Women Aren't Taxi Drivers Because They Can't Keep Secrets

Once a week our volunteers come to our office at 4 p.m. for either a Fante language lesson given by Lawrence, our Volunteer Coordinator, or for a Global Citizens Initiative (GCI) seminar given by me. GCI is a program my employer initiated this summer to give its volunteers and interns a more comprehensive understanding of their experiences working abroad. The program covers the following topics: cultural awareness, service-learning, international volunteerism, sustainable development, social enterprise and the role of non-profit organizations. The GCI topics are taught on a rolling basis. After the Fante or GCI lesson we go out to dinner in Cape Coast or one of the volunteers cooks for everyone. Our organization pays for 7 cedis (a little more than the average meal cost in Cape Coast) [EDIT: now 10 cedis, as prices have gone up] and a couple liters of bottled water for each volunteer and our staff. The volunteers rotate turns for cooking; it's predetermined on the calendar Kirsty distributes at the beginning of each month. The volunteer can cook the rest of us whatever she or he pleases. Our organization reimburses the volunteer cook for 5 cedis per volunteer and staff in attendance.

Last Tuesday was a Fante Tuesday. Lawrence never joins us at our weekly dinner, even though we invite him each time. He says he doesn’t come because he loves his wife’s cooking and doesn’t want to offend her by having someone else prepare his dinner. I’ve shared meals with Lawrence only a few occasions since I arrived in July: two lunches and one dinner. The two lunches were both at Castle Restaurant at the beginnings of August and September. Our NGO's marketing department asks that accepted volunteers book their flights at the beginning of a month to make it easier for on-site staff members to do airport pickups and so we don’t have to give several orientations throughout a month for each new volunteer we receive. It’s best to make sure everyone is on the same page, a phrase my dad used on family road trips whenever we stopped at a gas station – each of us had to use the restroom even if we didn’t have to go.

Our NGO's orientation program occurs on the first Sunday of each month we receive new volunteers. The new volunteers meet Kirsty and me at our office on the Sunday morning and we begin the orientation. First Kirsty explains our organization's mission, the volunteers’ expectations as volunteers in Ghana, their homestay living arrangements, our program schedule of events, and what to expect from the Ghanaian culture – the food, the transportation system, the people, precautions, health and safety issues, etc. Then I inform them of their expectations as professional volunteers and interns, the purpose of their project funds (to enable sustainable development), ways to spend their project money budget during their program that would facilitate sustainable development. The discussion lasts about two hours.

Then Lawrence and Kofi, our full-time and part-time Ghanaian staff members respectively, give the volunteers a tour of the town of Cape Coast and conclude the program with a refreshing seaside lunch at the Castle Restaurant, the restaurant next to the Cape Coast slave castle with an extensive menu and the most “enlightened” restaurant staff I’ve come across in Ghana, a label used by my Ghanaian-Russian neighbor Susan to identify (and date) Ghanaians who are intelligent and well-traveled.

I don’t accompany Lawrence and Kofi and the new volunteers on the town tour, but I joined them for lunch during the August and September orientations because I had to bring the NGO's money to pay the bills. Both August and September Kirsty had forgotten to give Lawrence the money to pay the lunch bill and Lawrence had forgotten to ask Kirsty for it before the weekend, so I brought the money because Kirsty and I have access to the safe during the weekends because we lived in our office until mid-October. (The recent move has made me so excited for these new levels of professionalism and sanity!) Oh, and the one occasion I had dinner with Lawrence was when Kirsty’s parents were in town staying at a resort owned by a Scottish woman – Kirsty made Lawrence promise her he would try a common Scottish dish if she asked the Scottish owner to prepare it. Part of the fun in this challenge is that whenever Lawrence eats in a restaurant, he orders the same meal every time: chicken and fried rice. When I asked him why he doesn’t branch out and try something new, he told me he orders the same thing at restaurants because his wife can make chicken and fried rice. (Wait for it…) He doesn’t want to try something new and really like it and then have his wife not know how to prepare it as well. I love Ghanaians’ sense of logic. So simple and pure.

But back to the story... it wouldn't be a story told by me if I didn't go off on a few tangents before getting to the main point.

Last Tuesday we tried this new place for dinner called Zizibi’s, the sort of restaurant I’m betting Ghanaian men frequent with their mistresses. It has a sort of displaced feeling, as if it belongs to a secluded road rather than a village. The structure of Zizibi’s is as grand as a two-story home from America: the seating is where the front porch would be but extended back about 20 more yards. There were no cars or people there besides the beyond-bored looking waitresses sitting against the wall.

I ordered the vegetable jollof and it was the spiciest I've had yet. As long as I have enough water, I'm okay with ample spice. When we had exhausted the subjects of what we’d done that day and how the volunteers’ projects are going and how the food tasted and what we thought of the restaurant and our server, we finally talked about something unrelated to Ghana. It feels like it's been ages since my conversations haven't been based on Ghana or my work. I had asked one of our volunteers to explain why she doesn’t believe in the idea that everything happens for a reason. I can’t decide if I was more interested in her response because she and I view that topic so differently, or if I was just relieved to be talking about something besides being in Ghana. I know the purpose of those weekly dinners is to give our volunteers an outlet to talk about their experiences, but I prefer to exist within a culture rather than observing it verbally.

One of our volunteers Danielle caught a taxi roadside and went home as we were calling for a drop taxi because she was going in a different direction than the rest of us. Kirsty called Kwame, her favorite driver she calls for drops. He is notorious for being a lively and informative conversationalist and acts more as a friend than a driver – one time he split his lunch with me when he took me to Accra to pick up a new volunteer from the airport. But he also tends to overcharge for his drop rides and is usually either really early or really late to pick us up. He was an hour late getting us from Zizibi’s, which for some reason I cared more about tonight than usual.

I was the first one down the stairs. “Kwame! If I find out I have malaria tomorrow I’m blaming you for keeping us waiting outside so long.” I said, only half-joking.

He met me at the bottom of the stairs with a big hug and a smile, no rebuttal. He held the embrace and swayed me left to right a few times.

“I’m telling you.” I continued, mimicking the inflection of the common Ghanaian phrase by emphasizing “telling” and dropping an octave on “you.” Still smiling, he moved with open arms to Liz, then McKell and finally Kirsty. Maybe “hugging it out” really can solve all the world's problems.

“Do you know how late you are, Kwame?” Kirsty asked, breaking his embrace.

“I am really very sorry,” he took both her hands in his. “I am late.”

“One hour,” she said. “You will only take 5 cedis to take all of us home because you were so late, understand?”

“Okay,” he nodded. He ended up calling Kirsty later asking if 5 cedis was all he was getting – if she had forgotten to give the volunteers more money to give to him. (If Ghanaians don’t understand something obronis say, they just nod and say “yes” and “no problem” to keep peace.)

“And you’re taking us to the Goil to get ice cream before taking us home. Still only for 5 cedis.”

McKell and Kirsty wanted to get FanIce from the local gas station because when they tried ordering ice cream at Zizibi’s the waitress said they didn’t have any. I bet about half the items on any menu in Ghana is false advertisement because “we don’t have that.” You’re lucky when the servers even say that much – usually it goes like this:

“Can I have orange juice?”

“No.”

“Oh. Can I have pineapple juice?”

“No.”

“Hmm.. what about mango juice?

“No.”

“Apple juice?”

“No.”

“Right, what do you have?”

“We only have banana juice.”

When ordering food in Ghana you will save a lot of time by asking your server what they have that day – especially when it comes to beverages and desserts.

The four of us piled into Kwame’s car and drove toward some village I don’t know the name of. Earlier that day my friend had told me he moved into a new house in the village past Kakumdo and I didn’t catch the name of it but knew it starts with S. I asked Kwame the name of it as we drove through but I’ve forgotten it already. Then we reached Kakumdo, passed through Abura, and then we arrived at the Goil. We went inside while Kwame wiped his car with a torn bed sheet. He always does that when he’s waiting for people. Dusts the interior, shines the exterior. In fact, most taxi drivers clean their cars while they wait - it seems a bit compulsive to me but it's part of their status-conscious culture. I didn’t get anything because I wanted a cone or dish with real live ice cream and didn’t want to settle for a popsicle like the other girls had. I don’t like sloppy seconds especially when I know they are sloppy seconds.
 

I saw a obroni woman driver pull into the Goil as we left, a very rare sighting indeed. I pointed out my finding to the rest of the car and asked Kwame if it is difficult for females to become taxi drivers. He didn’t understand how I worded it at first so I took a different approach.

“If a woman wants to become a taxi driver what does she have to do?”

“They go to the office in town and take a test and pay a fee and den dey a driva!”

“And men who are taxi drivers are okay with women working as taxi drivers? It’s not bad?”

“Oh no! No problem, no problem. But you see it’s very difficult for women to be taxi drivers because they are very timid. Very shy at driving. And den one day, one day they drive like me!”

I laughed. “So is it difficult for women taxi drivers to make much money?”

“Yes because taxi drivers see many things, they hear many things, and they must keep secrets.”

I saw a disconnect from my question to his answer and hoped he would clarify naturally.

“Like affairs?” I offered.

“Very good. Yes,” Kwame said. He turned left off the junction and started up the winding red dirt road up to my and Kirsty’s apartment. “Because they see many things and must keep many secrets to protect the clients. And then you get many many clients. I think two years ago I had something like 35 clients I picked regularly. Even helped with their errands. They give a list of things they need in town and I get them all.”

I had stopped listening. My mind was off wondering what the juiciest thing the average taxi driver has seen or heard. And then I thought about whether I had shared any “secrets” with taxi drivers unknowingly, what they had seen and heard and had pretended not to.

Back to the disconnect. Was Kwame saying women don’t become taxi drivers and have a hard time getting paid as taxi drivers because people don’t trust women with their secrets? Is he saying people’s secrets are safer kept with men than women? Kwame!

De-tailed a Gecko Today

It's about a 20-minute walk to our new office but this morning Kirsty called a drop taxi to take us because she was on a deadline for an assignment for the headquarters in the U.S. and was feeling sick and didn't want to endure the walk. A dangerous downward hike with abundant vicious stray dogs, it's more comparable to a scene from a SuperMario game, upon reflection. I accepted her offer to share the taxi.

As we waited for the taxi, Kirsty was sitting on the tile floor of our bare-since-the-office-move living room and attempting to bring our internet back to life. I went out to the balcony to survey the weather. A bit dreary today, but I love it when the color of the sky blends into the ocean. We have such an amazing view.

While letting myself back into our apartment I saw a dark object on the ground out of the corner of my eye. To my surprise it wasn't the side effects of my malaria prophylaxis playing tricks on me this time - it was a gecko.. and it's tail. I had stepped on it accidentally and de-tailed it! The tail was squirming feverishly as if it had a mind of its own and could feel the pain of being severed from its host, which had scampered up the wall into the corner. I shrieked at the sight of the living tail and jumped and reacted in a variety of girly ways to such a sight and ran down the hallway away from the thrashing dismembered tail and then back up the hallway to see if it had stopped moving (it hadn't) and ran down the hallway and back up again until I realized someone was going to have to deal with the tailless gecko on the wall.

Kirsty, still sitting on the ground with our internet modem and wires galore with her back to the action but neck cranked around, was silently watching the whole scene.

My eyes remained on the thrashing tail as I begged her to take care of the gecko because I was too traumatized from de-tailing it. She got up from the ground and walked over to the corner he was hiding in. I ran into the kitchen to get a plastic container for her to capture him in. As she made several attempts to cup him against the wall, I searched our bare living room for a lid she could slide over the top. (Capturing geckos in our apartment is no rare feat for either of us.)

"Aha! Got cha," Kirsty said triumphantly. I brought over a few papers from our recycling box as the lid.
"That won't be enough," she said looking from the papers to the gecko, who was throwing his body into the walls of the container. "We need a big stack of papers."

I grabbed a few more dusty papers from the cardboard box and handed them to her. She slid the stack against the wall slowly underneath the container and then brought the container right-side-up away from the wall. I opened the balcony door for Kirsty to set him free. Free and tailless. Sorry, buddy.

She let herself back into the apartment. "Our driver is here," she said and handed me the plastic container. I was staring at the tail, which had slowed down but still had a bit of life left in it. I put the container over the tail, grabbed my bag and left with Kirsty for work.

Two days later, my gecko returned. Kirsty spotted him at our kitchen window and pointed him out to me. "He's come back for his tail!" I said, laughing.

Not So Smooth

Nothing Ghana-related today, I was just reflecting on some of the odd things I’ve been told by college flings whose smoothness came off rather roughly because they had had too much to drink. It’s funny to imagine the sober versions of these guys saying these things.

It’s taken my friend and me a whole bottle of wine to think of the most foul lines we've been told by former flings. Here's my winner:

“It’s been my goal all summer to hook up with you.” (After kissing me)

You go-getter, you. What an insult. An insult to himself, too. At least there’s something to be said of his determination – that was only three years ago and he’s married now. Seems he’s pretty good at going after what he wants in life.

But I haven’t necessarily been a straight-A student in the School of Staying Calm, Cool and Collected While Intoxicated either. Here is my favorite personal blunder that I don’t want to ponder how much influence it had on ending the fling:

“My sister told me that I am a lot like your sister.”

Like... why? I cringe when I think about actually having said that aloud. But it’s okay because friends we started, friends we remain. It seems I've been remembering and laughing at my embarrassing blunders from the past more often since I’ve been in Ghana away from the places I make silly decisions.


I hope I haven't cursed my luck now that I've put out into the universe that I consider Ghana the place I don't make silly decisions. (There I go getting into trouble saying things out loud again.) Maybe I should keep more things to myself.

Spitting, Urinating and Laughing "Soo Much"

Last week while in a tro-tro, Lauren and I were reminiscing with her friend McKell about McKell's first few days in Ghana. McKell is a Mormon from Utah who opted to delay graduation from college at age 20 by spending four months volunteering independently at an orphanage in Cape Coast, Ghana. Lauren had met McKell at church and invited her to the local minor league football game that afternoon with us. We sat on the bleachers about five rows up behind one of the goals; Lauren and McKell were on my left and on my right were eight kids all about 10 years old.

When the game ended the three of us stayed seated to let the bulk of the crowd leave the stadium first. The kids next to me decided to wait out the crowd too. Conversation lulled and we were watching the fans shuffle slowly to the exits. One of the kids hacked some phlegm in his throat and spit at the ground. As my eyes lingered on the pool of spit, I said, "That.. was some pretty good leverage!" The statement seemed to crescendo with admiration; I turned to Lauren, who had been in Ghana for the same amount of time as I had. "I was thinking the SAME THING!" We laughed at ourselves for being unphased by their eradication of body waste in public, a commonality of Ghana’s culture that had caught us off-guard the first few occasions we had witnessed such acts. We found most of the humor in the fact that we were not only unphased but were admiring the level of skill with which this boy could spit. We didn't even have to look at McKell to know how she would respond to the scene - we had been there, jaws ajar, two months earlier.

From that memory we branched into McKell's realization, after a month of being in Ghana, she had grown to appreciate when the men who urinated in the street would aim away from people’s view. How courteous of them! she would think to herself. Then McKell told me her and Lauren's most recent experience urinating outside.

Lauren and McKell organized a two-day series of competitions between the two villages in which they had been performing their public health outreach. While watching the two villages play each other in football, they realized they both had to pee. They asked a young man Lauren knew named Sammy to show them where they could use the washroom. He first showed them to an enclosure that, from their description, sounded nothing like an enclosed area. They stared from him to the enclosure and back at him as if he was joking, then laughed at how anyone thought this scenario was any different from urinating into the sewers, as so many Ghanaians are keen on doing. They asked Sammy to show them another place; he guided them into a grove and waited at the entrance while Lauren and McKell walked farther into the grove for more privacy. When they finished they returned to Sammy. They were laughing about the situation and all of a sudden Sammy interjected and told McKell, who believes he singled her out because her laugh is louder than Lauren's, that she laughs too much.

"What’s wrong with that?" McKell asked, not knowing whether to continue laughing.
"You laugh so much," Sammy repeated. Whenever any Ghanaian says “so much,” they draw out the “so” for emphasis. "If you marry a Ghanaian you will have to stop laughing."
McKell shot Lauren a glance. "Why?" she challenged.
"Because he wouldn't like it. And you must do what your husband tells you to do. If he says you need to stop laughing, you must stop laughing, or else he will take you to court."
"To court?" McKell repeated, bewildered.
"Yes, he will take you to court."
"Well, I like laughing and I don't plan on marrying someone who doesn't like that I laugh a lot." She paused, "Sammy, do you not like that I laugh all the time?"
"No! No, no no!" He assured her. "I like very much when you laugh. You are very good at laughing!"

Story time ended when our tro-tro arrived at Gynkabo. Lauren, McKell and I served as the judges of the talent show and drama competition between the two villages Gynkabo and Frami. Highlife music was the conclusion to the performances - everyone young and old from the two villages was dancing happily in the town square. Lauren, McKell and I were waiting passively for a tro-tro to pass through town so we could head back to Cape Coast. Sammy, who did not strike me as a condemner of laughing, was engaging me in small talk while we watched Lauren and McKell were dancing/jumping and taking pictures with about 20 children.

"McKell cannot dance!" Sammy exclaimed.
I laughed. "She looks like she's having fun, though."

We watched them dance some more and then I told him the story McKell told me and asked him to explain why it's considered a bad thing for people to laugh too often.

"People sometimes choose to not laugh so much because they want to be taken seriously. And sometimes you could laugh at something you think is funny and someone else thinks you laughing at them."
"Oh, I see." I looked back across the street at the dancing. My eyes fell on a toddler gyrating to the beat by herself. I've decided that no matter how long I live in Ghana I will always be impressed by the way Ghanaians seem to be born with the ability to move to any rhythm.

Still watching the toddler, I showed Sammy I understood by repeating his views in my own way, (although heavily adapted - I have to adapt my speech constantly): "Too much confusion can happen with too much laughing." I hoped he understood what I meant by that more than I did.

The teenagers who performed Frami's skit paraded in front of Sammy and I in a dance line down the middle of the street, the leader of the line with the prize Lauren and McKell had bought and I had presented to their town leader for earning second place in the village competition. He held it over his head, still in its wrapping paper. They had so much pride in their second place prize, it made me wonder what they thought was inside the wrapping paper. I was curious what their response would be when they opened the gift and saw it was only a plastic container of candy.

Lauren and McKell had crossed the street and were dancing over to Sammy and me. I joined them and began dancing down the middle of the street as if we were all part of a musical and the show would end with Lauren, McKell and I dancing back to Cape Coast, disappearing around the road's curve and into the dusk.