people (or so it was postulated by our friend the lawyer) but, whatever the purpose, it succeeded in causing lots of confusion, especially among those of use who had no clue what was happening. So we trooped downstairs, only to find that the Rawlings case had not, in fact, moved, so we went back, but of course our seats were long gone. In the meantime, many supporters from Rawlings’ party had shown up and were chanting outside, so loudly that it was very hard to hear what was going on in the courtroom. After lots of hubbub, a different judge finally entered, everyone bowed, and the trial began with a motion by our lawyer friend to adjourn until June 15^th (it’s not clear why). This was granted. Then the Deputy Attorney General, who was prosecuting the case, requested that the chanters outside be found in contempt of court if they continued to disrupt the proceedings. The judge thought that this was ludicrous and that they would go away later on in the trial. Apparently all this was political posturing. There seems to be an inordinate amount of political posturing here. So I hope to go back on Thursday to see what happens next in this installment—whatever it is, it should be interesting.

Last week, Zach and I accompanied our boss and some other interns to a meeting at one of the most expensive hotels in Ghana. The meeting started off with lunch—which ended with mm! crème brulee.

Last Friday, the World Cup started. Ghanaians are passionate about football (soccer), and this is the first time they have made it to the World Cup, so they’re officially nuts-o. During games, there’s no traffic in the streets and it’s hard to get a taxi or anything else. On Saturday, Kristin, Zach, and I met one of Kristin’s colleages, Augustine the Argentine, to watch Argentina beat the Cote D’Ivoire. We ate dinner and watched the game in a delicious Argentinean (technically South African beef, though), steakhouse, the likes of which none of us would have been able to afford in the states, and, by Ghanaian standards, was incredibly expensive. As it happens, though, we were late to the game because Zach, walking on the sidewalk alone in the dark (it gets dark early here because we are close to the equator—around 6pm), fell into a big square hole in the sidewalk. The sewers here are in large part open sewers. When I imagined this back in the U.S. it seemed a lot grosser than it is. They don’t usually stink, nor do they overflow (much). However, the idea of falling into one still is just about the grossest thing I can imagine happening here, and Zach fell into a BIG one (most are only about 2 feet deep, but his was such that he didn’t touch bottom when he’d already fallen in up to his chest). Luckily, he caught himself, or who knows how far he would have fallen or what would have happened to him if he fell all the way in (he said that some people from a tro-tro saw him fall, so we hope that they would have helped him). Anyway, he scraped up his knee pretty badly, and came home streaming blood from his shin. Truly wonderful. So we spent lots of time and products in cleaning him up, and hopefully his leg won’t become gangrenous and fall off. In the U.S., you’d sue for this sort of thing—in lots of places, the open sewers are covered up with cement blocks (I think usually the deeper ones), but the blocks will be randomly missing, resulting in gigantic holes in the ground. But nobody does here. And the government is probably what we law nerds call “judgment-proof”—you could sue, but they wouldn’t have any money to give you if you won. I think the pointlessness of suing here is probably one cause, or symptom, of why lots of governmental programs don’t work all that well. I also found out recently that there is basically no public interest bar here. No one does impact litigation. Hence there is no way to force the government to do anything, despite the many rights enshrined in the Constitution. If you want to achieve anything, like a substantive right to information, you have to work through the government, which is a tricky business. Essentially everything is done either through foreign NGOs, local NGOs with foreign funding, or through lobbying the government.

Also on Saturday, at about 5am, I was slammed with a new bout o’ the runs. yippee. That day, instead of eating rice and bananas, I ate steak and wine. Mistake. On Sunday, with the added symptom of headache, instead of staying home in our nice cool house, I made another Mistake and went with Kristin and Katrina and Zach and a bunch of Germans to Kokróbite, a resort beach about an hour away. The beach was beautiful and the waves quite powerful (the undertow switched directions in mere minutes, kind of scary), and the kitch-sellers plentiful, but I should have stayed home anyway. By the time I came home I had a fever of more than 100ºF and still the wicked headache; I finally took some cipro (antibiotic), but this didn’t sit well and in fact decided to reemerge the way it came in around 11 pm that night. So yesterday was miserable and I finally went to a doctor here (at a clinic for a law firm, where the founding partner is associated with CHRI), who diagnosed me with gastroenteritis (I think this = “stomach illness”) and sent me home with instructions to continue the cipro and to drink 3 liters of water a day. The rest of yesterday was quite tiring—I ate very little yesterday or the day before, plus I was reading War and Peace again—but today I feel much better, no fever, etc. yes.

And today, good news from work—I get to travel with the boss on Monday and Tuesday to Kumasi, Ghana’s second biggest city, located right in the center of the country, to do some kind of civic education on gender and something, I forget what, for some people, I forget whom. Tonight Zach and I are going back to Asylum Down to get some shoes made for him (I had some sandals made for about $10), and to pick up some clothes I had made when I was still living there, at a place called Prisdeen Enterprises.

So, the job so far has been great in terms of exposure interesting institutions and people. I really like some of the food (plantains, “groundnut cake”= peanut brittle, mangoes, bananas, fried chicken and the fries are delicious), although many dishes are acquired tastes that I have not yet acquired. And I’ve really enjoyed both the Ghanaians and westerners that I’ve met here. Oh yeah, and my new bank card and care package has arrived (thanks Mom!). Pretty good first four weeks. I'll do my best to post more regularly.

cheers!

. . .

6/6/6

just noticing. more later.
. . .

one very bad morning

written yesterday, June 1, 2006

Last night, after arguing with a tro-tro driver about whether or not I was going to pay an amount the equivalent of which was about $0.08, I lost my wallet, containing about $30, 5,000¢ (about $0.50), my credit card, my friend Rachel’s credit card, and my driver’s license. I discovered the loss this morning when at 7:15am Kofe, one of the hotel guys, knocked on my door with my clean laundry, and I needed my wallet to pay him. Fortunately, most of the cash I had gotten from the ATM wasn’t in my wallet, so I was able to pay him, but then there was the matter of finding the wallet. So off I rushed, retracing my steps along the very highly traveled route we had walked last night, asking at the tro-tro stop (interesting, the phone card lady had a lost checkbook someone had left with her, but no wallet). No wallet. So I crossed the street, with the intention of asking the tro-tro drivers who were going to the appropriate destination whether they’d seen it. I hadn’t yet found such a driver when two men asked me where I was going (I could tell by the way they asked that they wanted to be helpful). So I heaved a big sigh, contained my tears, and explained to them what had happened. They told me that I needed to go ask at the major tro-tro stations, and I then realized that I’d rushed out of the house without any money (probably a reactionary move), and one of them, Abraham, offered to take me.

Abraham turned out to be very very nice, so there was at least some pleasantness in the midst of the un-. We went first to one station on a tro-tro, which he paid for, and then another station and another, in a taxi, which he also paid for, quite a lot, actually. We tramped around in the hot sun in these stations, among people selling all sorts of things, what seemed like thousands of tro-tros and taxis, and people calling for my attention, all under the hot humid sun (I hadn’t had any breakfast). At the second station, I was standing by Abraham as he talked in Twi with one of the tro-tro men, when another man grabbed my arm from behind (not particularly unusual). I was quite focused on the conversation that Abraham was having, so I just turned and looked at the guy who had grabbed my arm, shook my arm free and turned around again. He then sort of wiped his hand on my arm again, and it was wet, but I just assumed it was sweat and didn’t pay attention. When he did it a third time, I turned around and looked at him—he was staring at me, didn’t say a word—and then at my arm, and discovered that he had wiped spit on me. That was pretty much the last straw and I cried right there in the tro-tro station. But then many people gathered around and asked what happened (I was a spectacle to be sure) and the next thing I knew a little old lady was wiping off my arm, and someone poured water on it and she wiped it off again, and she kept telling me it was ok and that I should smile, which I finally managed to do.

Then Abraham sort of abruptly walked off, and I followed, saying thank you thank you to all the people, of course, and he said that the man must be crazy, which is what I will believe too, because otherwise there isn’t anything good to think. So we went to more stations, and I calmed down and we chatted about where he was from and eventually I went back to my hotel, turned my room inside out again, and it was still missing so I called Rachel to tell her what had happened (it was around 4a.m. there, I’m guessing) and she was lovely about it. I had woken my mother up too, who was also lovely about it. Then I went to Busy Internet to cancel my credit card but you have to call, so I got the number, went back to Asylum Down, my neighborhood, bought another phone card and called the credit card company. And then finally the ordeal was over (at least so far as I know).

So that was my very bad morning and if it doesn’t any worse than that then that’s not so awful. I have some money, the cards are cancelled, my new bank card will be here on Monday, I have friends here, and a new friend Abraham, so really it isn’t so bad.

. . .

written today, June 2, 2006
The rest of the day was great, by the way. Not much to do at work, so I wrote that post, then Stefanie and Zach, our new 20-year-old Canadian intern, and I went to the market where I bought some consolatory fabric. Then we visited Zach's compound, which is called the Obruni House=The White People House (and indeed all the white people present liked it very much). On to the Koala Supermarket, which is where one buys delicious western items dark chocolate and granola, and where we met up with Kristin and her fellow intern, Christina, a Ph.D. student from George Washington University. And from there we all had quite a delicious dinner at an Italian restaurant. And went home fat and happy. the end.

. . .