As our 22-seater van pulled into the Kejetia lorry station, I asked the man sitting next to me if he knew Kumasi well.
“Yes, please, I am from Kumasi,” he said.
“Do you know how much a taxi from Kejetia station to the STC station should be?”
He pondered a few seconds and said it should cost me three cedis. I thanked him. He pulled my bag out from under the seat in front and brought it off the van for me. I thanked him again and scanned the scene for a taxi driver. I didn’t have to try hard – three men engulfed me as soon as I set foot on ground. “Where are you going?” “Need a taxi?” “White woman, need a ride?”
I took my bag from the man and walked away from the crowd to a taxi driver leaning against the hood of his car. I asked him to take me to the STC station.
“OK, let’s go,” he said, moving toward the driver’s seat.
“How much?” I pressed.
He rested his folded arms on the top of the ajar door and gazed across the Kejetia market, the largest open market in West Africa. “You give me 15 cedis.”
“Fifteen?!” I laughed. I turned to walk away and saw the man from the van standing close by, smiling and shaking his head.
The taxi driver followed me. “The traffic is too much at this time of day.”
“The traffic is always too much – this is Kumasi!” I retorted.
I shouldn’t have expected to get a fair price at the lorry station anyway. The lorry stations in Ghana’s bigger cities are known for overcharging drop taxi passengers – foreigners and Ghanaians alike. The Van Man and I walked away from the station along the main Kejetia road. The taxi driver did not follow.
“You will get a taxi for three cedis, don’t worry,” he promised me. I find it amusing that when Ghanaians want to help me they find it necessary to promise that everything will be alright and not to worry. Both men and women do this to foreigners, I’ve noticed. Very peculiar – more on that later though.
We spotted a taxi driver with no passengers inching along the road in traffic. Van Man lowered his head and spoke in Twi to the driver. I was perfectly capable of getting my own taxi but let him help anyway. He looked back up to me, smiled and proudly said, “Three cedis.” I chuckled and thanked him. Before I shut the car door, Van Man asked, “How can I reach you?” I laughed softly to myself – I had felt that one coming. “Next time I’m in Kumasi, maybe I will see you.” I shut the door and waved goodbye.
The lady at the STC bus station was not nearly as helpful. Extracting information from people is one of my duties as an INGO Project Coordinator – I didn’t want to work on my holiday. After a painful question-and-answer session, I finally found out that the STC bus from Kumasi to Tamale this day and the next were already full. I had some wildlife to see – I wasn’t about to lounge around Kumasi for two days before getting a bus, only to take another bus to my final destination. I opted for my next option, the Metro Mass bus, which was positioned inconveniently on the other side of the city. I walked outside to the drop taxi station and asked a driver if he could take me to the Metro Mass station.
This man was a hospitable driver, transportation system informant and tour guide. When we got to the Metro Mass station I asked him to wait for me while I checked to see if I could buy a ticket to Tamale. There wasn’t a line to the Tamale booth, so I walked up to the ticket lady and asked how much a ticket to Tamale would be. “Eight cedis,” she replied. She stood up and began fiddling with the money trays in the money box. I fished eight cedis out of my bag, dropping one bill on the ground. As a frequent dropper of items, I've learned that most Ghanaians will jump to help you clean a mess you've accidentally created but won't assist you in picking up your valuables. I'm wondering if not touching another's possessions stems back to the highly competitive and untrusting nature many Ghanaians associate with their working class.
I slid the money through the open window. The ticket lady clicked the money box shut, then looked at the money and back at me.
“O!” she exclaimed and picked up her purse from the ground and moved to the booth’s exit.
“O, madam. You are leaving?” I asked.
She turned around and said, “Yes.”
“So, no more tickets can be bought for the Tamale bus today?”
“Oh, please, no,” she responded.
My heart sank. “If-only thoughts” tried invading my mind (if only I hadn't gone to the STC station, if only the van from Cape Coast hadn't taken two hours to fill, etc.), but if I gave these thoughts a swift boot out. She turned to leave again. I called after her. “When will you start selling tickets to the next Tamale bus?”
“Four a.m. tomorrow,” she called over her shoulder.
I need to be back here earlier than 4 a.m., I thought. I asked a man nearby when lines form for the 4 a.m. buses. He told me 3:30 a.m. I thanked him and walked over to my waiting taxi, knowing I should be at the station before three.
I got back inside the taxi and sounded out to the driver my last two options. I could either pay another five (ish) cedis to have him drive me to the Tamale tro-tro station, get to Tamale by nightfall, spend the night in Tamale and board the Mole bus the next afternoon, or I could overnight in Kumasi near the Metro Mass station, get a Tamale bus in the morning and try to get to Mole in one day. It was a five-hour ride to Tamale via bus, so that meant it was maybe an eight- or nine-hour drive via tro, not including a potential breakdown along the way. I figured the safer and more relaxing option would be to stay a night in Kumasi.
I asked the driver if he knew any guesthouses nearby. He did but didn’t know the names of them or how much they cost. I took out my Bradt guidebook from my bag and flipped to the Kumasi guesthouse pages. I gave him the book and asked if he knew where each of the cheaper guesthouses were. One by one, he said told me which part of Kumasi the guesthouses were located and whether it was far from the station. They were all far away. “How about you drive me to the closest guesthouse you know?” I asked. “Yes, it isn’t in the guidebook," he said. "I will take you there.”
As he drove from the Metro Mass station, I felt a powerful wave of gratefulness for his willingness to help. And I didn't even know his name! Normally I ask taxi drivers their name as soon as I get in their car, but this time I had forgotten.
"Please, what is your name?" I asked.
"I am Isaac."
"Isaac, very nice to meet you. Thank you for going out of your way to help me."
He beamed and said it was his duty to help obronis like me. Then he explained that we were in Bantama, a suburb of Kumasi, and pointed out recognizable buildings in case I wanted to walk to the station. I wouldn’t, though, because it would be in the middle of the night, but the gesture was sweet anyway. We parked in front of a tall brick building with a white gated patio. The sign on the bricks said it was a café, but the sign on the wall read “Restaurant and Guesthouse.”
The cheapest room was double the price I was looking for (22 cedis per night for a double bed with a fan), but the location was ideal for my early morning, and I had already spent money to get there anyway – asking Isaac to drive me to another guesthouse to compare prices would cost more. I took the room.
After I made the decision to stay, Isaac turned from the front desk lady to me. He looked satisfied that he had properly seen me off.
“So. Your name is?” Isaac asked.
“Michaela.” I took his hand in mine and shook it the Ghanaian way.
"Michaela," he repeated. "It sounds Ghanaian."
"Thank you," I smiled.
“Safe journey tomorrow.” He bowed his head and raised his hand to indicate "goodbye." Spinning on his heels, he walked out the door.
“Medaase.”
It was intriguing that he didn’t try to give me his number and tell me that I should call him to pick me up in the morning. Usually when the conversation between taxi driver and passenger flows well, the drivers try to give you their number and suggest that you call them for a drop taxi ride. Isaac had mentioned that he lives on the other side of town - if he had come to pick me up in the morning, it would’ve cost me more because he would have to drive farther to get to me. It was either very thoughtful of him to not push that on me, or he just didn't want to get up in the middle of the night to drive me around.
I paid for the accommodation and followed the caretaker woman to my room up the stairs and around the corner. The building was open-air - opposite my door was the kitchen. Water running, women singing, pots clanging, but at least it smelled good. I followed the caretaker into my room, set my bags down and walked to the bathroom to turn on the faucet to make sure the water was running. It was. I thanked the woman and sat down on my bed as she left the room. The mattress was a lot softer than mine at home in Cape Coast. I leaned back across the bed and closed my eyes, thinking about how the next day was going to come early and end late. In like a lion and out like a lion.
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Saturday, April 16, 2011
Blind Man's Music
Two more passengers was all we needed. As one of the first to board the tro-tro, I had waited two hours for it to fill. We were heading to Kumasi, four hours north of my home in Cape Coast. I was going on a long weekend trip to Mole National Park by myself. (See previous post for details.)
It was more of a van than a tro-tro, as it had almost double the number of seats (22). If you don’t like people touching you or don't do well in small spaces, public transportation in Ghana and probably in the rest of Africa is not for you.
The front had two seats next to the driver and the back looked like this:
An old man in a navy blue jumpsuit too big for his slight body stepped onto our van in the opening space where there was no seat. He faced us. He was blind in a rather painful-looking way. His left pupil was permanently positioned left, revealing a yellowed sclera. Near his right eye's iris was some sort of puncture wound the size of a dime. He lowered his lids halfway (I wondered whether he did this consciously) and began speaking to us in Fante, the main local language spoken in the Central and Western Regions of Ghana. I only know a handful of Fante phrases and words, but knew the gist of what he was saying.
When tro-tros are almost full, salesmen stand by the open door and duck their heads inside to give a minute-long sales pitch on energy drinks, pens with calendars inside them, body soap, religious books, how-to books – you name it. And sometimes on the vans, where there is more room to stand, eloquent gracious representatives of religious bodies (usually Christian churches) will recite a prayer and mention the importance of faith and knowing Jesus and the Lord. Then he wishes the passengers a safe and blessed journey, sings a soulful song and steps out of the van. I’ve witnessed these van prayers three times and each van reacted the same way. Whereas the passengers generally ignore the salesmen on the tros, they clap, exclaim and give money to these people of extraordinary faith.
All I could understand of the old man's prayer was “St. Francis.” He mentioned his name several times. I had no recollection of what St. Francis was known for and wondered why this man chose to speak about him rather than St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.
He spoke softly, but his words still reached everyone in the van. His voice sounded as old as his weary eyes looked. Although his eyes didn’t seem to register anything, he moved his head slowly from one side of the van to another as he spoke. He used his hands at times, moving them with control and grace.
The man next to me leaned over my lap to pull his wallet from the back right pocket of his trousers. He took out a one cedi bill and asked the woman sitting in front of him to give it to the man. She took the cedi and placed it inside the man’s idle hand by his waist. His eyes still projected ahead, his fingers fumbled for the money, though not with desperation or greed. He stopped his speech to say, “May God bless you,” and tucked the cedi into his left breast pocket, his finger catching the rim of the pocket, jingling a few coins from the bottom.
He finished the prayer and took out two light wooden cylinder-shaped sticks and began building a rhythm. The sticks were about six inches in length and an inch in width. He hit the right one on the left, rotating the left stick in his hand each time after striking it with the right. The rhythm was simple – one, two, one, two, one, two. It was so genuine. As a devoted admirer of African music, I am convinced Africans are born with musical inclination. There were countless rhythms and combinations of rhythms he could have played with those two sticks, but he chose the simplest, purest beat there is.
In his blind eyes, in his quiet demeanor, I could not detect a trace of sadness or of desperation. He was calm and steady. It was as if his only intention was to bring us faith and hope. When he began to sing, it was too beautiful for me. Too unexpected. Too needed. I couldn’t handle it. My throat swelled and tears brimmed. I laughed quietly at myself and pulled out my wallet. Despite never giving money to those who beg due to its often pointlessness and even negative repercussions, giving money to this blind man seemed like the most natural thing to do. There was no question in my mind about it. From moments like these I've learned there is a difference between sustainable giving and kindness.
In fear of completely losing it, I didn't dare look at the old man again or anyone as I handed a one cedi bill to the man next to me. I asked if he could pass it up. He looked at me, then looked at the van’s open entrance, where girls and women stood by our door with boxes and bowls of food on their heads. “You want a meat pie?” he asked. He probably didn’t think I would give the man a cedi because there was no way I had understood his prayer. A meat pie seemed like a more obvious purchase for a foreigner.
“No, can you give it to that man?” I nodded in his direction.
The guy next to me looked from me to the singing man and then back at me. “That man?”
I nodded, feeling my throat swell again. I kept my gaze unfocused and downward; it would've been impossible to keep the tears in if I had locked eyes with another.
I could hear him smile. “God bless you!” he said, and passed my cedi forward.
I looked the other way out the window, wishing the old man would stop playing his music and stop singing. It was too beautiful.
It was more of a van than a tro-tro, as it had almost double the number of seats (22). If you don’t like people touching you or don't do well in small spaces, public transportation in Ghana and probably in the rest of Africa is not for you.
The front had two seats next to the driver and the back looked like this:
Don’t let the divided lines fool you – they are not separated individual seats. They are benches. The bench in front of you is usually about 12 inches away from your chin, and you are thigh to thigh, hip to hip and arm to arm with the person or people next to you. Although tro-tros and vans are not the most comfortable way to get around, the forced physical closeness makes for my most interesting moments in Ghana. This morning was no exception.
An old man in a navy blue jumpsuit too big for his slight body stepped onto our van in the opening space where there was no seat. He faced us. He was blind in a rather painful-looking way. His left pupil was permanently positioned left, revealing a yellowed sclera. Near his right eye's iris was some sort of puncture wound the size of a dime. He lowered his lids halfway (I wondered whether he did this consciously) and began speaking to us in Fante, the main local language spoken in the Central and Western Regions of Ghana. I only know a handful of Fante phrases and words, but knew the gist of what he was saying.
When tro-tros are almost full, salesmen stand by the open door and duck their heads inside to give a minute-long sales pitch on energy drinks, pens with calendars inside them, body soap, religious books, how-to books – you name it. And sometimes on the vans, where there is more room to stand, eloquent gracious representatives of religious bodies (usually Christian churches) will recite a prayer and mention the importance of faith and knowing Jesus and the Lord. Then he wishes the passengers a safe and blessed journey, sings a soulful song and steps out of the van. I’ve witnessed these van prayers three times and each van reacted the same way. Whereas the passengers generally ignore the salesmen on the tros, they clap, exclaim and give money to these people of extraordinary faith.
All I could understand of the old man's prayer was “St. Francis.” He mentioned his name several times. I had no recollection of what St. Francis was known for and wondered why this man chose to speak about him rather than St. Christopher, the patron saint of travelers.
He spoke softly, but his words still reached everyone in the van. His voice sounded as old as his weary eyes looked. Although his eyes didn’t seem to register anything, he moved his head slowly from one side of the van to another as he spoke. He used his hands at times, moving them with control and grace.
The man next to me leaned over my lap to pull his wallet from the back right pocket of his trousers. He took out a one cedi bill and asked the woman sitting in front of him to give it to the man. She took the cedi and placed it inside the man’s idle hand by his waist. His eyes still projected ahead, his fingers fumbled for the money, though not with desperation or greed. He stopped his speech to say, “May God bless you,” and tucked the cedi into his left breast pocket, his finger catching the rim of the pocket, jingling a few coins from the bottom.
He finished the prayer and took out two light wooden cylinder-shaped sticks and began building a rhythm. The sticks were about six inches in length and an inch in width. He hit the right one on the left, rotating the left stick in his hand each time after striking it with the right. The rhythm was simple – one, two, one, two, one, two. It was so genuine. As a devoted admirer of African music, I am convinced Africans are born with musical inclination. There were countless rhythms and combinations of rhythms he could have played with those two sticks, but he chose the simplest, purest beat there is.
In his blind eyes, in his quiet demeanor, I could not detect a trace of sadness or of desperation. He was calm and steady. It was as if his only intention was to bring us faith and hope. When he began to sing, it was too beautiful for me. Too unexpected. Too needed. I couldn’t handle it. My throat swelled and tears brimmed. I laughed quietly at myself and pulled out my wallet. Despite never giving money to those who beg due to its often pointlessness and even negative repercussions, giving money to this blind man seemed like the most natural thing to do. There was no question in my mind about it. From moments like these I've learned there is a difference between sustainable giving and kindness.
In fear of completely losing it, I didn't dare look at the old man again or anyone as I handed a one cedi bill to the man next to me. I asked if he could pass it up. He looked at me, then looked at the van’s open entrance, where girls and women stood by our door with boxes and bowls of food on their heads. “You want a meat pie?” he asked. He probably didn’t think I would give the man a cedi because there was no way I had understood his prayer. A meat pie seemed like a more obvious purchase for a foreigner.
“No, can you give it to that man?” I nodded in his direction.
The guy next to me looked from me to the singing man and then back at me. “That man?”
I nodded, feeling my throat swell again. I kept my gaze unfocused and downward; it would've been impossible to keep the tears in if I had locked eyes with another.
I could hear him smile. “God bless you!” he said, and passed my cedi forward.
I looked the other way out the window, wishing the old man would stop playing his music and stop singing. It was too beautiful.
Friday, April 15, 2011
Traveling Alone in Ghana
I was the third passenger to pay for a seat on a tro-tro from Cape Coast to Kumasi, a four-hour trek north. Nineteen more seats filled after two hours of waiting. Waiting inside the tro, mind you, away from the unforgiving sun. I say “unforgiving” because one would assume the African Sun would give us a few hours in the mornings to collect our wits before penetrating our minds and bodies, but it does not. It’s like your boss calling you before work asking you for that thing you had to do for him. Not cool.
It was pointless to wonder how much quicker that wait would’ve been on a weekend, but I wondered it anyway. Besides updating my work expense log and walking across the station to buy a hardboiled egg with pepper sauce (my favorite street snack) and a loaf of bread to nibble on throughout the weekend, I haven’t a clue how I passed the rest of the time. Probably just people-watched. I’ve become frighteningly skilled at waiting by myself for transportation to show up or to take off. Without a car in Ghana, waiting has become my replacement "zone out time" for when I used to drive from Point A to Point B with no recollection.
I was on the brink of embarking on a four-day solo adventure in the Northern Region of Ghana. Waiting for the Kumasi tro to fill and leave was the shortest wait of the entire weekend – I had 12 more hours of waiting ahead. Traveling alone in Africa is doable if you have patience and a substantial way to unwind. All that waiting by myself made me realize how nice it would’ve been to have had another foreigner to chat with about the less than enjoyable transportation conditions. Being alone forced me to internalize a lot, but it will spew out in my writing in this post and the next couple.
Occasionally, others nearby expressed their disapproval of Ghana’s transportation system by saying in exasperation loud enough for just me to hear, “Oh, Africa!” and shake their heads and sometimes laugh. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to wonder aloud and freely without offending anyone. I wanted to ask someone if the people in charge of selling bus tickets were just being lazy or if they are power-crazed and enjoy watching people breathe down each other’s necks for hours in a line that bulges five people wide all the way to the end.
The only reasons I didn't mind that our line at the Metro Mass station in Kumasi was more resemblant of a concert crowd was because we were standing like that from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. and I was too sleepy to care and it wasn’t hot and humid yet. In one of the lines I stood in at Tamale’s Metro Mass station – imagine being in a mosh pit for an hour at the hottest time of the day – the people at the front were waving money at the closed ticket windows but no one even acknowledged them or had the courtesy to explain why they weren’t accepting payment. Why didn’t they accept our money and give us tickets so we could sit down in the shade and wait for the bus to come? Why did the ticket sellers have to wait until the bus arrived before opening the ticket windows? If that’s “just the way it is,” why? Has anyone in a position of authority in the Metro Mass ticket sales department ever questioned the system? I can’t help but wonder if this principle circles back to Ghana’s education system, in which students are forbidden to ask questions to their teachers and professors out of the cultural expectation that they must respect their elders. Can you imagine living in a country in which you couldn’t challenge the way things are? I cannot. I am grateful, but also sad for this.
Traveling alone in Ghana made me realize I only feel comfortable questioning the way things are in Ghana with other foreigners, and I could not do that last weekend. Although many Ghanaians who engaged me in small talk voiced frustrations about the lateness aspect, I couldn’t share my previous rant with just any Ghanaian. Who knows, it could've been considered offensive. I swallowed many questions and exclamations, as I realized they would only add to the stations’ sporadic negative vibes or reinstigate them. There is nothing I can do to change the situation; I am powerless. So I remained silent. I got a taste of what it's like to not be able to challenge the system. Haven't been given much of that taste in my life. Maybe as one could predict, the most memorable occasions were when I was volunteering and working abroad in "developing nations" - Peru and Ghana.
Ranting about these issues to another foreigner wouldn't have solved anything either, so what is the point of ranting or discussing anything at all if there are no real intentions of doing anything to solve the problems? Is ranting like gossiping...people do it for something to talk about? And foreigners detecting another country's "problems" - is that acceptable? Perhaps. Depends on their sources.
My original plans were to travel alone via bus straight to Bolgatanga (the northernmost city in Ghana) which would take all day. After Couchsurfing in Bolga for a couple nights, I was going to take a bus south to Tamale and another from Tamale to Mole. I wanted the alone time to clear my mind before my work's busy season - May to August, when our NGO swells with volunteers and our staff barely has time to eat and sleep. Then some friends in Cape Coast decided they wanted to go to Mole National Park as well, and they have a van. (You could imagine my excitement.) However, the night before we were supposed to leave, one of the drivers had a family emergency and the plans crumbled. The following morning I tried getting a spot on the next Bolga or Tamale bus but by then both were full, as they only leave Cape Coast once a week and tickets are bought days in advance. I ended up going from Cape Coast to Kumasi, overnighted in Kumasi, Kumasi to Tamale, Tamale to Mole, and the same route back home except all in one day. Yeah, I know. You'll read about it later.
Although I daydreamed about my friends' van throughout the trip, and it would’ve been even more fun to have gone with them, I am grateful I had the alone time. I got to exercise my good humor and growing patience, that’s for sure. I also was able to notice more than when I travel with others, which made for an entire notebook of intriguing writing material.
In due time, readers, in due time.
It was pointless to wonder how much quicker that wait would’ve been on a weekend, but I wondered it anyway. Besides updating my work expense log and walking across the station to buy a hardboiled egg with pepper sauce (my favorite street snack) and a loaf of bread to nibble on throughout the weekend, I haven’t a clue how I passed the rest of the time. Probably just people-watched. I’ve become frighteningly skilled at waiting by myself for transportation to show up or to take off. Without a car in Ghana, waiting has become my replacement "zone out time" for when I used to drive from Point A to Point B with no recollection.
I was on the brink of embarking on a four-day solo adventure in the Northern Region of Ghana. Waiting for the Kumasi tro to fill and leave was the shortest wait of the entire weekend – I had 12 more hours of waiting ahead. Traveling alone in Africa is doable if you have patience and a substantial way to unwind. All that waiting by myself made me realize how nice it would’ve been to have had another foreigner to chat with about the less than enjoyable transportation conditions. Being alone forced me to internalize a lot, but it will spew out in my writing in this post and the next couple.
Occasionally, others nearby expressed their disapproval of Ghana’s transportation system by saying in exasperation loud enough for just me to hear, “Oh, Africa!” and shake their heads and sometimes laugh. But that wasn’t enough for me. I wanted to wonder aloud and freely without offending anyone. I wanted to ask someone if the people in charge of selling bus tickets were just being lazy or if they are power-crazed and enjoy watching people breathe down each other’s necks for hours in a line that bulges five people wide all the way to the end.
The only reasons I didn't mind that our line at the Metro Mass station in Kumasi was more resemblant of a concert crowd was because we were standing like that from 3 a.m. to 5:30 a.m. and I was too sleepy to care and it wasn’t hot and humid yet. In one of the lines I stood in at Tamale’s Metro Mass station – imagine being in a mosh pit for an hour at the hottest time of the day – the people at the front were waving money at the closed ticket windows but no one even acknowledged them or had the courtesy to explain why they weren’t accepting payment. Why didn’t they accept our money and give us tickets so we could sit down in the shade and wait for the bus to come? Why did the ticket sellers have to wait until the bus arrived before opening the ticket windows? If that’s “just the way it is,” why? Has anyone in a position of authority in the Metro Mass ticket sales department ever questioned the system? I can’t help but wonder if this principle circles back to Ghana’s education system, in which students are forbidden to ask questions to their teachers and professors out of the cultural expectation that they must respect their elders. Can you imagine living in a country in which you couldn’t challenge the way things are? I cannot. I am grateful, but also sad for this.
Traveling alone in Ghana made me realize I only feel comfortable questioning the way things are in Ghana with other foreigners, and I could not do that last weekend. Although many Ghanaians who engaged me in small talk voiced frustrations about the lateness aspect, I couldn’t share my previous rant with just any Ghanaian. Who knows, it could've been considered offensive. I swallowed many questions and exclamations, as I realized they would only add to the stations’ sporadic negative vibes or reinstigate them. There is nothing I can do to change the situation; I am powerless. So I remained silent. I got a taste of what it's like to not be able to challenge the system. Haven't been given much of that taste in my life. Maybe as one could predict, the most memorable occasions were when I was volunteering and working abroad in "developing nations" - Peru and Ghana.
Ranting about these issues to another foreigner wouldn't have solved anything either, so what is the point of ranting or discussing anything at all if there are no real intentions of doing anything to solve the problems? Is ranting like gossiping...people do it for something to talk about? And foreigners detecting another country's "problems" - is that acceptable? Perhaps. Depends on their sources.
My original plans were to travel alone via bus straight to Bolgatanga (the northernmost city in Ghana) which would take all day. After Couchsurfing in Bolga for a couple nights, I was going to take a bus south to Tamale and another from Tamale to Mole. I wanted the alone time to clear my mind before my work's busy season - May to August, when our NGO swells with volunteers and our staff barely has time to eat and sleep. Then some friends in Cape Coast decided they wanted to go to Mole National Park as well, and they have a van. (You could imagine my excitement.) However, the night before we were supposed to leave, one of the drivers had a family emergency and the plans crumbled. The following morning I tried getting a spot on the next Bolga or Tamale bus but by then both were full, as they only leave Cape Coast once a week and tickets are bought days in advance. I ended up going from Cape Coast to Kumasi, overnighted in Kumasi, Kumasi to Tamale, Tamale to Mole, and the same route back home except all in one day. Yeah, I know. You'll read about it later.
Although I daydreamed about my friends' van throughout the trip, and it would’ve been even more fun to have gone with them, I am grateful I had the alone time. I got to exercise my good humor and growing patience, that’s for sure. I also was able to notice more than when I travel with others, which made for an entire notebook of intriguing writing material.
In due time, readers, in due time.
Friday, April 1, 2011
Word to the Wise: Defriend Business Partners & Co-workers on April Fools' Day
Woke up this morning, got my run in, greeted the day watchman, showered, sliced a pineapple for breakfast, checked my e-mails, Facebook... wait, what is this?
Emmanuel, one of our project partners in Ghana, had written this as his Facebook status: "Omg its so cold here in Canada...will be in Ghana in two weeks time. Am sorry to all my friends whom i didnt tell i was leaving Ghana…"
What?! His NGO is getting one of our volunteers on Monday, and she will be working on his project for two weeks! He can’t leave – he is the backbone of his NGO. And I need him to submit a completed project itinerary for a university group working with him in May – I can’t continue preparing for that program until he turns it in. He wouldn't just up and leave like this. He wouldn’t do that to us…would he?
He had met Kirsty at our house yesterday afternoon to collect the remaining balance from a fund our NGO had owed his NGO – why hadn’t he mentioned his trip to her then? Or during the meeting I had had with him earlier this week?
I sent him a message, fighting back the urge to title it “Breach of Trust” and instead opted for the more even-tempered “Canada?” and said something to the effect of: “Couldn't help but notice that you are in Canada. WTF?”
My boss Kirsty and I shared a drop taxi to work because Lawrence was at the office early, and by early I mean on time (Kirsty and I were late), and he needed some help running a meeting.
After our usual morning catch-up on each other’s lives from the 12 hours we spent apart (sleeping and getting ready for work), I told Kirsty about Emmanuel gallivanting in Canada.
"He knows he needs to tell us these things," Kirsty exclaimed. "And what about his volunteer? She arrives tomorrow!”
“Exactly. And I’m wondering why he didn’t tell you yesterday when he saw you. What time did you see him?”
“About noon.”
“So that still would have given him enough time to get to Accra and board a plane! And the timing makes sense too, you know, because Canada is back in time several hours.”
“He couldn’t have gone through an American airline because of the layover time difference,” Kirsty thought aloud. “He might have gone through Lufthansa or KLM because Lufthansa’s international departing flights are in the evening and – ”
“ – I can’t believe he just left.” I gazed out the window. “He's so reliable - it just doesn't seem like him. Karen starts working with him Monday, and she’s only here two weeks. What, is he just not going to meet her at all? He knew since last month that she was coming! Plus, I need him to complete that project itinerary for the university group coming in May too – I can’t continue planning for the project without that itinerary.”
I wished this fiasco would've at least happened during our slow season when our nerves aren't running off the wall. Kirsty told me to call Ben, Emmanuel's project partner, to make sure it wasn’t a joke. (Funny that we had suspected it could have been a joke, but thought, Who posts jokes like that on their Facebook page? Clearly, both of us had forgotten it was April Fools' Day.)
When we got to the office, I plowed through two meetings and then called Ben. His phone was off. Then, doubtful I’d get an answer, I called Emmanuel. It rang, but no answer. The day went on, and Kirsty and I were talking in my office while my phone rang.
“EEEeee… ssshhh! It’s Emmanuel!” I was anxious to put this mystery at rest.
Kirsty inched closer to my desk, and Fati, a project partner and friend of Emmanuel’s who was hanging out at the office after our meeting, came around the corner into my office. Kirsty had informed Fati of Emmanuel’s great two-week escape to Canada.
“Hello, Emmanuel?”
“Yes, Michaela.” He sounded too calm. How?
For some reason I started laughing at the situation. “So, are you in Ghana or are you in Canada?”
Fati came over to me and squeezed my hand. On Emmanuel's end of the phone I heard a manic honk. My heart raced - it was definitely a Ghana car honk.
“O I am in Ghana! April Fools! April Fools! April Fools!”
After laughing with Emmanuel, Kirsty and Fati to the point of tears of relief, he told me not to say anything about it on Facebook so he could “get” some other people.
Moral of the story is... Do not be Facebook friends with business partners and coworkers; or if you must, defriend them on April Fools' Day.
Emmanuel, one of our project partners in Ghana, had written this as his Facebook status: "Omg its so cold here in Canada...will be in Ghana in two weeks time. Am sorry to all my friends whom i didnt tell i was leaving Ghana…"
What?! His NGO is getting one of our volunteers on Monday, and she will be working on his project for two weeks! He can’t leave – he is the backbone of his NGO. And I need him to submit a completed project itinerary for a university group working with him in May – I can’t continue preparing for that program until he turns it in. He wouldn't just up and leave like this. He wouldn’t do that to us…would he?
He had met Kirsty at our house yesterday afternoon to collect the remaining balance from a fund our NGO had owed his NGO – why hadn’t he mentioned his trip to her then? Or during the meeting I had had with him earlier this week?
I sent him a message, fighting back the urge to title it “Breach of Trust” and instead opted for the more even-tempered “Canada?” and said something to the effect of: “Couldn't help but notice that you are in Canada. WTF?”
My boss Kirsty and I shared a drop taxi to work because Lawrence was at the office early, and by early I mean on time (Kirsty and I were late), and he needed some help running a meeting.
After our usual morning catch-up on each other’s lives from the 12 hours we spent apart (sleeping and getting ready for work), I told Kirsty about Emmanuel gallivanting in Canada.
"He knows he needs to tell us these things," Kirsty exclaimed. "And what about his volunteer? She arrives tomorrow!”
“Exactly. And I’m wondering why he didn’t tell you yesterday when he saw you. What time did you see him?”
“About noon.”
“So that still would have given him enough time to get to Accra and board a plane! And the timing makes sense too, you know, because Canada is back in time several hours.”
“He couldn’t have gone through an American airline because of the layover time difference,” Kirsty thought aloud. “He might have gone through Lufthansa or KLM because Lufthansa’s international departing flights are in the evening and – ”
“ – I can’t believe he just left.” I gazed out the window. “He's so reliable - it just doesn't seem like him. Karen starts working with him Monday, and she’s only here two weeks. What, is he just not going to meet her at all? He knew since last month that she was coming! Plus, I need him to complete that project itinerary for the university group coming in May too – I can’t continue planning for the project without that itinerary.”
I wished this fiasco would've at least happened during our slow season when our nerves aren't running off the wall. Kirsty told me to call Ben, Emmanuel's project partner, to make sure it wasn’t a joke. (Funny that we had suspected it could have been a joke, but thought, Who posts jokes like that on their Facebook page? Clearly, both of us had forgotten it was April Fools' Day.)
When we got to the office, I plowed through two meetings and then called Ben. His phone was off. Then, doubtful I’d get an answer, I called Emmanuel. It rang, but no answer. The day went on, and Kirsty and I were talking in my office while my phone rang.
“EEEeee… ssshhh! It’s Emmanuel!” I was anxious to put this mystery at rest.
Kirsty inched closer to my desk, and Fati, a project partner and friend of Emmanuel’s who was hanging out at the office after our meeting, came around the corner into my office. Kirsty had informed Fati of Emmanuel’s great two-week escape to Canada.
“Hello, Emmanuel?”
“Yes, Michaela.” He sounded too calm. How?
For some reason I started laughing at the situation. “So, are you in Ghana or are you in Canada?”
Fati came over to me and squeezed my hand. On Emmanuel's end of the phone I heard a manic honk. My heart raced - it was definitely a Ghana car honk.
“O I am in Ghana! April Fools! April Fools! April Fools!”
After laughing with Emmanuel, Kirsty and Fati to the point of tears of relief, he told me not to say anything about it on Facebook so he could “get” some other people.
Moral of the story is... Do not be Facebook friends with business partners and coworkers; or if you must, defriend them on April Fools' Day.
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