The Road from Tamale

Call us suicidal, but for the final leg of our vacation, the Fellows and I decided to return to Accra by way of overnight bus. After ping-ponging from bus station to bus station in Tamale, we settled on a 12 hour overnight bus provided by government-run STC, Departure, Tamale: 4pm. Arrival, Accra: 4am.

Well, needless to say, there were a couple hiccups along the way. When the bus pulled into the terminal over two hours after our departure time, I was beginning to get restless (appropriate, since I intended to get a lot of rest on the bus). But I was pleased to know that we would soon begin our road trip to Accra, where the quality of the roads, or lack thereof, meant that the on-roading experience would have an off-roading flavor.

Problem #1: Faulty shock absorbers. This is a critical component to any motorized vehicle when a significant portion of the road from Tamale back to Accra is an uneven, uncomfortable, dirt road, resulting in 50 bobble headed patrons ebbing and flowing with each change in the contour and gradient of the terrain. When you are lucky enough to be on a paved portion, it is like driving atop swiss cheese; I would classify both the road and swiss cheese as falling under the category things with gaping holes. The paved portion also staggers speed bumps, or rather speed humps as I’ve seen them referred to in my hometown, along the way. Which, if you are travelling in the dead of night, become very difficult to anticipate, and often turn into a mechanism used to catapult bus riders from their seats.

Problem #2: Just prior to boarding the bus, I ate a little something-something called red red that didn’t enjoy my company-company – it wanted out. I tried to concentrate on falling asleep, but every time I came remotely close to napping, Problem #1 interjected to remind me that the Road from Tamale had other plans for me. So I sat in tenebrous silence while the Hundred Years’ War occurred in my breadbasket.

It wasn’t long before my head was hanging out the window, the armed conflict in my belly took to the streets. There is precedence for falling ill on public transportation. The last time I boarded a 14 hour flight from Doha to Dulles I found my head buried within the barf bags. The way I see it, I’m two for two. All I need now is the train and I’ll have conquered the big three of public transportation.

Invisible Elephants

With an entire week devoted to vacation, I was able to finally travel to the northern portion of Ghana with the Fellows. The weeklong adventure from Accra brought about our banaustic concerns; Will we be able to find food? Will we be able to put a roof over our head? Thankfully, yes. The week culminated in our extended stay at Mole National Park, home to approximately 800 elephants, 1000 buffalo, hyenas, and as my guidebook mentioned, a “significant population of hippos”. Side note: It turns out that Mole National Park does not, in fact, have any hippos, as multiple park rangers laughed when I inquired.

I’ll start off by saying, it really was all our fault. We knew that November was not the ideal time to travel to Mole National Park, but seeing as we don’t get to select which days Ghana declares as national holidays, we figured we would take our chances.

After settling into our lodging, we relaxed poolside before we would participate in a dusk walking safari. Upon arriving at the launch of the walking safari, the park found themselves slightly understaffed, and as a consequence, boondoggled us into taking the dusk driving safari. Not only did the price of our safari just increase threefold, but the vehicle was overcapacity. The four other Fellows sat on the roof while I sat in the backseat of the Nissan X-Trail fending off tsetse flies with my new Danish friends Henry and Tia. (Only later did I find out from German Fellow Sebastian that Henry’s name was actually the Nordic Henrick, but that’s a mere digression).

Oh, and also using the word safari fell nowhere shy of deceit. I could have gone on stroll through my grandmother’s neighborhood and seen as much wildlife as our driving “safari”. Disgruntled by my current situation in the back of the X-Trail, when the park ranger informed us that we were allowed to ask him questions, I was quick to ask So where are all the animals? (In their natural habitat was his equally hostile response). In total, from my backseat, I saw three living species that the driver identified for me (if you include the baby crocodile that I didn’t actually see, but instead saw the moving bushes as it scurried away). I also saw a python and dozens of antelope. Only later did I find out from the roofdeck Fellows that the python was a puff adder and the baby croc was a lizard. My “safari” driver only appropriately identified one of the three species I “saw” on the driving safari. His batting average on my mediocre off-roading excursion fell shy of Ted Williams’ even on an off year. I suppose it is appropriate that Nissan advertises the X-Trail as the compact SUV that makes adventures out of the ordinary.

After regrouping, the following day we stood strong and set off on both a dawn and dusk walking safari. With this, at least if we didn’t see anything exciting, we would log some solid hiking hours. It was one giant game of hide and seek, where the hiders had the upper hand. I thought that with the number of eyes and the distance covered that sheer luck would lead us to stumble upon at least one elephant. I thought wrong. Over a combined five hours we failed to identify any hyenas, hippos, elephants, or buffalo. I have heard many tales of the serious magic that occurs in Northern Ghana but for obvious reasons, did not believe it. I guess I’m a converted believer. After all, 800 elephants cast under the invisibility spell is pretty powerful magic.

Oh Canada

Walking the streets of Ghana as a white American I sometimes feel as though I'm in a ring with bulls charging from all directions, but life as a matador can be exhausting. In the process of befriending an obroni, one of the most practiced strategies is to inquire about the orboni’s origin. Sometimes I offer the straight answer, Washington, DC; other times, I decide to spice it up and pose as a Canadian.

Since Canada is in such close proximity to the United States, I consider this as stretching the truth category vice lying. Come to think of it, I wouldn’t be surprised to find out that I was part Canadian; I have on multiple times been compared to the Canadians. For example, I often state sentences in the form of a question. Adult braces are cool, eh?. I also have an affinity for ice sports, from hockey to broomball. So I wouldn’t be surprised to one day find out that I am a product of the nascent Canadian baby trafficking business, smuggled across the border at birth.

But actually, confusion regarding my origin on the North American continent doesn’t stop with Canada. One time I was asked by my new friend Sally if I was Mexican, which was appropriate for her to ask because at the moment of inquiry, we had been friends for a total of sixty seconds. How was I supposed to reply to an invasive question? No, but I do have an addiction to Chipotle burritos? I’m not sure why, but I find that my façade as a Canadian is much more convincing than as a Mexican.

I have another secret weapon I can pull out when doubt arises among my Ghanaian catechizers. You aren’t Canadian they say. Would a non-Canadian know the Canadian anthem? Oh Canada, our home and native land…Deal sealed. Sometime during my childhood, I was forced to learn the Canadian National Anthem. Why, I can’t recall, but I’m sure it was for something important like National Maple Syrup Day. I have even surprised myself with my ability to put this nugget of knowledge to use. Like during the recent Vancouver Olympics…anytime I watched the Olympic games, I would sing Oh Canada. I was a crowd pleaser, (euphemism implying that I was ostracized and outcasted). Life as a Canadian can be difficult. Maybe that’s why I was trafficked across the border, eh?

Guinea Pig Haircut

I’m always amazed at how something as mundane as getting my haircut inevitably turns into a rather large production. So I anticipated my first haircut in Ghana would not disappoint. Despite my pursuit of nappiness my fine and oily hair is not suitable for the hot comb.

Although untested, I believe Ghana’s blossoming stylists represent something close to 10% of the country’s GDP, with a barber shop at nearly every junction. So one Sunday, when my hair was approaching carrot top status (I know, crazy, since I didn’t have red hair), when the foliage had created a nice canopy suffocating my ears, I went with a few Fellows to test our luck at the local hair salon.

Thankfully, we beat the church rush and were the first clients of the afternoon. After the stylist removed the copy machine from his store (I suppose he dabbled in the printing business as a side-job), there was room for him to invite the three of us into the barber shop. Of course, I was the guinea pig of the lot, or the vanguard as I like to spin it, and wasn’t sure what to expect. I surveyed the wall, where displayed were 50 pictures of various hairstyle options. Unable to distinguish between a single one of the 50 hairstyles, much like a game of Texas hold’em, I decided to fold before the flop and asked for a buzz cut.

Approximately 30 minutes, one Coca-Cola, and half of a confusing Ghanaian war movie later, I was sporting a fresh cut. Only later did we notice that the barber missed a chunk, and fellow Fellow, Kyle, pulled out the utility scissors to make amends, eliciting haunting flashbacks to my childhood.

The last time I took liberty to sculpt my own topiary, I was still learning the difference between right and left (and apparently right and wrong). After trimming my bangs, I asked my playmate Christina for her opinion of my new dew. Later that evening, when my mother asked about my new look, I deferred blame to virtuous Christina. Needless to say, after a few rounds of scolding, and after crying hysterically into my dinosaur comforter, I was forced to apologize to Christina’s parents for my mendacious behavior. Lesson learned; next time give the scissors to someone else. Thank you Kyle.

Dominoes and Doritos

I used to think that I was extroverted, socially suave, and uncharacteristically good at making friends. Living in Ghana has shattered my rosy lenses and made me question whether or not I’ve lost my friendship flare, or if I even had such flare before. I’m not implying that I’m an eremite; I do have my clan of fellows, with whom I spend nearly every waking moment, and often non-waking moments. Our clan can most accurately be described as a group of nomads travelling in pursuit of game. We’ve exhausted all strategies, scoured different lands, and have seemingly come up empty-friended.

Probably the closest we have come to increasing our clan size was a Thursday evening in early October. It was almost a full moon, the temperature was just right for friend-making. We were at a local Irish pub when lo and behold, at the adjacent table were a murder of obronis; time to prepare for the kill. After exchanging pleasantries, we determined that the fair-skinned strangers were Teaching Fellows based in Accra for a year; you don’t say. Thinking we had the rabbit by its tail, we extended a warm hand and offered to merge tables. All signs were a go until one of the girls in the group informed us that she would rather play Dominos with her Fellows. Shut down. We spent the rest of our evening hiding in our cloud of rejection. We lost to a set of tablets with dots.

So, frankly, I was excited when I was put in contact with another obroni, an American student studying in Accra for the semester, who seemed equally eager to make friends in this anteater-eat-ant world. We elected to meet up for a drink at a local spot to sow the seeds of what would hopefully develop into a lifelong, or rather month-long, (constrained by the end of her study abroad program) friendship. Everything was proceeding towards mutualism, until she excused herself to use the wash room.

Upon returning, she proceeded, I’ve been meaning to ask. So I’m sitting on the edge of my seat, waiting for the question. Wondering how long she’s been meaning to ask, since at this point, we’ve known one another for less than an hour. I’m thinking she used the time in the wash room to mentally prepare – we’re about to get deep. Can you smell ants? What? Do I smell ants? No, but I do see dead people. How was I supposed to respond to that? I should have known that this was only intended to get her foot in the door. Once the door was open, I found myself sponging up useless facts about ants, such as this one: ants taste spicy. I know this because one time, my “friend” left her open Doritos bag outside overnight, found it the next morning, stuck her hand in and proceeded to eat the ant-covered Doritos. I suggested maybe the bag was the Blazin’ Jalapeno variety, but (thankfully and perhaps excusably?) this incident took place years ago before the proliferation of Doritos flavors.

But I am an optimist at heart. I will not let my continual strike outs prevent me from swinging the bat. I have learned an important lesson though. Don’t swing at every pitch. And if you give an ant a cookie it might turn down the glass of milk and decide to play dominos instead.

Jessica

In my few months in Accra, I have observed some common Ghanaian company naming themes. I’ve determined that small businesses follow a proven formula that try to capitalize on one of three strategies:

1. Pander to the middle. Don’t try to oversell yourself. For example, Average Spot is an anything-but-unique spot where you can find Average Restaurant and Average Car Wash Bay. If it’s average quality you’re looking for, that’s us. I find their value proposition rather compelling.

2. Appeal to religion. Classic examples include Our Daily Bread Bakery and The Lord is Our Shepherd General Store. The consumer is either compelled to purchase (as is the case with Our Daily Bread for fear that purchasing from a competing bakery could result in one’s last supper) or repelled from purchase (I can’t help but think of the next line of Psalms 23:1…there is nothing I shall want from this store).

But my overall favorite is through door number three.

3. Assign femininity. Sometimes I see the connection. For example, the hair salon down the road is named Miss Etroo’s Hair Salon, I’m assuming after the salon owner. Others are less clear. For example, the high quality peanuts I purchase from the MaxMart are branded Becky Queen. Who made the decision that Becky should be royalty? Is this the justification for charging a premium price? The brand that causes constipation, I mean consternation, is Jessica. Who possibly thought that Jessica would make a good brand name for toilet paper? Give a man some privacy.

I’m contemplating opening a consultancy with the sole purpose of helping small businesses develop meaningful business names. To maximize customer interest, I’m thinking of naming my consultancy Ann Average Lord.