Sean's Blog
Saturday, October 29, 2005
Niamey, Niger
It is the current poster boy for mass famine. Some NGO's are claiming that over 2 million people are at risk of starvation. New York Times writer Kristoff called it "the most wretched place on earth." The UNDP's latest report on development ranks it dead last in the world. This is Niger and many people here are extremely pissed off.
From volunteers to local residents, I have been constantly assailed from the moment I arrived by people who think that their country has been wrongly maligned. Even the President of Niger got into it recently, criticizing some relief organizations for profiteering on poverty and the international media's coverage for their unabashed sensationalism. This debate is not new. Development projects are often blamed for creating more problems then they solve.
In Niger, poverty is a way of life for many people. Every year scores of Nigeriens tighten their belts during the lean season while they anxiously wait to harvest their crops. This is also not a phenomenon unique to Niger. This is the way of life for many sustenance farmers across much of Africa. Yet many people here maintain that Nigeriens themselves are not poor.
I have heard frequent mention of Niger's unquantifiable riches, including the overwhelming hospitality of its citizens, the general stability of the country, the ethnic pride and rich cultural heritage of its citizens, and the low levels of violence and crime prevalent in its more affluent neighbors. While this won't necessarily put food on the table, these factors are often overlooked in creating a foundation for a healthy society.
In contrast, Nigeria is regularly hailed as the 'economic powerhouse' of West Africa. Yet in Nigeria there is a great disparity in the distribution of wealth and religious conflict is widespread. With police and military fighting each other in downtown Lagos, kidnappings in the Delta region, military blockades of entire cities in the north and routine carjacking's broadcast daily on the news from Nigeria, Niger doesn't seem so 'wretched' after all.
However, I have only been here one week. I have not yet traveled deep into the bush nor visited the areas most affected by this year's drought and locust invasions. All I have at the moment to base my judgments on is second hand accounts, partisan reports and passionate appeals to view Niger with unclouded eyes. In the coming month as we see more of Niger, I hope to come to a greater understanding of the situation here and reconcile the vastly different perceptions of Niger’s current 'crisis'.
It is the current poster boy for mass famine. Some NGO's are claiming that over 2 million people are at risk of starvation. New York Times writer Kristoff called it "the most wretched place on earth." The UNDP's latest report on development ranks it dead last in the world. This is Niger and many people here are extremely pissed off.
From volunteers to local residents, I have been constantly assailed from the moment I arrived by people who think that their country has been wrongly maligned. Even the President of Niger got into it recently, criticizing some relief organizations for profiteering on poverty and the international media's coverage for their unabashed sensationalism. This debate is not new. Development projects are often blamed for creating more problems then they solve.
In Niger, poverty is a way of life for many people. Every year scores of Nigeriens tighten their belts during the lean season while they anxiously wait to harvest their crops. This is also not a phenomenon unique to Niger. This is the way of life for many sustenance farmers across much of Africa. Yet many people here maintain that Nigeriens themselves are not poor.
I have heard frequent mention of Niger's unquantifiable riches, including the overwhelming hospitality of its citizens, the general stability of the country, the ethnic pride and rich cultural heritage of its citizens, and the low levels of violence and crime prevalent in its more affluent neighbors. While this won't necessarily put food on the table, these factors are often overlooked in creating a foundation for a healthy society.
In contrast, Nigeria is regularly hailed as the 'economic powerhouse' of West Africa. Yet in Nigeria there is a great disparity in the distribution of wealth and religious conflict is widespread. With police and military fighting each other in downtown Lagos, kidnappings in the Delta region, military blockades of entire cities in the north and routine carjacking's broadcast daily on the news from Nigeria, Niger doesn't seem so 'wretched' after all.
However, I have only been here one week. I have not yet traveled deep into the bush nor visited the areas most affected by this year's drought and locust invasions. All I have at the moment to base my judgments on is second hand accounts, partisan reports and passionate appeals to view Niger with unclouded eyes. In the coming month as we see more of Niger, I hope to come to a greater understanding of the situation here and reconcile the vastly different perceptions of Niger’s current 'crisis'.
Friday, October 21, 2005
Abomey, Benin
Voodoo is highly overrated. Don't believe the hype. It is not dark, mysterious or even the slightest bit interesting. It will not reinforce any latent beliefs in forest spirits, traditional healers, or baffling natural phenomena. There is nothing remarkable in smearing chicken blood on a rock or leaving boiled eggs on an altar. It is a ridiculous sham. At least in Ouidah and Abomey, the tourist Mecca of commercialized voodoo in Benin; this is the only reasonable conclusion I could reach.
It is not as if we did not give it a chance. We gazed at ten year old plaster cast statues of Pan-esque gods with tremendously pronounced penises, all of whom desired financial donations; we observed a room full of lethargic pythons only to be told that these holy snakes politely appealed to us for gifts; and we walked backwards around the bed of an ancient king in a room, newly whitewashed with corrugated roofs dirtied red with dust, and painting a few cliched symbols on the walls of buildings clearly no more than fifty years old that, not surprisingly, also wanted earthly money.
Constructing basic structureser to entice the curious to pay large sums of money in order to gawk at historical curiosities does not seem to fit the spirit of the voodoo culture that I had anticipated. The fact that many of these money pits were built on ancient sites that probably still continued to have relevance for many Beninese not actively participating in fleecing tourists made it even worse. I found myself quickly disillusioned with this kitsch variety of African voodoo.
I have accepted this with more than a little disappointment. I should have realized that if I genuinely wanted to experience truly authentic voodoo practices still strong in large parts of Benin without the distasteful taint of commercialism, I would have to spend a great deal of time off the beaten path earning people's trust. Regretfully, I do not have time and thus will leave Benin with a warped and mistaken conception of African voodoo.
Voodoo is highly overrated. Don't believe the hype. It is not dark, mysterious or even the slightest bit interesting. It will not reinforce any latent beliefs in forest spirits, traditional healers, or baffling natural phenomena. There is nothing remarkable in smearing chicken blood on a rock or leaving boiled eggs on an altar. It is a ridiculous sham. At least in Ouidah and Abomey, the tourist Mecca of commercialized voodoo in Benin; this is the only reasonable conclusion I could reach.
It is not as if we did not give it a chance. We gazed at ten year old plaster cast statues of Pan-esque gods with tremendously pronounced penises, all of whom desired financial donations; we observed a room full of lethargic pythons only to be told that these holy snakes politely appealed to us for gifts; and we walked backwards around the bed of an ancient king in a room, newly whitewashed with corrugated roofs dirtied red with dust, and painting a few cliched symbols on the walls of buildings clearly no more than fifty years old that, not surprisingly, also wanted earthly money.
Constructing basic structureser to entice the curious to pay large sums of money in order to gawk at historical curiosities does not seem to fit the spirit of the voodoo culture that I had anticipated. The fact that many of these money pits were built on ancient sites that probably still continued to have relevance for many Beninese not actively participating in fleecing tourists made it even worse. I found myself quickly disillusioned with this kitsch variety of African voodoo.
I have accepted this with more than a little disappointment. I should have realized that if I genuinely wanted to experience truly authentic voodoo practices still strong in large parts of Benin without the distasteful taint of commercialism, I would have to spend a great deal of time off the beaten path earning people's trust. Regretfully, I do not have time and thus will leave Benin with a warped and mistaken conception of African voodoo.
Sunday, October 09, 2005
Lome, Togo
Chaos is Today's Party
Military in riot gear stood nervously by the swelling crowd, fidgeting with their hefty batons. An hour back, motorcycles driven by impassioned men decked out in green and yellow ruled the streets. Now, huge mobs on foot had claimed their right to the highways. Cars honked futilely, with little hope of progress. Evening was quickly approaching. The growing fervor, showing no signs of abating, was instead rapidly escalating. This was our first night in Lome and at an internet café fifteen minutes from our hotel, Nate and I were simply hoping to get back to our hotel safely.
Explosions could be heard in the distance as fireworks burst overhead. Electronic music and hip hop, intermingled with pockets of traditional drumming, were blasted from innumerable locations, driving the crowd into fits as men and women danced feverishly in the streets. Togo had defeated Congo in a critical football match the night before and had qualified for the first time for the World Cup. The entire city, proud to be Togolese, was celebrating.
We had a front row seat to the festivities. Nate and I made it home without incidence, discovering that the road outside our hotel was the nexus of the city's celebrations. From a balcony on the third story, we watched as the crowd, astonishingly peaceful despite their unbridled enthusiasm, gathered in the street below. It was truly a national day of celebration and the Togolese reveling in the mob beneath our feet were not about to let anybody ruin it for them.
Chaos is Today's Party
Military in riot gear stood nervously by the swelling crowd, fidgeting with their hefty batons. An hour back, motorcycles driven by impassioned men decked out in green and yellow ruled the streets. Now, huge mobs on foot had claimed their right to the highways. Cars honked futilely, with little hope of progress. Evening was quickly approaching. The growing fervor, showing no signs of abating, was instead rapidly escalating. This was our first night in Lome and at an internet café fifteen minutes from our hotel, Nate and I were simply hoping to get back to our hotel safely.
Explosions could be heard in the distance as fireworks burst overhead. Electronic music and hip hop, intermingled with pockets of traditional drumming, were blasted from innumerable locations, driving the crowd into fits as men and women danced feverishly in the streets. Togo had defeated Congo in a critical football match the night before and had qualified for the first time for the World Cup. The entire city, proud to be Togolese, was celebrating.
We had a front row seat to the festivities. Nate and I made it home without incidence, discovering that the road outside our hotel was the nexus of the city's celebrations. From a balcony on the third story, we watched as the crowd, astonishingly peaceful despite their unbridled enthusiasm, gathered in the street below. It was truly a national day of celebration and the Togolese reveling in the mob beneath our feet were not about to let anybody ruin it for them.
Friday, October 07, 2005
Kpalime, Togo
Crossing at Wli... A Day of Confusion
We awoke early with the intention of slipping quietly over the border into Togo. Deep in the mountainous Volta region of Ghana, we were momentarily off paved roads and had camped near a thunderous waterfall notorious for its bat population, which the youth of the nearby village voraciously consume. The border itself was only a few hundred meters from where we slept. We knew little about Togo, except for the international notoriety it briefly gained earlier this year after the son of the previous president took command with the heavy handed support of the military after his father died. Street riots in the capital ensued and somewhere around 500 people were killed. Yet despite this recent incident, people in the region frequently told us that Togo would be no problem and we might even be surprised with what it offered.
On the Ghanaian side, the border was no more than a couple of cinder block buildings and a metal rod across the road. A lone woman sat inside at what posed as the immigrations office. We were clearly her first customers of the day. She picked up my passport first and slowly flipped through it, going page by page. It seemed to overwhelm her and, after further deliberations, she stated that my Ghana visa had expired. I explained that this was not the case. She agreed, stamped my passport, and then proceeded to tell Nate that his visa had also expired. She stamped me out of Ghana on the 70th of October.
Getting through customs was more straightforward. A man from the village carefully walked a man wearing a customs uniform step by step through the protracted process of filling out the date, stamping and signing our carnet de passage for the vehicle. While it began to feel like Border Training School, the process was far from troublesome. There were no shady money changers hustling for cash, children burdened with goods desperately trying to make deals or overzealous guards demanding to inspect every last nook and cranny of the car. After a painless delay, we were fast on our way to Togo.
In Togo, we were greeted by a man who was visibly delighted to spend some time with us. I am not sure he was even a customs official, dressed in slacks and a flower printed shirt, but he gleefully filled in all of our details before sending us on our way. After some additional confusion about finding someone who could stamp our carnet de passage, we were off on a windy road high up in the mountains between Togo and Ghana. As we descended down to the valley floor, the route offered us magnificent vistas broken only by the occasional town.
We decided to make for Mt Klouto. It seemed advantageous to spend the weekend up in the provinces and take in a bit of local culture before we headed down to the capital. Although Klouto sounded like it was visited almost exclusively by eccentric butterfly fanatics, it was likely that the villages in the vicinity could give us a brief taste of local Ewe culture. While dabbling in the fine art of cat culinary, the Ewe are also known for such things as traditional shrines and priests. In addition, we quickly learned of their ability to completely muddle up anything even remotely related to directions.
As we passed through Kpalime, following our typical routine we asked a group of people leisurely sitting on the side of the road which way led to Klouto. We were pointed out a road and faithfully drove up the mountain before being stopped by Togolese customs officials at the top. Tuuli asked them if we were close to Klouto. They responded with a bewildered look. Continuing, she asked again about Klouto, Kluuto, Kloto, Klepto, the town on top of the mountain, the place with the butterflies, Auberge Papillion, a man named Prosper who could be found wandering the bush waving a big net, the town where foreigners go, all to which the men responded with a shrug. One asked the other if he knew Klouto, to which the other responded by shaking his head with puzzlement. Taking a new course, Nate asked what was past their checkpoint. They enthusiastically informed us that it was Ghana before directing us back down the mountain into town.
Approaching Kpalime once again, Tuuli asked a small group of women where we could find Klouto. Sure of the answer, they excitedly responded we were headed in the right direction. Klouto was Kpalime. This seemed highly implausible as our routinely contradictory guidebooks and Michelin map showed this not to be the case. However, none of them could give us any consistent information about where the actual town of Klouto was located. Having to once again rely on villagers, we opted for the general survey method. With Zen like accuracy, we soon learned that Klouto was back up the mountain, in the town before us, in the hills far away, on a mysterious road, everywhere and nowhere. For a purported tourist attraction, nobody seemed to know where it was.
Getting into the spirit of things, we drove halfway back up the mountain, spoke with even more people, lost Nate's underwear by the side of the road, found them again, and then returned once more to Kpalime. Enlightened we were not. There was only one option. Give up on Klouto, check out the only other attraction in the area which happened to be a waterfall, and stay in Kpalime before traveling on to the capital. It was not until a day later that, upon ascending the mountain a third time, did we find out from the very same customs officials we had so puzzled previously that of course Klouto, the Klouto we had been searching for the day before, was just one village over.
However, with Klouto momentarily forgotten and the waterfall suddenly on top of our agenda, we headed north and quickly spotted a sign for the cascades a handful of kilometers outside of Kpalime. Our fleeting joy was immediately displaced as boys, grown men, and children of all ages sprinted up to the car and shouted inane instructions incessantly at top volume. I sat dumbfounded as Tuuli and Nate failed to make themselves heard, let alone understood.
Our question was simple. In fact, it was less a question and more of a statement of purpose. We have come to see the waterfalls. In rapid succession, the group fired back that this was not possible, the waterfall was too dangerous, there was no waterfall, the Germans had turned off the waterfall, there was another waterfall, and that above all a guide was essential no matter what we wanted. In fact, the larger the group of guides, the better off we would be. Unable to determine whether this was an elaborate scam to make off with our money or if, lost in translation, there was some truth hidden in their jumbled words, we decided one boy should lead us towards where we assumed the waterfall we came to see would be.
Taking a bicycle, he quickly pedaled out in front of us down a narrow dirt road as we followed in our car. Suddenly, he cut to the left into thick brush and two boys, walking along the path ahead of us, took off running behind him. Nate stopped the car, shaking his head in astonishment. The boy on the bike came back and told us that we were now going to the other waterfall, which wasn't far away. Reluctantly, Nate pulled the car off the main road and we headed down what couldn't be more than a seldom used path for donkey carts.
The path narrowed and rapidly became increasingly sandy. Large branches were strewn across the path at various intervals. Curious bugs were terrorizing Tuuli. We warily continued. Dense elephant grass lined the road, towering over us and beating the Stingray on all sides. Turning around was an impossibility. Progressing forward seemed an absurdity. This was not a road fit for a car like ours. Suddenly, a fourth boy, much larger than the others, could be seen trailing us on another bike. This was definitely not a part of the plan. All interest in seeing what would most likely be a second rate waterfall was gone. However, we could not turn around. There was simply no room. So we had to continue forward, deeper into the unknown forest.
Suddenly, a small opening, just about large enough to initiate what would have to be a twelve point turn, appeared to the right. Nate was up to the challenge. As Nate swung the car into the gap, the boys were quickly upon us. The waterfall was close, they assured us. Surely, not more than one kilometer away. We told them we were finished. The waterfall no longer interested us in the slightest. Disappointed, they followed us back towards the main road.
Ultimately, it turned out their intentions were virtuous and the first waterfall was in fact not active. However, in their excitement at possibly earning a few cedis, they led us on a wild goose chase none of us were prepared for. We returned to Kpalime with nothing to show for all our driving around but nevertheless we were satisfied with the truly entertaining failures of the day. Despite our inability to effectively communicate with practically everyone we came across, just about everyone we had come across was genuinely friendly, if not always correct or able to restrain their enthusiasm. Togo, if anything, would not be dull.
Crossing at Wli... A Day of Confusion
We awoke early with the intention of slipping quietly over the border into Togo. Deep in the mountainous Volta region of Ghana, we were momentarily off paved roads and had camped near a thunderous waterfall notorious for its bat population, which the youth of the nearby village voraciously consume. The border itself was only a few hundred meters from where we slept. We knew little about Togo, except for the international notoriety it briefly gained earlier this year after the son of the previous president took command with the heavy handed support of the military after his father died. Street riots in the capital ensued and somewhere around 500 people were killed. Yet despite this recent incident, people in the region frequently told us that Togo would be no problem and we might even be surprised with what it offered.
On the Ghanaian side, the border was no more than a couple of cinder block buildings and a metal rod across the road. A lone woman sat inside at what posed as the immigrations office. We were clearly her first customers of the day. She picked up my passport first and slowly flipped through it, going page by page. It seemed to overwhelm her and, after further deliberations, she stated that my Ghana visa had expired. I explained that this was not the case. She agreed, stamped my passport, and then proceeded to tell Nate that his visa had also expired. She stamped me out of Ghana on the 70th of October.
Getting through customs was more straightforward. A man from the village carefully walked a man wearing a customs uniform step by step through the protracted process of filling out the date, stamping and signing our carnet de passage for the vehicle. While it began to feel like Border Training School, the process was far from troublesome. There were no shady money changers hustling for cash, children burdened with goods desperately trying to make deals or overzealous guards demanding to inspect every last nook and cranny of the car. After a painless delay, we were fast on our way to Togo.
In Togo, we were greeted by a man who was visibly delighted to spend some time with us. I am not sure he was even a customs official, dressed in slacks and a flower printed shirt, but he gleefully filled in all of our details before sending us on our way. After some additional confusion about finding someone who could stamp our carnet de passage, we were off on a windy road high up in the mountains between Togo and Ghana. As we descended down to the valley floor, the route offered us magnificent vistas broken only by the occasional town.
We decided to make for Mt Klouto. It seemed advantageous to spend the weekend up in the provinces and take in a bit of local culture before we headed down to the capital. Although Klouto sounded like it was visited almost exclusively by eccentric butterfly fanatics, it was likely that the villages in the vicinity could give us a brief taste of local Ewe culture. While dabbling in the fine art of cat culinary, the Ewe are also known for such things as traditional shrines and priests. In addition, we quickly learned of their ability to completely muddle up anything even remotely related to directions.
As we passed through Kpalime, following our typical routine we asked a group of people leisurely sitting on the side of the road which way led to Klouto. We were pointed out a road and faithfully drove up the mountain before being stopped by Togolese customs officials at the top. Tuuli asked them if we were close to Klouto. They responded with a bewildered look. Continuing, she asked again about Klouto, Kluuto, Kloto, Klepto, the town on top of the mountain, the place with the butterflies, Auberge Papillion, a man named Prosper who could be found wandering the bush waving a big net, the town where foreigners go, all to which the men responded with a shrug. One asked the other if he knew Klouto, to which the other responded by shaking his head with puzzlement. Taking a new course, Nate asked what was past their checkpoint. They enthusiastically informed us that it was Ghana before directing us back down the mountain into town.
Approaching Kpalime once again, Tuuli asked a small group of women where we could find Klouto. Sure of the answer, they excitedly responded we were headed in the right direction. Klouto was Kpalime. This seemed highly implausible as our routinely contradictory guidebooks and Michelin map showed this not to be the case. However, none of them could give us any consistent information about where the actual town of Klouto was located. Having to once again rely on villagers, we opted for the general survey method. With Zen like accuracy, we soon learned that Klouto was back up the mountain, in the town before us, in the hills far away, on a mysterious road, everywhere and nowhere. For a purported tourist attraction, nobody seemed to know where it was.
Getting into the spirit of things, we drove halfway back up the mountain, spoke with even more people, lost Nate's underwear by the side of the road, found them again, and then returned once more to Kpalime. Enlightened we were not. There was only one option. Give up on Klouto, check out the only other attraction in the area which happened to be a waterfall, and stay in Kpalime before traveling on to the capital. It was not until a day later that, upon ascending the mountain a third time, did we find out from the very same customs officials we had so puzzled previously that of course Klouto, the Klouto we had been searching for the day before, was just one village over.
However, with Klouto momentarily forgotten and the waterfall suddenly on top of our agenda, we headed north and quickly spotted a sign for the cascades a handful of kilometers outside of Kpalime. Our fleeting joy was immediately displaced as boys, grown men, and children of all ages sprinted up to the car and shouted inane instructions incessantly at top volume. I sat dumbfounded as Tuuli and Nate failed to make themselves heard, let alone understood.
Our question was simple. In fact, it was less a question and more of a statement of purpose. We have come to see the waterfalls. In rapid succession, the group fired back that this was not possible, the waterfall was too dangerous, there was no waterfall, the Germans had turned off the waterfall, there was another waterfall, and that above all a guide was essential no matter what we wanted. In fact, the larger the group of guides, the better off we would be. Unable to determine whether this was an elaborate scam to make off with our money or if, lost in translation, there was some truth hidden in their jumbled words, we decided one boy should lead us towards where we assumed the waterfall we came to see would be.
Taking a bicycle, he quickly pedaled out in front of us down a narrow dirt road as we followed in our car. Suddenly, he cut to the left into thick brush and two boys, walking along the path ahead of us, took off running behind him. Nate stopped the car, shaking his head in astonishment. The boy on the bike came back and told us that we were now going to the other waterfall, which wasn't far away. Reluctantly, Nate pulled the car off the main road and we headed down what couldn't be more than a seldom used path for donkey carts.
The path narrowed and rapidly became increasingly sandy. Large branches were strewn across the path at various intervals. Curious bugs were terrorizing Tuuli. We warily continued. Dense elephant grass lined the road, towering over us and beating the Stingray on all sides. Turning around was an impossibility. Progressing forward seemed an absurdity. This was not a road fit for a car like ours. Suddenly, a fourth boy, much larger than the others, could be seen trailing us on another bike. This was definitely not a part of the plan. All interest in seeing what would most likely be a second rate waterfall was gone. However, we could not turn around. There was simply no room. So we had to continue forward, deeper into the unknown forest.
Suddenly, a small opening, just about large enough to initiate what would have to be a twelve point turn, appeared to the right. Nate was up to the challenge. As Nate swung the car into the gap, the boys were quickly upon us. The waterfall was close, they assured us. Surely, not more than one kilometer away. We told them we were finished. The waterfall no longer interested us in the slightest. Disappointed, they followed us back towards the main road.
Ultimately, it turned out their intentions were virtuous and the first waterfall was in fact not active. However, in their excitement at possibly earning a few cedis, they led us on a wild goose chase none of us were prepared for. We returned to Kpalime with nothing to show for all our driving around but nevertheless we were satisfied with the truly entertaining failures of the day. Despite our inability to effectively communicate with practically everyone we came across, just about everyone we had come across was genuinely friendly, if not always correct or able to restrain their enthusiasm. Togo, if anything, would not be dull.
Wednesday, October 05, 2005
Ho, Ghana
My head was spinning. Tuuli had just convinced me that the cure to AIDS was found in Mandingo, a local bitter that reeked off Neem bark. A pleasant drink, it was not. Yet, by its very nature it drew my attention away from the mediocre white rice with shito splattered salad that I was compulsorily ingesting. It was not bad and I was hungry, but I was not enjoying it. With Mandingo burning down the back of my throat, I wondered where Nate had wandered off to. Not in a funk, it seemed as if he was seeking something that we could not provide. Yet Ho, a hilly town with meandering gutters and exhausted shops with names like Lords Diner, Observers are Worried Chop Bar, Fear God Metal Works, and Dick Win Enterprises, could hardly be the place to find the substance he seemed to be seeking. It wasn't a bad place; in fact I was feeling more comfortable here than I had during the many weeks that we had spent in Accra. Nonetheless, Ho seemed a half filled vessel and I felt empty, unable to provide it with the sustenance that it needed.
It was clear that I was not the only one that felt this way. Across the street from where Tuuli and I were eating was a heavy middle aged woman. A crowd had formed around her. She was pacing back and forth in front of wooden stalls that advertised hair weaves, rubber hoses and fried plantains. She held in her right hand a large black bag, laden with domestic goods, and was desperately struggling to hail a car. Taxi after taxi, tro-tro after tro-tro passed her by until, fed up, she struck back with the only weapons she had. With the growing crowd egging her on and shouting encouragement, she stepped out into the street as the dual lights of a far off taxi made itself known. As they grew in size, she slowly swung her black bag back and forth, preparing it for the projectile it was about to become. The swelling crowd became still.
As the unsuspecting taxi driver, in search of vital fair, slowed to scout the crowd, the woman wound back and fired the bag at his passing car. A loud thud sounded as the bag struck the front windshield. The driver rolled to a stop a short distance from the crowd before, judging a confrontation was not in his best interest, speeding off. This scene was repeated numerous times, with the woman hurling her bag at passing trucks, vans and private cars while heaping abuse on unsuspecting drivers. Vehicle after vehicle slowed after being unexpectedly pelted with large objects, but none made any attempt to confront the woman and the increasingly curious crowd she was attracting. Finally, as an empty taxi slowed as if to give her a lift, she turned her back on the scene that she had created and marched off towards the anonymity afforded by the ghost stalls of the deserted and looming day time market. Nate returned and, with the spell broken, we turned back in the direction of our hotel.
But would she be back? How many others felt a similar rage? What caused her unexpected outburst, and why was the crowd so acquiescent? Disconnected drivers, unprepared for the naked wrath of a distraught, yet presumably rational woman backed by an indecisive mob caught in limbo between uncontrolled aggression and abhorrence of such random violent acts, were left to take flight as if they were guilty. What kept the teetering crowd in check, and what would it take to annihilate the dikes keeping their possibly deep rooted frustration at bay? Maybe I will never know.
My head was spinning. Tuuli had just convinced me that the cure to AIDS was found in Mandingo, a local bitter that reeked off Neem bark. A pleasant drink, it was not. Yet, by its very nature it drew my attention away from the mediocre white rice with shito splattered salad that I was compulsorily ingesting. It was not bad and I was hungry, but I was not enjoying it. With Mandingo burning down the back of my throat, I wondered where Nate had wandered off to. Not in a funk, it seemed as if he was seeking something that we could not provide. Yet Ho, a hilly town with meandering gutters and exhausted shops with names like Lords Diner, Observers are Worried Chop Bar, Fear God Metal Works, and Dick Win Enterprises, could hardly be the place to find the substance he seemed to be seeking. It wasn't a bad place; in fact I was feeling more comfortable here than I had during the many weeks that we had spent in Accra. Nonetheless, Ho seemed a half filled vessel and I felt empty, unable to provide it with the sustenance that it needed.
It was clear that I was not the only one that felt this way. Across the street from where Tuuli and I were eating was a heavy middle aged woman. A crowd had formed around her. She was pacing back and forth in front of wooden stalls that advertised hair weaves, rubber hoses and fried plantains. She held in her right hand a large black bag, laden with domestic goods, and was desperately struggling to hail a car. Taxi after taxi, tro-tro after tro-tro passed her by until, fed up, she struck back with the only weapons she had. With the growing crowd egging her on and shouting encouragement, she stepped out into the street as the dual lights of a far off taxi made itself known. As they grew in size, she slowly swung her black bag back and forth, preparing it for the projectile it was about to become. The swelling crowd became still.
As the unsuspecting taxi driver, in search of vital fair, slowed to scout the crowd, the woman wound back and fired the bag at his passing car. A loud thud sounded as the bag struck the front windshield. The driver rolled to a stop a short distance from the crowd before, judging a confrontation was not in his best interest, speeding off. This scene was repeated numerous times, with the woman hurling her bag at passing trucks, vans and private cars while heaping abuse on unsuspecting drivers. Vehicle after vehicle slowed after being unexpectedly pelted with large objects, but none made any attempt to confront the woman and the increasingly curious crowd she was attracting. Finally, as an empty taxi slowed as if to give her a lift, she turned her back on the scene that she had created and marched off towards the anonymity afforded by the ghost stalls of the deserted and looming day time market. Nate returned and, with the spell broken, we turned back in the direction of our hotel.
But would she be back? How many others felt a similar rage? What caused her unexpected outburst, and why was the crowd so acquiescent? Disconnected drivers, unprepared for the naked wrath of a distraught, yet presumably rational woman backed by an indecisive mob caught in limbo between uncontrolled aggression and abhorrence of such random violent acts, were left to take flight as if they were guilty. What kept the teetering crowd in check, and what would it take to annihilate the dikes keeping their possibly deep rooted frustration at bay? Maybe I will never know.
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