Working in Ghana

A little over a year ago I wrote an epic account of my purpose in traveling to Africa. That masterpiece was sadly lost to the evils of the internet and a laptop touch-pad. It’s loss has always haunted/annoyed me, and so to exorcise these frustrations I’m finally going to try again to set down the oddity that was working in Ghana. It will be sadly lacking in the detail, accuracy and reflection of the first attempt, but I hope that it will offer some closure for me and some revelation for those of you still wondering what I was up to last spring.

The best place to start would be with what I had expected to get from Africa, as that is really the best measure against which to judge and reflect upon the actuality. At the time I was thinking about what to do with my life and gravitating towards an education in public health, or the administrative side of the health industry. That inkling, combined with my penchant for travel, produced a desire to get my feet wet and see how things go on the ground in a medical hot spot. Therefore I found a program that would supposedly place me in position to observe and participate in such activities.

Judged by this measure of expectation, Ghana turned out to be a monumental failure.

After some confusion within the homestay family, my planned transfer to Volta was canceled and I stayed in the capital of Accra. Apparently too many people had already complained that the program in Volta was pathetically lackluster, ill-organized and, to say the least, uninspiring. At the time I was happy to stay in Accra, having become friends with Mack and Kendra.

So on my first day of work I was brought to the West African AIDS Foundation (WAAF). It seemed abuzz with people so I figured I had come to the right place. Everybody seemed rather busy, too busy, in fact, to spare me any time. I was left for a long while sweating on a couch in the back waiting for Eddy, WAAF’s leader, to arrive and give me some direction. When he did finally make it, he explained that WAAF currently had three programs in the works.

The first was in-patient out-patient consultations and advisory. The clinic only had one doctor, Eddy’s wife, and I couldn’t imagine how I’d be able to properly manage real patients without training. I was armed with patchy memories from health classes years past, which was surely better than nothing but not enough to be taken seriously. But surely WAAF would have a training program to remedy this shortfall. Surely…

The second program was community outreach to children via school based clubs and activities. This program was under the management of Nicole, an American who turned out to be married to a Ghanaian, and another woman who was a recent graduate of the University of Ghana. When I first arrived they seemed to be deeply involved organizing an “awareness carnival” at a local school, so I thought I would be able to use my experience with kids in that program. They talked pretty enthusiastically about what they were doing and laid out myriad plans for what needed to be accomplished. I decided pretty quickly that I wanted to be absorbed into their program.

The third program was a cooperative business development and skills training initiative. Volunteers from Canadian Crossroads (CC), Emily and Joanne were leading this program and it stood in stark contrast to the other WAAF programs: the volunteers had actual training and education in their fields and real funding to support themselves. The beneficiaries of this program were a small group of local AIDS affected adults who had lost their incomes and/or jobs as a result of having AIDS or losing family to AIDS. They were fifteen people in total, divided into three groups of five, each focused on a particular business. The bakery group was making bread, the bead group was designing jewelry, and the batik group was designing batik-patterned clothes and accessories.

But I had already decided upon the community outreach program and was pretty happy to get started. Imagine my surprise when the two leaders didn’t show up again the next day, or the day after that, or the day after that. Turns out the community outreach program suffered from a combination of Ghana-time syndrome and unmotivated leadership. Nicole seemed to be, in the end, involved in WAAF merely as a distraction until she could go back home. They didn’t have any real funding to speak of and therefore couldn’t act upon their grandiose plans. Being of the Ghanaian mindset as they were, they assumed I wouldn’t be interested in those tedious details. Of my eight weeks in Ghana, two had already passed and I was no closer to starting anything meaningful than I had been on my couch in Connecticut. Frustration loomed.

It was around this time that Lee and I started taking extended lunches to avoid the demoralizing inertia of WAAF. We were both motivated and bucking for a chance to work if only someone would present us with an opportunity. I was slowly coming to the understanding that, true to the saying amongst expats, Ghana would only take you as far as you took yourself, and that my initial desire to work in Ghana (as opposed to travel) would have to be compromised if the investment of time and money was not going to be a complete loss. Hence the first and arguably best tragically comic misadventure (all travel in Ghana must be regarded as such or you’ll lose your mind) in our trip to Wli Falls.

While travel had entered the itinerary, I still needed a raison-de-etre Monday to Friday and thus gradually inveigled myself into the business development team. There was going to be a changing of the Canadian Crossroads guard in April with a one week gap in management. I was prepared to uphold those prestigious reins and had convinced Lee to be my executive assistant in charge of coffee-getting and command-obeying. With such a exceptional corporate model to lead by I didn’t see how we could possibly fail.

But I’m getting ahead of myself. Allow me to explain a bit more about the state of the business development groups. Having been organized by educated and sensible MBAs, the program suffered from two critical faults: structure and common sense. I had gathered already in my two-going-on-three weeks in Ghana that structure was utterly lacking in most parts of Ghanaian culture. For example, the groups had originally been divided into three well-defined groups with a specific mandate and an action plan for executing that mandate. As time progressed, however, it became apparent that not everyone on each team was particularly in love with their particular industry. Two members from the bakery team left for the bead team, and members of both the bead team and batik team decided they didn’t like any of the available industries and wanted to strike out of their own. To be fair, many participants already had long backgrounds in other occupations that they were more comfortable with. However, in the interest of succeeding it might have behooved them to risk learning new skills.

Although the original project had been divided into three industries, all three operated under a single brand, The Almond Tree. This, I think, was probably the best contribution of the CC team and the one most likely to do good. Although it was still very much a theory at that point, the idea of a brand was the only thing the disparate members of the project could agree on and the only thing keeping them together.

This was the approximate state of things when Lee and I joined their ranks. Over the next few weeks we accomplish what felt like very little but in retrospect I’d like to think we helped give The Almond Tree members a cup-half-full start.

Among our small but varied accomplishments was the completion of a small boutique on WAAF’s grounds. A small unused shed was cleaned up and turned into a showroom for the bead and batik wares. It was also the first thing to get the official The Almond Tree branding, black letters on white with a red ribbon. Innocuous enough to us mass consumers, but imagine the sense of pride in ownership felt by those involved. The closest they’d ever been to that sort of consumer professionalism were scratchy MTV Ghana signals. When, a few weeks later, we had finally managed to acquire the first roll of labels for the batik group’s handiwork, the excitement was palpable. The same for the bead group when they got card tags. During that time we had one or two open house events on WAAF grounds. Although it’s hard to generate much noise in a lonely corner of Accra’s administrative sector, it was a start. Meanwhile, the remaining members of the bakery group were less showy but more organized and serious about their endeavor. Learning how to operate a bakery is difficult and time-consuming, as is finding and managing the capital to start one, but they were progressing one step at a time and, more importantly, supporting each other through out. They were three of the more inspirational people I met in Ghana. Unlike most of the Ghanaians I met, they didn’t appear to hold so many delusions about their prospects as a bakery or for life in general. They seemed to understand, if only unconsciously, that the learning a new trade or the arrival of a micro-loan would not miraculously solve their worldly problems. It was thus that I found myself sharing with them what few of the real skills I have: teaching English. Although I was at first loathe to be relegated to the occupation I was pointedly trying to avoid, I quickly reversed course after realizing that (duh) it wasn’t about me.

During the absence of a CC lead member, Lee and I were also charged with one of the more problematic aspects of The Almond Tree project: money. Money is a problem for any new business, but much more so for people who have only ever known informal business. That is to say, even the most discerning members of the group had trouble making the conscious distinction between “their” money and the “business’s” money. To that end, they had been paid “wages” for a few months leading up to the distribution of micro-loans. The hope was that over time this sort of business vs. personal think would become a natural part of their lives. In practice, however, this plan was a half-success at best. Group members had grown accustomed to their weekly stipends without upholding the consummate responsibilities it would typically take to earn them (i.e. keeping regular business hours with oversight). Thus we were fostering a culture of free money more than everything else. The CC members could not simultaneously be mentors as well as business managers, and the unfortunate result was that they had to act like nagging parents on bad days and were generally ineffectual on good days. On this point, I really think that what the whole project needed was a dedicated long-term coordinator. Someone to hold the business money, force people to make good on their commitments, pay wages, and etc. Janet, the replacement from CC, was acting as this sort of counsel, but in the end the money was left to each participant. I can only imagine how well this system worked in the end.

Which isn’t to say they didn’t try. Realistically, at some point every volunteer goes home and thus CC was trying to teach the group to manage their own businesses. Bookkeeping was priority number one to this end. It would also put into concrete terms the differences between personal and business money. We quickly ran into roadblocks, however, because very few people in the group had adequate writing skills of remedial math skills. Furthermore, as the groups splintered people without skills didn’t trust those with them to keep fair records and those with skills didn’t want to be held back by their slower comrades. In the end it boiled down to a “give me my money” mentality that distressed me for its inevitable failure. I always used to read statistics about education and such in developing nations and wonder “how much does an education really matter”, and here I found all the proof I needed. I had taken for granted that merely by having grown up in a culture deeply associated with enterprise and banking I had at least a basic sense of business acumen. That fatal assumption of common sense I alluded to earlier came back to bite us in the proverbial bottom.

I cannot tell you how many times group members waved their hands dismissively at our pleas to focus harder on this or that business task followed by the tired mantra to just “let the money come.” Let the money come and all the ills of the world would dissipate. MTV Ghana had left its mark after all.

For better or worse, the distribution of micro-loans was delayed past the point that Lee or I were around, so I never did get to see what happened. Loans were for a few hundred dollars each, or the equivalent of several months income for each person in the group. I can imagine relatively easily how each person might have used or misused their loans and realistically I think only about half of the members are likely to be able to repay in the future. The bakery had wisely pooled their money to invest together. In the end, bead group members had opted to split in everything but name, keeping only The Almond Tree brand in common. The fate of the batik group was still a gray area. As far as a pilot project goes, however, plenty was learned and if half the members can repay their loans then that might actually be considered a success.

Well I think I’ve managed to outline just about everything that was going wrong without paying due heed to what went right. To be sure, I arrived there and still reflect with a very educated and disciplined sense of what should have happened, without giving much creed to what The Almond Tree members were capable of. This was my on-going frustration with Ghana: the sharp disconnect between what I wanted to accomplish with people and what those people I wanted from me. The most stark example thus far, money, is indicative of all other differences: I wanted to share skills for making money and they just wanted money straight off. This was, to me, as short-sighted as giving a man a fish, but to someone living on a few dollars a day extra money for any reason (or lack thereof) is motivation enough.

Beyond the obvious money-making aspect of the business ventures, merely getting all those people to come out and rally around The Almond Tree banner was a genuine success in and of itself. Having AIDS in Ghana carries real cultural stigma, and I’m not talking about the veiled discomfort one might find in North America. I’m talking about very clear and very unsympathetic social ostracism. Merely showing up at WAAF every day was a social risk for these people, let alone going around town touting their “I have AIDS – buy my product” brand. The Almond Tree was, as I said, a great idea. Just in the wrong country. I thought their products would have a much better time in small grass-roots boutiques of the developed world than competing with a million other souvenir vendors on the streets of Accra.

And especially for the women in The Almond Tree, the situation was especially tragic. I never pointedly asked, for obvious reasons, how any particular person had acquired AIDS, but the general narrative is as follows. One day the husband of a household falls ill, and no treatment seems to work. The family’s savings are spent in a vain attempt to save the man, and in the end the family is left with no money and without its primary earner. The woman is now forced to take the reins as both housekeeper and breadwinner, only to find out shortly after her husband’s death that he died of AIDS and it’s very likely she has it too. Incapacitated by even the most mild illness, this woman is now unable to uphold any of her many responsibilities. With no education, no experience, no money and now no health, how is she possibly expected to cope? And yet a few of them did and still do, and moreover with a happiness and love for life. For someone like myself who is so easily frustrated with even the smallest hitches in life, such an ability to survive and prosper is unfathomable. They have my utmost respect.

So long as I’m on the topic, to this last point I’ve recently read a castigating appraisal of AIDS-related aide throughout the world over the last decade. While proponents of AIDS-related aide have done a remarkable job of raising funds they have been much less effective in dispensing them. Take, for example, the fact that the average North American is scared witless of AIDS and knows very well what measures to take to avoid it (bible belt excluded). All very well and good, but the average North American is less likely to acquire AIDS than any other continental counter part. Meanwhile, a dearth of education in Africa, a much less media-spectacular prize, has led to widespread discrimination, mis-education, social ostracism, and a host of other problems. Discomfort and unwillingness to tackle questionable cultural norms, such as a tendency to have several simultaneous sexual partners, has exacerbated the problem unnecessarily. Imagine that a North American typical has partners in “chains”, one after another, while in Africa its common to have “circles”, or several partners at once. You can imagine for yourself how the disease propagates itself exponentially in circles as opposed to chains. But early reformers lacked the cajonnes to address these sensitive cultural topics, preferring to scare suburban kids who were, statistically, at significantly less risk, and thus causing much worse long term problems that are only now coming to the fore.

Tangential ponderings aside, the last I heard from The Almond Tree was via a letter from my dear friend Ayimbo. He had been one of the dissenters who ditched the original projects in favor of starting a chicken farm. I actually, in spite of my best judgment, had accompanied him to a chicken farm in an effort to learn the general tricks of the trade so he could get started on the right foot (remember that small box on customs forms that asks you if you’ve been to any agricultural centers during your stay abroad…?). Well it turns out that he eventually ditched chickens in favor of cattle. Goats to be precise. Where he got the money for goats I can’t be sure, but with many praises to the many names of God he wished me well and I likewise hoped him the very best in his new enterprise.

In conclusion, I suppose that I did get a pretty good view into the scheme of things, though not the one I expected. I was forced to rein in my expectations on some things but was completely surprised by others. I don’t know much more about public health than I did before going to Ghana, but I sure do have a better understanding of the repercussions of having to live with the disease in a foreign culture. What Ghana needs is better education more than anything else, and a shift in cultural norms. Not the sort of thing that a 24-year-old can accomplish in 8 weeks, but it’s a start. If the government can make a currency change into a sexy advertisement campaign, I don’t see any reason they can’t at least put those powers towards safe sex and monogamy. And littering. But that’s another story.

Tastes Like Victory

Revenge is a dish best served with a healthy dose of chocolate frosting.

Once upon a time Lee thought it would be hilarious to splash Kevin with a puddle on a rainy day. Kevin fancies himself a good-natured chap and always appreciates some old-fashioned tomfoolery, even if he himself is the butt of the joke. What Lee didn't know, however, is that Kevin's mind is twisted haven for methodical, patient and dramatic retribution. No sooner had he accepted this splash than he set to work devising a diabolical and unnecessarily elaborate counter-attack.

Kevin bided his time for almost an entire week: opportunity presented itself in the form of Lee's goodbye-from-work party. Lee had been talking about the cake she wanted for weeks, so it took our protagonist little time to conclude that that very cake would be the most nefarious vehicle for his retaliation. When the appointed hour finally arrived this past Friday, Kevin pulled the old "boy, this cake sure does smell funny" routine and luckless Lee bit (so to speak) hook, line, and sinker.

I'd like to extend a special thanks to Amanda, my co-conspirator, without her admirable commitment none of this would have been possible. Her impromptu seat-change was the graceful opening volley to my subsequent deathblow. I'd also like to thank Koala Mart for providing the cake and extra icing, without which I'm not sure nasal penetration would have been possible. Finally, I'd like to thank Lee for her gracious acceptance of my childish antics and for not responding in kind, though she may very well be contemplating an even more extravagant retort even as I write this. I will sleep uneasily for about two more weeks, I think.

I don't think I've been in a proper cake fight since Dan Shinomiya's 10th birthday party. I can't believe how much fun I've been missing.

Keep It on the Positivity

So people keep telling me they enjoy the updates, but are generally apprehensive as to whether I'm actually having a good time. I should indeed clarify that I am in fact having an awesome time, its just that all the weird and zany and sometimes sad and depressing stuff is what my twisted mind finds most interesting. But in order to relieve the more anxious reader, here is something which contains only the good, the great, and the grand. Without further riggamarole (sp?), in no particular order here is Kevin's So Far Top Ten Things About Ghana:

1) Water girls, who manage to infiltrate any and all premises and locations in a righteous effort to quench my thirst. Ladies, my hat is off to you.

2) Hissing and kissing. If in the coming months find my kissing at you or hissing at you for your attention, be not offended. Here in Ghana its a perfectly acceptable means of salutation and a habit quick and easy to adapt. The great thing too is that its (almost) always done good-naturedly, and Ghanaians take great pleasure in the confusion of newbie obruni's. The daring may even toss in a wink, but I tend to use that only rarely and only in emergencies.

3) Two for one pizzas on Tuesdays at the Pizza Inn. It has become our Tuesday ritual to get two large pizzas and eat ourselves sick, and I love it. It reminds me of 99 cent pizza in Montreal: it's so bad its good. We often top it off with pastries or cookies or something from the local Maxmart, then roll ourselves back to work all while fighting off the impending food coma.

4) Hohoe and Wli Falls. Despite getting sick at the end of it, the whole process of coming and going, and then the majesty of the falls themselves, it was just one of the unforgettable journeys whose memory is bittersweet, if only because you know you could never relive it exactly the same way ever again.

5) Ghanaian dancing. They should have a sign at the airport that says "Shake your booty or get the hell out." 80s power ballads and high life (African hip hop) are the only things the DJs are spinning here, and that's okay by me. It is, just like every else around here, completely incongruous and contradictory... and yet it works. Love it.

6) Public Service Announcements. There are two ads put out on the TV by the government here, and you will see them over and over and over again. One is the "Ghana is 50" ad. It will run all year long, and it is the second catchiest song in the country. What is number one? I'm glad you asked. The Ghanaian currency is getting a major overhaul in June, and that looming fiasco is the subject of the number one hit "There is no change in value, the value is still the same." In this ad you have all the stereotypes of Ghanaian culture, from students to trotro mates to market women to goverment workers, all singing this lovely melody warning the public not to freak out about new money, how to do the mathematical conversions, and when the exchange cycles will begin. It's catchy, it's informative, and it's 100% Ghana. I hope they tackle pollution next. Captain Planet and Planeteers, anyone?

7) Fruit. I swear that, despite the locals' aversion to eating it, Ghana has the best fruit I've ever had in my entire life. They have the most delectable pineapple, mango, and papaya I've ever stuffed myself with. I don't know where it comes from or how they do it, by I'm giving it two thumbs way way up. In addition, its cheap cheap cheap. I think the most you could pay for any of this ambrosia is 5000 cedis, which equates to about 50 cents. We have started to augment our starch-and-sauce dinners with massive fruit platters and I've never been so happy in my life. The Ghanaians seem to think our obsession with their fruit is quite quaint, but I guess when you have something so good everyday you start to take it for granted. For myself, I will continue glut myself on this stuff, even long after I get sick of it, because I know I'll never get it so good again.

8) The trotro system. This will ultimately get a more in-depth email to itself, but I am in love with the trotro system as an awesome case study for free market entrepeneurship. The mates and drivers in the trotros also give it great personality, for better or worse, and I usually get at least one good trotro story a day. Like I said, more to come on this one.

9) Western style supermarkets. For those days when you just need a break from Africa, the solution is a trip to the supermarket. Its nice to roam around in airconditioning and fantasize about all the wonderful foods I will be demanding of my loving mother when I get home. We also buy powdered juices here to augment our water sachet diet. The preferred brand seems to be Foster Clark's ... Australian for juice, guffaw guffaw.

10) New friends. I have the pleasure of meeting interesting wherever my travels take me, but Ghana has been an especially providential venture. From the original tribunal of Mac and Kendra to the new school homeys Lee and Amanda, even with people shuffling around here and there I've always got someone around to create mischief with. Good travels are made exponentially better with good company, and I've got great company. With time here coming to a close the experience is bitter sweet, but these clouds always have a silver lining: my collection of free places to stay around the globe grows a little more. You can believe I have every intention of taking advantage ;-)

Of Questionable Taste

Contained here is an extraordinary account of something entirely ordinary, if not base or simply vulgar. This is one to be appreciated chiefly by the men out there; ladies, bare with me, and I hope you too can enjoy the final coup de graces.

I have shat many a shit in this fine country of Ghana. A real man knows how to enjoy his toilet time, and I am proudly no exception. I've had good ones, bad ones, long ones, and short ones. I've shat in Teshie, in Osu, in Roman Ridge, in Labadi, and the many other boroughs of Accra. I had at least two good ones out in Volta Region, and also in Kokrobite and Bojo. I have great plans for shits in Kumasi, Tamale, Mole, and a myriad of other places. Last Saturday night, however, was far and away the most unique experience ever to occur to your humble narrator on his porcelain journeys.

My old orientation guide, Osei, took great pains my first day to deliver this particular message: never use anyone's toilet paper but your own. You don't touch anyone else's, no one will touch yours. TP is apparently a very personal item in these parts, and not something to joke around about. Fair enough, I can play by these rules.

Unfortunately, twice now my TP has disappeared without explanation. The second occasion was the aforementioned Saturday night. Unlike the first time it happened, this time I was well into my business before I realized my predicament. Not only was my TP gone, but indeed all the TP was gone. Imagine my double take on this scenario, and the horrible considerations it implied.

Scanning the bathroom area I found no suitable substitute. There was an empty paint can, a waste basket, and an old toilet brush. No help. I would have gladly sacrificed a sock, under the circumstances, but I was wearing sandals. My options were narrowed to two: I could 1) soil myself, losing one of my only good pairs of boxers in the process, and then make a mad dash back to my room and hope that my stash of baby wipes could somehow at least cleanse my bottom, if not my pride; or 2) pocket check. Pocket check, you ask? I reached into my pocket and found what could only be termed divine intervention - perhaps, also, inspiration. What I found in my left pocket was a large wad of cedis, the remainder of my daily allowance.

The wonderful irony of the situation was incredible, and for the sake of future story telling I could not possibly let it pass. Needless to say I have now, in every sense of the word, had the (dis)pleasure of shitting all over Ghana. Adieu

ps- Having re-read this email I think it would be pertinent here to note, I am in fact aware of how horribly dirty most money is, having changed hands innumerable times. I would like to assure each and every one of you that, for the sake of hygeine, I used only the crispest and cleanest of my bills and even after such precautions, still did a follow-up job with said baby wipes. I hope this will help some of you sleep at night.

Best Day Ever / Worst Day Ever: Waterfalls and Red Oil

I woke up on Friday morning (3/16) with a severe hangover. We had enjoyed a triumvrate of celebrations the night before: Kevin Day, Mac's birthday, and St. Patty's Day all at once. Kevin Day is always done in top form, and this year was no exception; green beer at Champ's (yes, they even have one in Ghana) and then live reggae music at this club called Bywel's. A scandalous good time was had by all and, as confessed, I ushered in a new day with a throbbing noggen.

It was 10:30 and I was supposed to work at 9. Work had been, up until that point, much less than impressive so I had few qualms sleeping through the alarm as a birthday present to myself. The plan was to laze around the house, eat lunch, and then go to the beach. Mac and I were committed. The best laid plans, however, were no match for thunder storms. Ghana finally decided to rain on my first trip to the beach.

Not even rain can fully undermine my devotion, though, and lazing around the house went exactly according to plan. Mac and I had a leisurely book read for an hour or so, at which point I decided a nap was in good order. I retired to our camp house with every intention of a solid midday doze.

Lee, my aforementioned partner in crime, had been politely encouraging me all week to go with her to some far off boondock called Hohoe, from whence we might go see some waterfall or other. I had been politely declining all week, intent to spend my first real weekend enjoying the beach. That plan thwarted, Lee's persistence, and my self-acknowledged laziness in planning these sorts of trips for myself, combined into a last minute decision to get off my bum and go see some waterfalls. This revelation came at approximately 12 noon. The bus to Hohoe left at 3pm. I had to get a move on, Jon-Loeck-in-London style, and get move on I did.

I got to the station with 20 minutes to spare, after various in-transit misadventures including but not limited to the Episode of the Lost Key and the Most Glorious Taxi in Accra. What I didn't remember but should have realized is that Ghana operates on Ghana time, which is to say things will happen when they happen, and the bus wasn't going to arrive until 4 anyway. I met Lee at the bus station washing herself with water sachets, in perhaps a vain effort at cleanliness for the long ride. I now had time to remember how hungry and thirsty I was, having skipped lunch at Big Mama's, so I went to buy some sachets from the same woman Lee just had. The conversation went as follows:

Me: Two waters, please.

Woman: Pure water?

Me: Yes.

Woman: For washing?

Me: No, I'm thirsty.

Woman: Your friend, the girl.

Me: No, it's for me.

Here the woman turns, gets a water sachet and hands it to me.

Me: Could I actually have two, please?

Woman: Two?

Me: Yes.

Woman: For washing?

Me: No, I want to drink them.

Woman: Okay.

Now she hands me two more water sachets and my change, and I am standing there awkwardly with three sachets, only wanting two, but not wanting to unwittingly buy 2 more. And so Lee got a present, and finished her washing.

We had an hour to wait so we made ourselves comfortable. The bus station was really just an open lot in the market with some benches off to the side. I had brought some powerbars from my stash with me in lieu of lunch, two bars exactly, and as one constitutes a solid meal in itself, Lee and I had a veritable feast. To repay kindness in kind Lee offered me some bananas. She had six, and insisted we have 3 apiece. I hate bananas, except in smoothie form, I find the texture absolutely wretched, which is too bad considering their nutritional value, but as these were a smaller sort of banana, and as I thought the measure of comradery to be found in mutual gratitude to be of greater importance than my aversion to bananas, I decided to, you might say, swallow my pride, and accepted the bananas as a token of our burgeoning friendship. Lee, of course, was privy to none of these trivial concerns, and hasn't been since, and will continue to live a blissfully ignorant existence until she reads this, at which juncture I hope she will find it in her heart to forgive my deception. It really was in the best of intentions.

All that fretting and water sachets, and the prospect of a 4 hour bus ride, brought about nature's call. I went in search of a toilet, and found a grizzly old man in a kiosk with a little sign that read "Toilet 300". I assumed that meant 300 cedis, but having only a 200 coin in my pocket pleaded my case, and fortunately he waved me through with surly indifference. Curious as to what my 200 cedis had bought me, I entered a walled off clearing with a free-standing cement wall in the middle, one side for men and one side for women. Lovely. My side of the wall had a small hole in a corner, presumably to be aimed at, though previous occupants had clearly not been such skilled marksmen. I loathe to think was to be found on the other side of the wall.

Having survived this encounter with paid-for plumbing, I returned to my bag and cleansed myself with baby wipes and willed myself to hold it in for the rest of the afternoon. The bus arrived soon after, and we were happy to finally leave.

You've all heard about the trotros, but we were taking a public bus and I had, perhaps foolishly, high hopes. The bus, which might once have been the pinnacle of transport luxury, had been refitted trotro style, that is there were seats put in every conceivable and available space. By some grace of orbuni luck, however, we managed to snag the only two seats on the bus with any leg room, with the only catch that we had the emergency exit in front of us in the form of a steep drop into a rickety old door. Potential danger aside, we were quite satisfied. We were finally on our way, and Lee even had her ipod to entertain us for a while.

The bus ride out was surprisingly pleasant. There were all the bumps and thumps and fits and starts that were to be expected, but scenery against the setting sun was beautiful and we were jamming out to Lee's pick of Australian bands and we were, I believe, enjoying a feeling accomplishment at having made it out of the hustle and bustle of Accra.

There really are hawkers everywhere in Ghana, and travellers in traffic make for an especially captive audience. Whenever we stopped, or even slowed down enough, the bus was swarmed with all manner of hawkers. It's really difficult to explain without visual reference how overwhelming this can be, especially when they aren't shy about opening the door at my feet to really make sure that no means no and I really don't want that loaf of bread. I think also they take extra pleasure in bewildered obruni. I should have bought the loaf of bread, though, because a few hours later I was feeling the hunger pangs and would have paid handsomely for it. Lee placated my hunger, bless her heart, with another banana.

Another fun aspect of bus rides is that if people are upset about something they have no reservations about letting everyone know. About two hours into the ride a woman started yelling, presumably at the driver, in Twi, and soon she was echoed by several other people. I thought she was yelling at him to slow down because we were careening down the road at high speed and the door in front of me had already opened once of its own accord, revealing the fast moving pavement that belied imminent danger. What she was actually yelling about, though, was the need for a toilet break, and apparently several other people felt the same way. So stop we did on a lovely stretch of road with scenic tropical forest/serengeti/rolling hills to either side. With the sunset right on the horizon, Lee and I stepped off the bus to enjoy the view.

If you or I were going to pee on the side of the road, I assume our first inclination would be to find a little spot to ourselves and do our business as discreetly as possible. But maybe you don't subscribe to this particular brand of modesty, in which case you'd be perfectly at home in Ghana. I stepped off the bus and saw a woman doubled over not 2 or 3 meters away. I thought she was sick and my first instinct was to approach her and see what I could do, but two steps into the rescue I became aware of a whole line of women along the road in similar fashion. The men, too, were relieving themselves freely where there was space to be found. I don't know, in hindsight, why I was surprised at all, but needless to say I u-turned and enjoyed the landscape from the other side of the road.

The rest of the road trip occurred almost without incident. Almost. The sun had gone down and we were traveling in the night on some bush roads. We were both starting to nod off when suddenly the bus swerved violently and the hit the brakes. Instinctively Lee and I grabbed, in vain, for the non-existing chairs in front of us to brace our inertia; fie, oh moment of dawning comprehension, you are a terrible mistress. I tumbled on to the top step of the emergency exit but luckily Lee somehow managed to cling for dear life to the crevice in the window. Having narrowly avoided certain injury, we decided to reassess our seating arrangement.

The bus had been gradually emptying as people got off along the way, and there were finally enough free seats for Lee and I to space out and relax. She insisted I move first and, feeling sleepy, I concurred and moved to a new seat. My inner gentleman was subdued by echo of St.Patrick, who was quickly catching up with me. Sometime after a short catnap, however, I looked up to find Lee, with her eyes closed in the pretense of sleep, but clearly and consciously bracing herself against the window in fear of another accident. Refreshed, I was finally able to offer a belated rescue.

We met two Danish girls on the bus going to the same hostel as we were, so we shared a taxi there and ate dinner together. At the hostel there was a choice between air-conditioned and non-air-conditioned rooms, and as the price difference was a whopping $3, I decided a little splurge was in order. This seemingly innocuous decision, however, may have proved to be my ultimate downfall. Explanation to follow shortly; more importantly, it did not at the moment take away at all from the best day ever living up to its namesake.

The room was a happy occasion. We were treated to the luxuries of a private bathroom with a private shower and running water. The bed was large and soft (no stray beams to sink into or poking against my back) and covered with psychedelic tie-dye sheets and bedspread, which, by that point, fit my mood perfectly. I was enamored. I got to go to sleep clean and actually stay clean while sleeping for the first time in a few weeks.

The problem was that, in my enthusiasm, I cranked the AC as high as it could go, and also gave Lee the pleasure of the bed sheet. My unshakable gentility demanded it of me. I had been sleeping without a sheet for weeks anyway so I didn't think much of it. I woke up the next morning shivering and with that infamously familiar tickle in the back of my throat that is the typical harbinger of an ensuing illness. For further reference to end of that sad story, please relate yourself to my previous work, Tropical Disease is a Surly Wench. But this saga is one of triumph, so I'll make no further reference to it here.

Breakfast was as delectable as dinner had been: real toast with real butter and real scrambled eggs. Real tea with fake cream to wash it down. We started out early, clearly at Lee's behest for anyone that knows me even a little, and we were actually done and done and on the road by 7am. From Hohoe we had to make our way to Wli, and this is one of the few journeys I've come across in Ghana where trotro was not an option. At the station in Hohoe we found a shared taxi to take us there, though we quickly found out that the definition of standard maximum occupancy miraculously doubles and triples once you're outside the capital. In a four-door car we fit four across the back and two plus the driver in the front. Among our distinguished co-occupants we had the dubious pleasure of a man who claimed to be Yassar Arafat. He could not, for the life of him, take a decent photo for us. The driver, Albert, was a nice enough guy, though completely unsympathetic to our obruni discomfort at the over-stuffed state of the car. The other passengers were relatively forgettable, that is until they started arguing.

They were arguing in Aweh, another language spoken mostly in the eastern Volta Region. I couldn't make out anything they were saying, but considering the vehemence with which they were arguing, I can only assume it was nothing less than an attempt to tackle one of the most pressing scientific/philosophical/religious debates of our time. One the one side there was Yassar, who I assumed was making a grand case for the inevitable discovery of the Unified Theory of Physics, ala string theory or some derivative thereabouts. His opponent, whose name I didn't catch but for descriptive purposes I'll name Blue Shirt, was apparently of the school of thought that the theories of gravity and quantum mechanics were simply too irreconcilable to ever be compromised. Yassar, evidently a deeply religious man, claimed that if there was indeed a God, which every good Ghanaian believes no matter the church of faith, that so omniscient and omnipotent a being could never, would never, allow for such an imperfection in logic to govern the universe. Yassar made a striking case, and Blue Shirt was duly impressed, though reluctant to admit any fault, so I did him the great favor of changing the subject by squealing like school girl because a rather large and offensive looking bug had invaded the car. The woman to my side flicked it away with a sigh, and the car was largely silent after that. Lee, in her obstinate common sense, seems to think they had actually been arguing about some obscure Volta politicians. I like the story better my way, however, so I'm going to let it stand.

We finally made it to the base camp of the falls, a cement building at the end of a cul-de-sac. We were already running low on funds (all the more frustrating after the indignant abuse I received from my air-conditioning splurge) so we passed ourselves off as student visitors. I've run this scam many times in my life, but usually it involves flashing my driver's license with authority to Asians with poor English. The wildlife officer at Wli was no such patsy, but fortune smiled upon me and he didn't call my bluff, so we got off with our reduced fees and were on our way.

The walk to the falls was a pleasant forty minutes through luscious African jungle. It was very early and we were pretty much the only visitors around. A few local women were washing clothes in the stream that snaked along besides the foot path, and while they were a bit rude about picture-taking their children had no such reservations. At some point during the photo shoot Lee yelped suddenly from behind me, causing me in turn to yelp and do a bit of an unhappy dance. Apparently I had stepped on a critter of the slimy slithering sort, which fortunately reacted defensively rather than offensively to my intrusion.

Moving on, we observed many wonderful flora and fauna, including beautiful dancing butterflies of every color and also lovely flowers of many shapes and sizes. Needless to say, it was a far cry from the drab of Accra and we soaked in all of it. Before long we made it to the start of a clearing, and we ran like school children on christmas towards the sound of rushing water.

The Wli waterfall, reportedly the largest in West Africa, was by far worth all the hassle getting there and will easily maintain for a long time its place as one of the top 5 spots ever visited in my humble journeys. The place was simply majestic, and any further written description would fail to do it justice, so I beg the readership to be patient with me a bit longer until I can supply you with some photographic evidence.

The best part of it all was that we had it all to ourselves for a good hour. Lee and I kind of moseyed off in our own directions to enjoy the serenity in our own way. I found a little spot on a small footbridge to sit and write and sunbathe for good while. I finally worked up the resolve to venture into the waterfall itself, and after a few encouraging words from Lee about freshwater parasites, I donned my bathing gear and hit the water.

I was soaked to the bone long before I ever got close to the waterfall. The blast radius from the spray was a few meters out, and getting closer it felt like walking upwind in a hurricane. In short, it was totally sweet. "Heaps awesome," as my aussie friend is fond of saying. After posing for some manly shots dutifully recorded by Lee and taking all the pummeling I could from the waterfall, I eventually made it back to solid ground and let the sun do its good work. By now some other visitors had started to trickle in the form of two white girls who were able to gallavant into the falls with significantly less trepadition than msyelf, somewhat damaging my masculine sensibilities.

The hour was now 11 and my belly was demanding its recompense. With some regret we began our journey back out. On the way we passed many a tour group, and so again I owe Lee a large degree of thanks for her fore thought in making the travel arrangements. It simply would not have been the same experience with 40 or 50 other people milling around. We also passed our Danish friends coming in, so we had a short hello-how-are-you-good-glad-to-hear-it-have-a-nice-life conversation and parted ways.

We walked through Wli town wondering how we'd ever get back to Hohoe; it was Sunday and smaller villages become veritable ghost towns on the Sabbath. Fortune smiled upon us yet again, however, because just as we were asking for directions our same old cabbie rolled up with two empty seats going back to town. The ride back was as comfortable as it had been the first time around, though slightly less entertaining, and we made it back to town relatively expediently (the engine did overheat once and we pulled over for a bit).

Back in town we returned to the Taste Lodge for lunch. We were now extrememly low on funds, but a solid meal was a priority, and we were able to work it out that we could afford two meals, two sodas, and two tickets back to Accra almost exactly, and that's what we did.

Around 2 or 3pm we set off for a trotro home, and at the station we were greeted by cries to join our "friend" on one particular trotro. We were a bit confused as to who else would know of us in Hohoe, but soon realized that our "friend" was in fact none other than the only other white guy at the station. Clearly, all obruni look the same, and they all must be friends. Upon meeting Oliver the Welschman (I could not restrain myself from a tactless Dicken's reference) we were happy to spend the ride back trading Ghanaian anecdotes with a fresh face. It was a conference of English-speaking nations with an American, an Australian, and a Briton coming together to laugh and cry about our month(s) in Africa. It was a touching ceremony and I learned many things, such as the fact that Australia has never formaly declared independence from Great Britain and is still, on some technical level, a colony, a fact which greatly amused me and which I will never let Lee live down. Oliver was a pretty witty guy himself, and bemoaned to me the horrible practicality of American English (we say, among other things, flashlight instead of torch, and elevator instead of lift). I returned that superpowers can speak however they please, and good-natured patriotism was enjoyed by all.

And that, in short, was my best day ever (well, a 24-hour period) in Ghana. Now, in horrible prolifity, is a recount of my worst.

The power was off when we got back from quiz night at champs, so I slept, if you can call it that, in pools of sweat. I woke up, had breakfast, and determined that it was a new day and it would be a good one. It was Friday besides, and Friday always makes me happy.

The trotros were against me though, and I waited over an hour before taking the wrong trotro. En route, I realized my lunch was spilling all over me from a hole in the bottom of the bag; red oil all over my white shirt and favorite green shorts. Now seething, I finally got to work after a two hour commute. As the trotro drove away I did my pocket check, only to discover my cell phone was missing. Utterly defeated, I arrived at work to find most people had taken the day off anyway, and my assistance was largely unrequired.

I decided to comfort myself the only way a well-trained Western consumer knows how: I went a bought myself things. I got a new phone (it had to be replaced anyway as it didn't belong to me) and a sweet Ghana t-shirt, a smoothie and a pizza. Misery loves company, and I happened to run into Amanda, my housemate, down in Osu and found had suffered a similar fate at the hands of red oil and malfunctioning bags. I felt slightly better by the end of the day, having been helped by a trip to Happy Yourself Spot, but that morning alone was enough to put that day down as the worst ever in Ghana.

My glass is half full, though, and things have only gone up since then. More trials, tribulations, diatribes and day-trips to come.