Friends from Ivory Coast

For the past week, Didier Drogba and the rest of the Ivory Coast national soccer team have been practicing at the athletic facilities across from my office. Their arrival caused quite a stir, and hundreds of locals flocked to the soccer field to catch a glimpse of the team practicing. From my perch on the treadmill at Pippa’s, my local gym, I appreciated the change in talent. Drogba & Co. was far superior to the usual peewees.

The following afternoon, I returned to the gym, only to find out that this time, instead of practicing on the field, the team was actually working out in the gym. I was originally rhapsodized by the team’s presence, but I became very self-conscious when I realized I was working out among men of Sparta (not literally, just physically). Having the jimjams (also the gymjams) I rushed through my normal routine, thinking that no matter where in the gym I was, I was definitely in one of the Ivorian’s way. From palavering with the gym staff, I soon found out the reason they were in town was because of an upcoming Africa Cup qualifying match against West African rival Benin.

Despite my unhinged nerves and inferior physique, I was trying to find an opening line to strike up conversation with one of team members. So what brings you to Ghana? Oh the reason you’re here is because your home match is being played in Ghana this weekend. And the reason your home match is being played in Ghana is because your native land is amid civil disruption on account of two men believing they are the rightful president. Unable to find a clear conversation starter, I trudged my portly figure to the locker room and called it a day.

Figuring it courteous to support our new acquaintances, my colleagues and I decided to attend the qualifying cup match. In the course of investigating how to get to the Accra Sports Stadium, my German colleague, Seb, discovered that the stadium happened to be home to the worst stadium disaster to ever happen in Africa, resulting in 127 deaths. Overall, I would classify the game as a success. Nobody died and Drogba scoring two goals to lead the Ivory Coast in a 2-1 victory.

Stadium fare: 5 cedis. Vuvuzelas: 8 cedis. Risking our lives to support our new Ivorian friends: Priceless.

Electric Success

For Christmas, my father gave me the ChromePro 25 piece deluxe electric razor set. I was like Ralph opening a Red Rider BB gun, words could not express my enthusiasm. Now I possessed the tools needed (25 to be exact) to coiffure my own hair.

When my hair had grown sufficiently long, I turned to my electric razor. After setting up a nice styling space with table and mirror, I plugged in and turned on my electric razor. I was immediately overwhelmed, bushwhacked by the intensity of the razor. Shaken up (literally) by the force of the vibration, I directed all energy towards maintaining control of the hot potato while my ears were agonizing over the tintamarre caused by the extreme vibrations. Attempting to tame my rogue razor, I used two hands to navigate the razor in a squiggle across my scalp. Approximately halfway through my attempted self-sufficiency, the hot potato became too hot and, afraid that the smoke signals were going to draw unnecessary attention to my plight, I abandoned ship. Accepting failure, I walked through town to visit my local barber, who was all too pleased to cut the other half of my hair (although not at half price).

Well, eventually the time came for attempt number two. Learning from my mistake, I knew that I needed to be more strategic in my use of the electric razor. One week prior to moving to Ghana, while roaming the aisles of Target, I stumbled upon a budget adapter/converter. For as much as I would spend on a hot dog at a New York City street vendor, I impulsively added the device to my checkout cart. Since the purchase six months prior, I had been fearful of using this questionable apparatus for fear that it had the life-ending Midas touch. But desperate times call for desperate measures, and my hair was approaching Beiber length (clearly no defense of desperation needed). Turning on the electric razor, I was ever thankful to see and hear it operating smoothly.

It might have been six months, but I was finally successful at cutting my own hair. And I learned a new meaning of smoke and mirrors in the process.

Baby Lawyer Muslim Church

Beach bumming has become an extremely popular weekend activity. And while I am always an advocate for more adventurous weekends, I also enjoy the relaxing tranquility of the Ghanaian beaches.

So it was no surprise that when Friday sunset rolled around, we found ourselves with toes in the sand, sipping on rum and cokes while discussing the state of the world. Somewhere between the waves, we struck up conversation with a local schoolgirl. And in an effort to exchange a little culture, she introduced us to an exciting game that she learned and played in school.

The game was called Baby Lawyer Muslim Church. The rules were these. Each player selects one of the key words (Baby, Lawyer, Muslim, or Church). Then, on the moderator’s count, participants throw down any number of fingers. The moderator proceeds to acknowledge each finger on the table with the next key word in the sequence. So the first finger is declared Baby, the second Lawyer, and so forth until all fingers have been exhausted. The last finger and kindred keyword determine the winner. Whoever selected this keyword before the finger throw-down is declared victor, and participants proceed to play again.

I was amazed by the game’s simplicity, incredulous with the game’s ability to entertain, and bewildered by the seemingly random word selection. Jiminy Cricket! But having had a minute to make meaning of my scattered thoughts, I realized this school game highlighted an important cultural difference. In the United States, we call Baby Lawyers anti-abortionists and Muslim Churches mosques, and neither is taught in the classroom.

Mount Afadjato

A recent three day weekend afforded me and my colleagues the luxury of exploring some of the Eastern region offerings around the town of Hohoe. Months ago, when we first discovered the Eastern region via our guidebook, we saw this town of Hohoe, located just north of the town of Ho, and immediately felt the impulse to hit up Ho and Hohoe. Only later did we discover that Hohoe is actually pronounced ho hoy (as in Chips Ahoy!).

After a heat-intensive journey, we arrived and settled into the Grand Palace. We decided that the following morning, we would set off to climb Mount Afadjato, believed to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana. Deciding it was time to mentally and physically prepare for the arduous mountain trek the following morning, we conversed over chilled (read: warm) beer.

The morning of our big adventure arrived and we started to look for public transportation from Hohoe to the town nestled at the foot of the mountain. Well, we ran into a number of transportation obstacles. You can get public transportation from the lorry station. So we walked 30 minutes to the lorry station, finding nothing but a set of scheming taxi drivers asking for exorbitant fares. It turns out these lorries take Saturdays off. So we turned to our next option. You can catch a ride to the foot of the mountain at the post office. Great.

The only problem was finding the post office. We spent the better part of two hours in search of the elusive post office, with concerned citizens pointing us up and down the main thoroughfare. It turns out we walked past the post office no less than four times before we eventually stumbled upon it. (It’s no wonder it took four months for my mother’s package of brownies to arrive. And all this time I thought it was because someone literally had to swim my package across the Atlantic. It turns out, the postman spent four months trying to find the post office!)

Well, thankfully we finally made our way to the foot of Mount Afadjato. Mount Afadjato is said to be named after a local word Avadzeto, meaning at war with bush. (I guess everyone was at war with dubbya at one time or another). But really, the phrase comes from the local vegetation that can cause serious skin irritation. At the base of the mountain a sign greeted us Welcome to Afadjato. Take a deep breath. You are just about conquering 885m above sea level. Normally, I would dismiss the mountain as a hill, but unlike many of my previous hiker-friendly trails littered with switchbacks, this was rather hoofer-friendly and a near vertical climb. The conquest was rewarding, until you reach the top and realize that there’s a higher peak 3km away. Said to be the highest mountain peak in Ghana? Oh, yes. The Togo border is 2km away.

Sunday Supper

Once upon a time, in an effort to further forge the Mer-bond, I invited the Mer-maids over for a Sunday taco night. The night progressed with laughter and wine (perhaps not in that order), but regardless, the night was a success. And thus, a Sunday Supper tradition was born.

Every Sunday evening, around 7pm, we would progress to the weekly hosts’ for a deliciously prepared meal. I gormandized over the sweet potato enchiladas, crab imperial, and turkey-stuffed peppers while thinking OneRepublic got it right; This has gotta be the good life. In retrospect, inviting everyone over for the first Sunday Supper was nothing short of the foot-in-the-door technique, which was pretty easy given the fact that I was entrusted with the girls’ spare apartment keys.

Well, after numerous dinner rotations, it became apparent that my toil and tears was not fully appreciated. There was first the incident of the personal pizza. I purchased dough, cheeses, and a cornucopia of toppings and thought it would be pleasant for everyone to decorate their own dough; an interactive dinner of sorts. But this thoughtful gesture was dismissed as a mere attempt to outsource the food preparation process. How rude of me.

The most notable dinner delinquency was the Sunday chili and cornbread. I won some and I lost some. I won with the cornbread. I lost with the chili. Honesty, the chili wasn’t bad, I just ran out of time so the chili still contained many vegetables…oh, how do I say it…in the raw. The cornbread, on the other hand, sat stacked on a serving dish in a pyramid that gave the Great Pyramid of Giza a run for its money (or at least a run for its taste). The cornbread was edaciously devoured by all dinner party guests. In turn, they each praised the meal with their backhanded compliments.

-This cornbread is delicious. It even makes the chili taste good. How thoughtful.

-How did you make this cornbread, I’m going to need the recipe? Oh, I travelled to my local grocer and picked it up. The key to good cornbread is all in the way you slice it. Now exposed as a charlatan, I guess it is safe to say I lost with the cornbread too.

My life has a rather circuitous way; Sunday Suppers have followed me to Ghana. Seeing as commerce is closed for the Lord’s Day, and preferring not to fast, it seemed to be the logical next step. But I’ve learned my lesson – I don’t participate in the preparation. Everyone knows that there were the hunters and the gatherers. I hypothesize that there was a third group, the eaters, who died out through evolution. Yet, somehow I have managed to survive. I always knew I was an evolutionary miracle.