Tuuli's Blog
Monday, August 29, 2005
Accra, Ghana
During our first week in Accra, we slowly take over Anselme's house, snails and all because he works obscenely long hours and only returns home to sleep. The visas that we are acquiring will take a longer time than we planned to process; it seems our stay here may be extended by a few weeks. None of us have a problem with this as there is lots of work and play here. This week, we are hard at work doing research for our first articles on Ghana. We visit many organizations that are doing impressive work and I was introduced to a wonderful lady who was a participant of an AIDS awareness bus campaign through East Africa earlier this year. A friend of mine, Senyo, managed to get us a spot on the radio to talk about our project. We are busy.
However, as our stay becomes more and more extended, I grow concerned about imposing on our host, Anselme. His house is already overrun with extended family, people drop by all the time and the man never gets any rest. One night after he came home late, he fell asleep on the couch as we were talking without even taking off his shoes. When I look at Anselme, I see the drive of the people that are pushing this country forward ahead of many of those in the region. People here are hardworking and industrious. Probably because and due to this drive, Ghana as a country has always been a shining star politically and economically. In fact, in the fifties at the dawn of independence, Ghana was supplying its neighbors with loans, bringing electricity to the sub-region through hydroelectric (and even nuclear) power, and three cedis was equivalent to one dollar. However, "developments" of the last few decades have taken a toll. While Ghana remains a leader in the sub-region, it has been reduced to a shadow of its former self. Today, Ghana is a highly impoverished poor country (HIPC) which recently had part of its debt reduced by the World Bank, the nuclear power plant sits vacant and rotting away, and the cedi is at 9100 to the dollar. What happened? The results is that today, hardworking people like Anselme have to push themselves to the limit just to make ends meet.
During our first week in Accra, we slowly take over Anselme's house, snails and all because he works obscenely long hours and only returns home to sleep. The visas that we are acquiring will take a longer time than we planned to process; it seems our stay here may be extended by a few weeks. None of us have a problem with this as there is lots of work and play here. This week, we are hard at work doing research for our first articles on Ghana. We visit many organizations that are doing impressive work and I was introduced to a wonderful lady who was a participant of an AIDS awareness bus campaign through East Africa earlier this year. A friend of mine, Senyo, managed to get us a spot on the radio to talk about our project. We are busy.
However, as our stay becomes more and more extended, I grow concerned about imposing on our host, Anselme. His house is already overrun with extended family, people drop by all the time and the man never gets any rest. One night after he came home late, he fell asleep on the couch as we were talking without even taking off his shoes. When I look at Anselme, I see the drive of the people that are pushing this country forward ahead of many of those in the region. People here are hardworking and industrious. Probably because and due to this drive, Ghana as a country has always been a shining star politically and economically. In fact, in the fifties at the dawn of independence, Ghana was supplying its neighbors with loans, bringing electricity to the sub-region through hydroelectric (and even nuclear) power, and three cedis was equivalent to one dollar. However, "developments" of the last few decades have taken a toll. While Ghana remains a leader in the sub-region, it has been reduced to a shadow of its former self. Today, Ghana is a highly impoverished poor country (HIPC) which recently had part of its debt reduced by the World Bank, the nuclear power plant sits vacant and rotting away, and the cedi is at 9100 to the dollar. What happened? The results is that today, hardworking people like Anselme have to push themselves to the limit just to make ends meet.
Wednesday, August 24, 2005
Accra, Ghana
The day of our arrival in Accra brought up a cycle of familiar emotions that I will forever associate with this city. I was instantly swept into a flux between happiness and bewilderment. It is part of what attracts me back to Africa. Even though this may seem to be a strange attraction, this constant volatility is an integral part of the magnetism of a place like Accra. I had notified a few friends of my return and Anselme, my old boss's brother, had offered to put us up in his house for our first week. I had been eagerly anticipating our arrival in Accra, since even before our departure from Gambia almost three months ago.
As we arrived on the outskirts and fought for hours through traffic that I suddenly remembered was characteristic of this bustling capital city, some of the high that I had been experiencing wore off. We struggled through one traffic circle, the Nkrumah Circle, for a good half an hour. Here, tro tros cut each other off in a fashion that stubbornly defies any logic. A logical driving strategy, like sharing the road to smooth the flow of traffic is irrelevant here; the circle is a space where testosterone has declared supremacy over rational thought and civility. As I was forced to utilize aggressive tactics to get through the circle, I let my mood be spoiled by the thought that this is a man's world. While I realize that not all men rule the world through testosterone, I will hypothesize that tro tro drivers as a group have excessive amounts of it.
We finally arrived at an outdoor spot (bar) that is a stone's throw from Anselme's. Calling him, he informs me that he will not be arriving for two hours. He tried to tell me this the day before, but the phone line cut. This is no problem, as we have a pressing need to unwind from the drive and are entertained by the Friday night scene unfolding in front of our sidewalk bar. The food stall next door conveniently serves the best fried chicken in town. Not one minute after ordering our staple of Castle Milk Stout, a representative of the company walks up and hands us all sorts of promotional items, like tee-shirts, bags, and hats sporting our favorite beer's logo. My high returns a little.
Anselme has a flat tire and will spend the night in his car along the Tema-Accra road, so when we knock on his door a few hours later, a priest from Benin answers the door and eyes us suspiciously. We sleep on the couch. We wake up to yam being pounded in the kitchen, along with a trail of Anselme's nieces and nephews from Benin that use the house as a meeting point. I feel confused.
Anselme arrives, exhausted but excited to see me. I am overjoyed with catching up.
The day of our arrival in Accra brought up a cycle of familiar emotions that I will forever associate with this city. I was instantly swept into a flux between happiness and bewilderment. It is part of what attracts me back to Africa. Even though this may seem to be a strange attraction, this constant volatility is an integral part of the magnetism of a place like Accra. I had notified a few friends of my return and Anselme, my old boss's brother, had offered to put us up in his house for our first week. I had been eagerly anticipating our arrival in Accra, since even before our departure from Gambia almost three months ago.
As we arrived on the outskirts and fought for hours through traffic that I suddenly remembered was characteristic of this bustling capital city, some of the high that I had been experiencing wore off. We struggled through one traffic circle, the Nkrumah Circle, for a good half an hour. Here, tro tros cut each other off in a fashion that stubbornly defies any logic. A logical driving strategy, like sharing the road to smooth the flow of traffic is irrelevant here; the circle is a space where testosterone has declared supremacy over rational thought and civility. As I was forced to utilize aggressive tactics to get through the circle, I let my mood be spoiled by the thought that this is a man's world. While I realize that not all men rule the world through testosterone, I will hypothesize that tro tro drivers as a group have excessive amounts of it.
We finally arrived at an outdoor spot (bar) that is a stone's throw from Anselme's. Calling him, he informs me that he will not be arriving for two hours. He tried to tell me this the day before, but the phone line cut. This is no problem, as we have a pressing need to unwind from the drive and are entertained by the Friday night scene unfolding in front of our sidewalk bar. The food stall next door conveniently serves the best fried chicken in town. Not one minute after ordering our staple of Castle Milk Stout, a representative of the company walks up and hands us all sorts of promotional items, like tee-shirts, bags, and hats sporting our favorite beer's logo. My high returns a little.
Anselme has a flat tire and will spend the night in his car along the Tema-Accra road, so when we knock on his door a few hours later, a priest from Benin answers the door and eyes us suspiciously. We sleep on the couch. We wake up to yam being pounded in the kitchen, along with a trail of Anselme's nieces and nephews from Benin that use the house as a meeting point. I feel confused.
Anselme arrives, exhausted but excited to see me. I am overjoyed with catching up.
Monday, August 22, 2005
Kumasi, Ghana
While I remembered the rough plan of the city and recognized some roads, the drive into Kumasi at midday when the market was in full swing was overwhelming for all of us. This sprawling market, which spills out into four commercial districts surrounding the city center, is the largest market in West Africa. The road we had chosen to navigate towards the guesthouse in the center of town, put us in the thick of it. We shared the road with women balancing their day's trading goods on top of their heads, soapbox preachers who use the word of God to sell aspirin as a miracle drug, aggressive taxi drivers that blocked the road so as to be able to maneuver for the best spot to pick up customers, endless lines of tro tros that run the road like mafia gangsters, shoeshiners banging on their boxes to attract the weary workers that walk by, hawkers that tempt death with their endless games of human frogger through lanes of traffic (all while balancing a pyramid of oranges or peanuts, making change with their hands, and chasing after the car in which their customers sit with fat fingers hanging out of the car window and haggle over the price). It was hard to concentrate on the road itself.
Kumasi is the capital of the Ashanti kingdom, the politically and economically powerful royal family in Ghana. The Ashantis sit on some of the most resource rich land on earth, land that yields the famed Ashanti gold. The kingdom is ruled over by the Queen Mother who sits on a golden stool, and each town is overseen by secondary Queen Mothers. It is these women leaders' opinion that is requested to solve argument and quarrels. It is her blessing that the people seek. We learned that Queen Mothers are also active in organizing social groups to discuss the threat of AIDS in their communities.
While I remembered the rough plan of the city and recognized some roads, the drive into Kumasi at midday when the market was in full swing was overwhelming for all of us. This sprawling market, which spills out into four commercial districts surrounding the city center, is the largest market in West Africa. The road we had chosen to navigate towards the guesthouse in the center of town, put us in the thick of it. We shared the road with women balancing their day's trading goods on top of their heads, soapbox preachers who use the word of God to sell aspirin as a miracle drug, aggressive taxi drivers that blocked the road so as to be able to maneuver for the best spot to pick up customers, endless lines of tro tros that run the road like mafia gangsters, shoeshiners banging on their boxes to attract the weary workers that walk by, hawkers that tempt death with their endless games of human frogger through lanes of traffic (all while balancing a pyramid of oranges or peanuts, making change with their hands, and chasing after the car in which their customers sit with fat fingers hanging out of the car window and haggle over the price). It was hard to concentrate on the road itself.
Kumasi is the capital of the Ashanti kingdom, the politically and economically powerful royal family in Ghana. The Ashantis sit on some of the most resource rich land on earth, land that yields the famed Ashanti gold. The kingdom is ruled over by the Queen Mother who sits on a golden stool, and each town is overseen by secondary Queen Mothers. It is these women leaders' opinion that is requested to solve argument and quarrels. It is her blessing that the people seek. We learned that Queen Mothers are also active in organizing social groups to discuss the threat of AIDS in their communities.
Sunday, August 21, 2005
Mole National Park, Ghana
All along the road from the border to Mole National Park, there are signs advertising various development projects. A plethora of billboards with AIDS awareness themes are displayed every couple of kilometers. Stay a virgin! one said. AIDS kills! another warns. Use a condom! Every sign was put up by a different NGO, both local and international. I will dare to guess that, unlike many other countries we have visited, most people in Ghana that can read have a good understanding about the threat of AIDS. Even though we saw a strong NGO presence even from our cars, we hadn't contacted any partners in the Northern region before arriving, so we decided that we would be tourists for a few days on our way to Kumasi. We turned on the road to Mole National Park, a game reserve in the northeastern corner of the country.
As we arrived, the serenity of the place was welcome. Elephants roam languidly through the hotel grounds here, not far from where our tents are pitched. The elephants eat everything in sight, from trees to German girls' bikinis. After we had been there for a few hours, the serenity was tainted when we realized that some of the animals were unruly. A troop of baboons came to sack us. These baboons steal bags of fish and cookies from unsuspecting tourists, unless they learn to fight back with rocks, like some of us did. Not that I advocate hitting animals, but they will take advantage of you if you don't protect yourself. Seriously, that fish was our dinner. I was going to cook pasta pescatore bush style, I even had a bottle of wine ready. I was sorely disappointed and upset with the baboon. Next time he came around, I threw a rock at him. I missed and he charged me, showing his teeth and hissing. I picked up the next thing I saw, which was a chair. He backed off. I learned a lesson: animals fear me. Even though I was shaken by the experience, it was somewhat empowering. Many people have told me that I am too timid.
My foot was still sore from an accident in Ouagadougou. I decided to power through a hike, but returned from the first hike with a swollen foot. I quickly dropped the idea of trying to prove how tough I was. I don't need to prove anything to Sean and Nate, they know me. As it stood, my foot would not be an impediment to seeing animals. I sat in the lounge chair overlooking the plain below and an elephant snuck up on me. I hadn't heard him approach. I was stunned.
All along the road from the border to Mole National Park, there are signs advertising various development projects. A plethora of billboards with AIDS awareness themes are displayed every couple of kilometers. Stay a virgin! one said. AIDS kills! another warns. Use a condom! Every sign was put up by a different NGO, both local and international. I will dare to guess that, unlike many other countries we have visited, most people in Ghana that can read have a good understanding about the threat of AIDS. Even though we saw a strong NGO presence even from our cars, we hadn't contacted any partners in the Northern region before arriving, so we decided that we would be tourists for a few days on our way to Kumasi. We turned on the road to Mole National Park, a game reserve in the northeastern corner of the country.
As we arrived, the serenity of the place was welcome. Elephants roam languidly through the hotel grounds here, not far from where our tents are pitched. The elephants eat everything in sight, from trees to German girls' bikinis. After we had been there for a few hours, the serenity was tainted when we realized that some of the animals were unruly. A troop of baboons came to sack us. These baboons steal bags of fish and cookies from unsuspecting tourists, unless they learn to fight back with rocks, like some of us did. Not that I advocate hitting animals, but they will take advantage of you if you don't protect yourself. Seriously, that fish was our dinner. I was going to cook pasta pescatore bush style, I even had a bottle of wine ready. I was sorely disappointed and upset with the baboon. Next time he came around, I threw a rock at him. I missed and he charged me, showing his teeth and hissing. I picked up the next thing I saw, which was a chair. He backed off. I learned a lesson: animals fear me. Even though I was shaken by the experience, it was somewhat empowering. Many people have told me that I am too timid.
My foot was still sore from an accident in Ouagadougou. I decided to power through a hike, but returned from the first hike with a swollen foot. I quickly dropped the idea of trying to prove how tough I was. I don't need to prove anything to Sean and Nate, they know me. As it stood, my foot would not be an impediment to seeing animals. I sat in the lounge chair overlooking the plain below and an elephant snuck up on me. I hadn't heard him approach. I was stunned.
Saturday, August 20, 2005
Paga, Ghana border
Ghana! Land of friendly, smiling faces and welcome mats at front doors. Of police men who assist you if you look lost. From the cocoa plantations to the chocolate factory, the entire production and assembly line in one country. Pharmacies? Who needs them? Most people believe in the power of traditional herbs. The order of the family is matriarchal, and it is the job of men to pound the yam and cassava to eat for dinner. The queen mother reigns her kingdom, it is an African version of democratic rule. It is not uncommon to meet female directors, officials and bureaucrats. In recent years, there is hardship and HIPC. People are getting by, but people are proud. Even with a sluggish economy, there is little hassle on the street. People are cool and calm. There is stability and peace, while many countries that surround go to war.
As we approached the border to Ghana, I was silly with excitement. I had been gone for three long years. As we crossed, the bureaucracy of the border was actually comforting. Everything was very organized and professional. While the process took a long time, it was not because we had to negotiate with the officials about the authenticity of our paperwork, but because it had to be cleared by several officials actually doing their jobs. For the first time during our trip, one man even checked the VIN number on the engine, to make sure it matched our documents. A woman border official appeared to register our car into the country. "Who is the driver?" she asks. She smiled as I responded. Let me cross that border, madam, and I can feel familiar. I know which food to eat, how to ask for things, which ladies are selling kenke (pounded corn) by the roadside, where to find chocolate, which bicycle vendor sells ice cream.
I had practically salivated all through Burkina Faso imagining all my favorite things being sold by hawkers right on the other side of the border. I seriously expected Ghanaian chocolate to be waiting for us right on the other side. In my excitement, I shared my expectations with Nate, who is also a chocolate lover. We were both sorely disappointed when it turned out that there seemed to be a shortage of chocolate in Northern Ghana. Anyway, most Ghanaians tend not to each chocolate, even though they produce cocoa for export here. Chocolate is too expensive, you could eat two meals for the price of one bar. We did find ice cream right away. And had three each.
When I left Ghana three years ago, I thought I would return in a few months time. I had a roundtrip ticket back to Accra. Whether I was following an idealistic dream with little foundation, I never found out. I had obligations to pay back student loans, climb the career ladder, and establish a home in San Francisco. But I don't think I have ever been able to put my love of this place into words. My want to return was a feeling, an instinct. Extremely rational Americans ask me why I would want to live in a place of such hardship and poverty. Extremely rational Africans ask me why I would want to leave a place where I have so much opportunity and so much wealth? So what is the attraction? Now that I have returned, I will try to gain a realistic perspective of what I love about this place.
Ghana! Land of friendly, smiling faces and welcome mats at front doors. Of police men who assist you if you look lost. From the cocoa plantations to the chocolate factory, the entire production and assembly line in one country. Pharmacies? Who needs them? Most people believe in the power of traditional herbs. The order of the family is matriarchal, and it is the job of men to pound the yam and cassava to eat for dinner. The queen mother reigns her kingdom, it is an African version of democratic rule. It is not uncommon to meet female directors, officials and bureaucrats. In recent years, there is hardship and HIPC. People are getting by, but people are proud. Even with a sluggish economy, there is little hassle on the street. People are cool and calm. There is stability and peace, while many countries that surround go to war.
As we approached the border to Ghana, I was silly with excitement. I had been gone for three long years. As we crossed, the bureaucracy of the border was actually comforting. Everything was very organized and professional. While the process took a long time, it was not because we had to negotiate with the officials about the authenticity of our paperwork, but because it had to be cleared by several officials actually doing their jobs. For the first time during our trip, one man even checked the VIN number on the engine, to make sure it matched our documents. A woman border official appeared to register our car into the country. "Who is the driver?" she asks. She smiled as I responded. Let me cross that border, madam, and I can feel familiar. I know which food to eat, how to ask for things, which ladies are selling kenke (pounded corn) by the roadside, where to find chocolate, which bicycle vendor sells ice cream.
I had practically salivated all through Burkina Faso imagining all my favorite things being sold by hawkers right on the other side of the border. I seriously expected Ghanaian chocolate to be waiting for us right on the other side. In my excitement, I shared my expectations with Nate, who is also a chocolate lover. We were both sorely disappointed when it turned out that there seemed to be a shortage of chocolate in Northern Ghana. Anyway, most Ghanaians tend not to each chocolate, even though they produce cocoa for export here. Chocolate is too expensive, you could eat two meals for the price of one bar. We did find ice cream right away. And had three each.
When I left Ghana three years ago, I thought I would return in a few months time. I had a roundtrip ticket back to Accra. Whether I was following an idealistic dream with little foundation, I never found out. I had obligations to pay back student loans, climb the career ladder, and establish a home in San Francisco. But I don't think I have ever been able to put my love of this place into words. My want to return was a feeling, an instinct. Extremely rational Americans ask me why I would want to live in a place of such hardship and poverty. Extremely rational Africans ask me why I would want to leave a place where I have so much opportunity and so much wealth? So what is the attraction? Now that I have returned, I will try to gain a realistic perspective of what I love about this place.
Wednesday, August 17, 2005
Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso
There are times on this trip when all of us are human and emotional. I have written about many of those times on my blog page because they stand out as times when I have been challenged. I do not mind sharing the details of my personal thoughts to our very broad audience, even if I do not know you. But I also hope that I do not appear cranky and mean. I am only trying to be as honest as I can, so that I can pursue our work in an honest and open way. It does not bother me to admit that sometimes I am challenged to understand the intricacies of cultures, people, situations, and ideas, including how people are responding to AIDS. We have come across Christians, Muslims, Animists, matriarchal and patriarchal family units, children, Westerners, poor people and rich people alike. During all these encounters, all of us are learning about how we can best communicate with the people we meet, with our audience, and within our team.
There are times on this trip when all of us are human and emotional. I have written about many of those times on my blog page because they stand out as times when I have been challenged. I do not mind sharing the details of my personal thoughts to our very broad audience, even if I do not know you. But I also hope that I do not appear cranky and mean. I am only trying to be as honest as I can, so that I can pursue our work in an honest and open way. It does not bother me to admit that sometimes I am challenged to understand the intricacies of cultures, people, situations, and ideas, including how people are responding to AIDS. We have come across Christians, Muslims, Animists, matriarchal and patriarchal family units, children, Westerners, poor people and rich people alike. During all these encounters, all of us are learning about how we can best communicate with the people we meet, with our audience, and within our team.
Friday, August 12, 2005
Sindu, Burkina Faso
The landscape here is astounding, the rural villages like edens surrounded by emerald green fields. Rocky peaks of volcanic rock, pillars of jagged teeth protruding into the sky. Water in abundance and a soft light that filters through the plentiful rain clouds. Compared with the dryness of Mali, the change is significant. The countryside roads are shit, but this one we are driving down is lined with mahogany trees, offering cool shade and respite from the oppressive sun. Stop! Palm wine! After sampling the local brew, the boys dragged me out of the palm wine hut where I was enjoying conversing with old men, who in their drunkenness, thought I was a joy. Back in the car, we stop for directions. We are directed by a man on a bicycle to turn on a road that ends up being little more than a narrow strip of dirt next to an irrigation channel. We drive slowly between expansive rice fields where men and women hunch over to tend their crops. The "road" is apparently meant for nothing bigger than donkey carts. Women with bewildered looks on their faces pass us carrying buckets on their heads. Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? Everyone we ask urges us ahead. Yes, the waterfalls are just ahead.
We are scraping the bottom of the car as we cross deep puddles. So we decide that it is best for Sean and I to get out during the worst parts, in order to decrease the weight of the car. There are too many "worst" parts, so instead of continuously jumping back into the car, we walk in front and behind the car. Sean and I sit on the hood and the trunk during the "better" parts of the road. People we pass are surprised and delighted. They seem amused at the show of a dirty 1970's muscle car inching through their fields with two whiteys on top, muddy feet hanging off the sides.
The concept of sitting on top of the car proved useful. The next day, when I got annoyed at the boys (they were annoyed by my singing along to Portishead in the back seat), I simply removed myself from the cabin of the car and went to sit on top of the roof rack. Villagers laughed and waved as we passed.
While in the countryside, I am looking for opportunities to talk with women, in preparation for my next article. Many do not speak French. I do not speak their language. But I catch the meaning of their laughter as the hotel keeper explains to a group sitting under the mango tree that myself and the two men I am with will apparently share the same room for the night. We have faced many inquisitive glances on our trip, sometimes even laughter such as now. Although we are never met with hostility, sometimes this attention makes me uncomfortable. No amount of explaining, in any language, will fully explain the relationship between Nate, Sean and I to these women. In my head, I am afraid that they think I am a whore. Because their laughter has already made me too shy to ask them what they think about our arrangements, I can only guess their thoughts. It could be something as simple as feeling bad for me for having to carry two men's water in the morning instead of one man's water. However, I find myself a little stuck. I talk to a French woman who is working in the region for Médecins Sans Frontières. We communicate with ease and I feel perfectly understood. I realize that my research will require careful tact if I want to gain any real insight from women that I talk to. A lot of this has to do with self presentation.
The landscape here is astounding, the rural villages like edens surrounded by emerald green fields. Rocky peaks of volcanic rock, pillars of jagged teeth protruding into the sky. Water in abundance and a soft light that filters through the plentiful rain clouds. Compared with the dryness of Mali, the change is significant. The countryside roads are shit, but this one we are driving down is lined with mahogany trees, offering cool shade and respite from the oppressive sun. Stop! Palm wine! After sampling the local brew, the boys dragged me out of the palm wine hut where I was enjoying conversing with old men, who in their drunkenness, thought I was a joy. Back in the car, we stop for directions. We are directed by a man on a bicycle to turn on a road that ends up being little more than a narrow strip of dirt next to an irrigation channel. We drive slowly between expansive rice fields where men and women hunch over to tend their crops. The "road" is apparently meant for nothing bigger than donkey carts. Women with bewildered looks on their faces pass us carrying buckets on their heads. Did we take a wrong turn somewhere? Everyone we ask urges us ahead. Yes, the waterfalls are just ahead.
We are scraping the bottom of the car as we cross deep puddles. So we decide that it is best for Sean and I to get out during the worst parts, in order to decrease the weight of the car. There are too many "worst" parts, so instead of continuously jumping back into the car, we walk in front and behind the car. Sean and I sit on the hood and the trunk during the "better" parts of the road. People we pass are surprised and delighted. They seem amused at the show of a dirty 1970's muscle car inching through their fields with two whiteys on top, muddy feet hanging off the sides.
The concept of sitting on top of the car proved useful. The next day, when I got annoyed at the boys (they were annoyed by my singing along to Portishead in the back seat), I simply removed myself from the cabin of the car and went to sit on top of the roof rack. Villagers laughed and waved as we passed.
While in the countryside, I am looking for opportunities to talk with women, in preparation for my next article. Many do not speak French. I do not speak their language. But I catch the meaning of their laughter as the hotel keeper explains to a group sitting under the mango tree that myself and the two men I am with will apparently share the same room for the night. We have faced many inquisitive glances on our trip, sometimes even laughter such as now. Although we are never met with hostility, sometimes this attention makes me uncomfortable. No amount of explaining, in any language, will fully explain the relationship between Nate, Sean and I to these women. In my head, I am afraid that they think I am a whore. Because their laughter has already made me too shy to ask them what they think about our arrangements, I can only guess their thoughts. It could be something as simple as feeling bad for me for having to carry two men's water in the morning instead of one man's water. However, I find myself a little stuck. I talk to a French woman who is working in the region for Médecins Sans Frontières. We communicate with ease and I feel perfectly understood. I realize that my research will require careful tact if I want to gain any real insight from women that I talk to. A lot of this has to do with self presentation.
Tuesday, August 09, 2005
Bobo Diaulasso, Burkina Faso
As soon as we entered Burkina Faso, the scenery turns green. We are heading into the greenbelt of the country. Orchards, healthy-looking corn fields, fruits and vegetables being sold in pyramids on the side of the road, and attractive people. We pull off the road for lunch and find a mango grove under which tables have been set up to serve a Sunday meal of chicken and tasty beans and rice. A university professor walked up to us and graciously explained that we had stumbled upon a proletariat country-side retreat, an informal worker's rest stop. Our meal suddenly tastes better.
I had been introduced to the idea of workers' country side retreats in Marin, at a German socialist cabin that served as a beer hall for thirsty hikers along a trail through Muir Woods. I was glad to see that the concept had spread to Africa also. Burkina Faso is not unique in West Africa for having a socialist past; many newly independent nations in the 1960's implemented socialist policies in the dawn of their statehood. However, I was surprised to see that these concepts had endured through the decades and that people still seemed tied to proud parts of their history.
Feeling proletariat, I decide that my next article would focus on urban women. Many urban women work in the sex trade, some officially, many unofficially. I began to formulate an approach to talk with these women, but found myself dumbstruck. How do I approach them? Where do I find them?
As we were sitting at a bar later in downtown Bobo Diaolasso, I explained my idea to Sean and Nate. They pointed out with a hint of sarcasm that I had not recognized that the young girls walking by would have been great to approach on this subject. How will I research my idea if I am unable to distinguish who will be insulted by questions about sexuality, and who will not? In my eyes, many of the so called prostitutes look like girls ready for a night out on the town...
As soon as we entered Burkina Faso, the scenery turns green. We are heading into the greenbelt of the country. Orchards, healthy-looking corn fields, fruits and vegetables being sold in pyramids on the side of the road, and attractive people. We pull off the road for lunch and find a mango grove under which tables have been set up to serve a Sunday meal of chicken and tasty beans and rice. A university professor walked up to us and graciously explained that we had stumbled upon a proletariat country-side retreat, an informal worker's rest stop. Our meal suddenly tastes better.
I had been introduced to the idea of workers' country side retreats in Marin, at a German socialist cabin that served as a beer hall for thirsty hikers along a trail through Muir Woods. I was glad to see that the concept had spread to Africa also. Burkina Faso is not unique in West Africa for having a socialist past; many newly independent nations in the 1960's implemented socialist policies in the dawn of their statehood. However, I was surprised to see that these concepts had endured through the decades and that people still seemed tied to proud parts of their history.
Feeling proletariat, I decide that my next article would focus on urban women. Many urban women work in the sex trade, some officially, many unofficially. I began to formulate an approach to talk with these women, but found myself dumbstruck. How do I approach them? Where do I find them?
As we were sitting at a bar later in downtown Bobo Diaolasso, I explained my idea to Sean and Nate. They pointed out with a hint of sarcasm that I had not recognized that the young girls walking by would have been great to approach on this subject. How will I research my idea if I am unable to distinguish who will be insulted by questions about sexuality, and who will not? In my eyes, many of the so called prostitutes look like girls ready for a night out on the town...
Saturday, August 06, 2005
Sevare, Mali
I butchered my first chicken today. Earlier, I was thoroughly enjoying one of our self prescribed "rest" days that follow intense traveling. I decided that it would be a great evening to cook a nice meal. Sean and Nate soon arrived from their day's outing, and suggested that I go to the market and pick out a chicken. A smile snuck across my face. "Just imagine yourself walking from the market, down the road, with a live chicken in your hand," Sean said. I was sold.
The market was just about to close down for the day. I had trouble finding the vegetables for the meal I was imagining. Finally though, after finding few necessities, I stood in front of the chicken seller and with painstaking ease, said: "Give me a strong one." He grabbed two chickens from the cage and handed them to me. Of course, I chose the fatter one. I kept my cool with the exchange of money (about $3), but as soon as I had the chicken in my grasp and walked off, I couldn't stop smiling. No one on the street seemed to notice anything strange. I felt unreasonably proud. As I walked into the compound, Sean and Nate complimented me on my choice. The chicken looked very healthy.
Killing, gutting, and plucking a chicken is no easy feat. It takes hours for an untrained hand. Sean had gutted a few chickens, so he instructed me on where and when to cut its head off with the swiss army knife. As I watched the life bleed out of the animal, I thanked it for its gift of life which it so kindly provided, for our nourishment. "Cut it open, from the ass and between the breast plates, then start pulling its guts out," Sean said. Easier said than done. The chicken was warm with life, not at all like the fish that I had become used to gutting with my grandfather. I imagined that it was still moving. Indeed, blood spewed out from severed arteries at every movement of the knife. As I grabbed its guts, the heat was intolerable. It is a strange feeling to know that your hands are inside an animal that was alive a few minutes ago!
Plucking is by far the most time consuming task. Did you know chickens have fine hairs all over their body? Good, neither did I.
Finally, I stood in the hot kitchen, the dead, cleaned, and plucked carcass in a bowl in front of me. I started to feel anxious. I had roasted chickens before, but this one was different. I was worried about overcooking, undercooking, drying, tying, and spicing. I had many cigarette breaks. I was a nervous wreck.
Finally, everything came together. Mashed potatoes, salad, roasted onions and peppers, along with the centerpiece of the meal, a fresh roast chicken. The process of preparation was extremely gratifying, but I was exhausted by the time dinner was ready. But the best part, and the most heartwarming, was to watch two hungry guys devour the meat, suck the bones dry, and compliment the gatherer, the butcher, and the chef.
I butchered my first chicken today. Earlier, I was thoroughly enjoying one of our self prescribed "rest" days that follow intense traveling. I decided that it would be a great evening to cook a nice meal. Sean and Nate soon arrived from their day's outing, and suggested that I go to the market and pick out a chicken. A smile snuck across my face. "Just imagine yourself walking from the market, down the road, with a live chicken in your hand," Sean said. I was sold.
The market was just about to close down for the day. I had trouble finding the vegetables for the meal I was imagining. Finally though, after finding few necessities, I stood in front of the chicken seller and with painstaking ease, said: "Give me a strong one." He grabbed two chickens from the cage and handed them to me. Of course, I chose the fatter one. I kept my cool with the exchange of money (about $3), but as soon as I had the chicken in my grasp and walked off, I couldn't stop smiling. No one on the street seemed to notice anything strange. I felt unreasonably proud. As I walked into the compound, Sean and Nate complimented me on my choice. The chicken looked very healthy.
Killing, gutting, and plucking a chicken is no easy feat. It takes hours for an untrained hand. Sean had gutted a few chickens, so he instructed me on where and when to cut its head off with the swiss army knife. As I watched the life bleed out of the animal, I thanked it for its gift of life which it so kindly provided, for our nourishment. "Cut it open, from the ass and between the breast plates, then start pulling its guts out," Sean said. Easier said than done. The chicken was warm with life, not at all like the fish that I had become used to gutting with my grandfather. I imagined that it was still moving. Indeed, blood spewed out from severed arteries at every movement of the knife. As I grabbed its guts, the heat was intolerable. It is a strange feeling to know that your hands are inside an animal that was alive a few minutes ago!
Plucking is by far the most time consuming task. Did you know chickens have fine hairs all over their body? Good, neither did I.
Finally, I stood in the hot kitchen, the dead, cleaned, and plucked carcass in a bowl in front of me. I started to feel anxious. I had roasted chickens before, but this one was different. I was worried about overcooking, undercooking, drying, tying, and spicing. I had many cigarette breaks. I was a nervous wreck.
Finally, everything came together. Mashed potatoes, salad, roasted onions and peppers, along with the centerpiece of the meal, a fresh roast chicken. The process of preparation was extremely gratifying, but I was exhausted by the time dinner was ready. But the best part, and the most heartwarming, was to watch two hungry guys devour the meat, suck the bones dry, and compliment the gatherer, the butcher, and the chef.
Wednesday, August 03, 2005
Le Pays Dogon
The sun beats down on the escarpment, imposing its will upon the sun-baked foreigners who hobble along its ancient paths in search of obscure mysteries. A path's mystery lies in its subtlety, in its ability to guard secrets from the untrained eye (the eyes of slave raiders, enemies or Western tourists, depending on the century). Taking a lesson or two from the goats, we hop from rock to rock, our bodies tender with unfamiliar sensations that arise from the physical strain of scaling cliffs; we sweat like oysters on a half shell, ready to be slurped up by the Dogon god Amma. We look like pirates, in head scarves and dreadlocks. Crumbs of ancient lore are sporadically tossed on the path by our guide Harouna, like pieces of fresh meat for a pack of hyenas; he knows that these crumbs will keep us at the peak of our concentration. Our imagination will take care of the rest.
With the grace of immaculate circumstance, out of the six languages spoken between us, only one of us could actually understand Harouna at any one time. Much of our intellectual understanding of Dogon was lost like a broken pearl necklace down the sides of the cliff, through our slobbery translations that echoed in the canyons like a fucked up game of telephone. However, the magic of this land, with its all of its drama was not lost. Its energy spoke clearly, as we howled universally understood animal noises up into the cracking rock faces, as we gazed dreamily at the birds flying kamikaze missions from the top of the escarpment down into the African plains as far as the eye could see, as we treaded softly through millet fields tucked away in water carved valleys, as we froze like the rocks under our feet in the shape of yoga poses, as we swam in waterfalls and pools under ancient Tellem ruins, and as we smiled at its people who greeted us and each other with enthusiastic sing song rhymes. Beer brewed out of locally grown millet, cliff-top villages and night markets that last until five in the morning... these people have more style than Paris ever dreamed of.
Knowing our propensity toward beer, Harouna invited his buddy Daniel to come along and carry a twenty liter container of millet beer to lighten our spirits and to give us strength. Daniel, albeit his knowledge of every millet beer wench in a forty kilometer radius of wherever we were, did not speak a lick of French, English, or Fula. Nevertheless, he happily communicated with us through spontaneous dances, yelling something that sounded like "Attaque!" and earnestly asking: "Madame, Ça va?" Despite my best efforts to respond affirmatively to Daniel, the physical strain and yet another African bacteria upsetting my stomach, I started to feel very ill on day three (apparently I smelled very bad again). I decided to get a ride on a motorcycle down the escarpment to the next village on our itinerary from a guy who smelled like motor oil and really wanted to give me a back massage. When we arrived in the village of destination, I hopped off the bike, hobbled two steps towards the campement, and puked my brains out to the sheer horror of the small children who had run up excitedly to greet me. A couple of hours later, I was smiling at the comic relief of running a 100 degree fever in such a paradise. The children were also laughing at me, as they pointed and made puking noises. An old grandmother offered me a benediction for my health and some tea. With a constant ebb and flow, I often experience bliss and revulsion at the same time. I can not escape either beauty or misery. I am beginning to lose the will to escape even the miserable experiences; at least they are letting me know that I am alive.
The sun beats down on the escarpment, imposing its will upon the sun-baked foreigners who hobble along its ancient paths in search of obscure mysteries. A path's mystery lies in its subtlety, in its ability to guard secrets from the untrained eye (the eyes of slave raiders, enemies or Western tourists, depending on the century). Taking a lesson or two from the goats, we hop from rock to rock, our bodies tender with unfamiliar sensations that arise from the physical strain of scaling cliffs; we sweat like oysters on a half shell, ready to be slurped up by the Dogon god Amma. We look like pirates, in head scarves and dreadlocks. Crumbs of ancient lore are sporadically tossed on the path by our guide Harouna, like pieces of fresh meat for a pack of hyenas; he knows that these crumbs will keep us at the peak of our concentration. Our imagination will take care of the rest.
With the grace of immaculate circumstance, out of the six languages spoken between us, only one of us could actually understand Harouna at any one time. Much of our intellectual understanding of Dogon was lost like a broken pearl necklace down the sides of the cliff, through our slobbery translations that echoed in the canyons like a fucked up game of telephone. However, the magic of this land, with its all of its drama was not lost. Its energy spoke clearly, as we howled universally understood animal noises up into the cracking rock faces, as we gazed dreamily at the birds flying kamikaze missions from the top of the escarpment down into the African plains as far as the eye could see, as we treaded softly through millet fields tucked away in water carved valleys, as we froze like the rocks under our feet in the shape of yoga poses, as we swam in waterfalls and pools under ancient Tellem ruins, and as we smiled at its people who greeted us and each other with enthusiastic sing song rhymes. Beer brewed out of locally grown millet, cliff-top villages and night markets that last until five in the morning... these people have more style than Paris ever dreamed of.
Knowing our propensity toward beer, Harouna invited his buddy Daniel to come along and carry a twenty liter container of millet beer to lighten our spirits and to give us strength. Daniel, albeit his knowledge of every millet beer wench in a forty kilometer radius of wherever we were, did not speak a lick of French, English, or Fula. Nevertheless, he happily communicated with us through spontaneous dances, yelling something that sounded like "Attaque!" and earnestly asking: "Madame, Ça va?" Despite my best efforts to respond affirmatively to Daniel, the physical strain and yet another African bacteria upsetting my stomach, I started to feel very ill on day three (apparently I smelled very bad again). I decided to get a ride on a motorcycle down the escarpment to the next village on our itinerary from a guy who smelled like motor oil and really wanted to give me a back massage. When we arrived in the village of destination, I hopped off the bike, hobbled two steps towards the campement, and puked my brains out to the sheer horror of the small children who had run up excitedly to greet me. A couple of hours later, I was smiling at the comic relief of running a 100 degree fever in such a paradise. The children were also laughing at me, as they pointed and made puking noises. An old grandmother offered me a benediction for my health and some tea. With a constant ebb and flow, I often experience bliss and revulsion at the same time. I can not escape either beauty or misery. I am beginning to lose the will to escape even the miserable experiences; at least they are letting me know that I am alive.
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