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.

Things that are Swedish

While at a local Irish pub in Accra, we befriended a group of volunteers. Since first impressions can be a deal-breaker, I wanted to make sure I was on top of my game. I was having a fruitful conversation with my new Dutch acquaintance, when somewhere shortly into the conversation, Ikea, the Scandinavian home furnishing giant, became a topic of discussion. I decided to weigh in by sharing my favorite Ikea memory. Disclaimer: I was not present for the formation of the memory; it only became my memory through the retelling.

Years ago, my friends embarked on a rather ordinary Ikea run. But of course, with my friends, nothing can be ordinary. It turns out that a radio station was broadcasting from the parking lot, and a swelling crowd gathered, similar to the phenomenon when Ikea offers sheet sets on sale for $9.99. Well, it came time for a give-away for an audience contestant who was able to correctly answer a question from the DJ. Of course, my friend Katie exhibited extreme enthusiasm and was selected to demonstrate her knowledge and win the radio promotion.

In front of and broadcasted to a throng of strangers, Katie simply had to name three things that are Swedish. So very confidently, she declared Well, for starters…Holland. A rather quizzical look comes over the radio host. Actually, Holland never has been and never will be Swedish. (Although, since I haven’t conquered the time-space continuum, I can’t officially confirm that Holland will never be Swedish). But who knew that a region in the Netherlands, a Nether-region, would not meet the criteria for something Swedish?

Since I wasn’t present for the original Ikea outing, there is a chance that the fish has grown in size through the retelling, but the there are two things I am certain of. First, that the question was to name three things Swedish. Second, that the answer was Holland. Of course, I couldn’t help but rattle off a few acceptable responses to reveal my superior comprehension to my Dutch friend. Well, for starters…Ikea, Swedish meatballs, my personal favorite, Swedish fish. Perhaps boasting a bit of bravado, I pushed the envelope on my grasp of Nordic societies. Or clogs. It turns out, clogs are not exclusively Swedish. Comprehension checkmated by the Dutchman. I suppose it could have been worse. At least I didn’t suggest windmills.

Sounds Like Octopus

I grew up as a what man, reflexively asking what after being spoken to. Brian, did you finish your homework? What, mom? Brian, did you take the dog for a walk? What, dad? Part of the reason was well-intentioned chore avoidance, but I’m convinced that the larger part of it was because I was, and am, audibly challenged. Perhaps I probed too far with a Q-tip growing up, or maybe it is just a natural defect, but I have found that I often have trouble processing auditory stimuli. Such is the case when it comes to song lyrics. Fortunately for me though, when I can’t understand the lyric, I make them up.

So take my hearing struggles and introduce them into a foreign culture with a slightly different dialect, and the output is scrambled eggs. Thankfully, I’m in good company. While having a pint with a local volunteer from southern Australia, he asked if I was familiar with the local hiplife song that contained the lyric Sexy as cheese. Well, I originally thought maybe the bloke had a roo loose in the top paddock, but quickly dismissed this notion when he began humming the tune. Yes, I was familiar with this song. Soon enough, I too was able to pick out the lyric sexy as cheese. The problem was that I never really considered cheese to be sexy, and if I had, I would at least have had the decency to keep such a fetish to myself. The second problem was that it turns out the lyrics are actually Sexy as she is. Clearly.

Well, I recently put my ears to the test again at Reggae Night. Reggae Night draws a melting pot of personalities. Set on the sands of Labadi Beach, the musical evening brings together a varied clientele from Rastafarian locals to hippy expatriates, from university exchange students to working professionals. This particular evening, my friends and I were blessed with a well-informed emcee, or master of ceremonies as he liked to believe. Every 30 seconds he would interject with just one word. Octopus. I was not sure why he kept drawing attention to our eight-legged mollusk. Perhaps it was our proximity to the ocean, maybe he was informing the masses that octopi are sentient creatures, but whatever the reason for the incessant interjections, I found them disruptive.

Come to find out, the microphone monopolizer wasn’t trying to warn the crowds about a potential octopus invasion, but rather exclaiming On the bus. But how can you keep demanding that I get on the bus without telling me where that bus is going? Please don’t say Tamale.

Times in Transit

Travelling the roads of Ghana; sometimes it can be exhausting. Sometimes it is a fun cultural experience. But always, it comes with a story. As society has yet to master the science of teleportation, I can be thankful for my times in transit.

Tro-tros. Derived from the local Ga language word “tro” meaning three-pence, a tro-tro is the primary means of public transportation in Ghana. This informal yet seemingly codified system is the artery of Accra. It’s usually crowded and confining, yet generally furnished with comity. I once had the pleasure of sitting next to a gentleman who was travelling with his poultry. Slightly humored and mildly terrified, I tried to ignore the feathered squawks coming from below my bum. I fought to block the background bowwow, but eventually found the situation escalating. With great haste, I jumped out of my seat, feeling the chicken attacking my ankles. Causing quite a disturbance, all eyes turned to the loco hombre. I soon realized the farm foul was still safely secured. Turns out it was just my shoelaces. Who’s the chicken now, Brian?

Motored-canoe. The most efficient way to get to Ada Foah is to take the motored-canoe. The motored-canoe is 60 minutes faster than travelling by foot, and about 5,000 ore strokes faster than travelling by traditional canoe. The only flaw in water-travel is that too many people sink the ship. If you are travelling in a large-enough party, someone is given bucket bailer duty. Well, on a recent trip, the captain asked me to come navigate. I’m not sure if he wanted a short nap, or if he just thought it would be funny to have an obruni as his skipper. Either way, I was responsible for steering, speed-changing, and stopping. When we disembarked, I told the captain that perhaps I shouldn’t pay for my fare and that he should pay me for my services instead. He disagreed.

Taxis. As is true of many urban locales, taking a taxi can be as terrifying as sky diving. But sometimes this trill is stretched to the extreme and I’m fearfully waiting for the parachute to deploy. Such was the scenario one evening when my colleagues and I piled into a taxi to head across town. Unbeknownst to me at the time, the driver, let’s call him Charlie, was in the middle of a high speed get-away. As soon as we pulled the taxi door shut, our jockey, Charlie, was off like Citation at the Belmont Stakes. Like most of the world, Ghana uses a similar traffic light pattern; green for go, red for stop. Not for this cab. Red light. Be my guest. By the time we sped through the second highway intersection without regard to the cross-traffic, I was fast-forwarding through the highlights of my life. Thank Beelzebub that the Ghanaian police force found this reckless. We were pulled over and instructed to find safety in another driver. Our taxi-jockey was soon united with that Citation he deserved.