If I had a therapist he would say that need to write this:
The food in Ghana...
The food is hardly edible - big balls of uncooked dough known as 'fufu' and 'banku' eaten with a watery soup usually involving a mildly putrid piece of fish that was probably caught several mornings ago, ripened in the sun for awhile, smoked to death, ripened further by the sun and then served. I understand that the lack of refrigeration is a problem, but seriously - there has to be a better way to do fish than one in which the end product smells more like food for fish than food for people. Overall, I personally prefer my starches cooked and my fish on the raw side.
I can find no explanation as to why the food is so umm... interesting. There is an abundance of tomatoes, onions, carrots and you commonly see vast strips of chilies drying on the roadside. Every family seems to own goats and chickens but I almost never saw the meat eaten and the few tomato, onion and egg omelets I had were great but rare. Once I came home after dinner without informing them that I would do so and was greeted with a great omelet, made even better by the mother explaining that they had made fish but I had missed dinner, so I would have to settle for an omelet.
When meat was served it often came as a large piece of gristle. I was told that this is the hide of the animal? I think something may have been lost in translation during that particular conversation, but what ever it is, the locals think it's really good. I can't say much about it other than that it has the taste and texture of a massive piece of rubbery gristle. Every once in awhile I would find a stand selling sausages and stop immediately to get one. They are partially precooked and then upon ordering, it is deeply scored, rubbed with a seasoning salt, drizzled with oil and cooked fully. With the addition of ketchup I could see this becoming quite popular back home.
When chicken was served with the Fufu and Banku it commonly came as a collection of boney and rather meatless joints which I was never entirely sure what to do with. After a few meals during which I explained "But I'm eating all the meat?!" I began to get legs and breast pieces. The fried chicken in the roadside stands came as a spine with the shoulders, ribcage and about one bone's worth of each wing still attached. Not all that crazy until one learns who it's eaten. The entire piece, bones and all is to be devoured. The furthest I ever got was to chew up a few of the softer rib bones, but I hear that the spinal cord has great flavor.
Sunday, October 31, 2010
Tuesday, October 26, 2010
A Typical Morning In Ghana
I've been meaning to put this up for awhile but had wanted to add some punctuation and take out a few of the more vulgar words. Turns out that I can't be bothered to do so as it would take valuable time away from doing things like wandering aimlessly around ancient European towns and touring the Prado. Life is too short for grammar or censorship.
The following is pretty much a typical morning in the life of the dysfunctional family I stayed with. The only thing that changed in four weeks is that the rooster's wake up call was replaced by the equally early and much more disturbing sound of goats bleating. I heard a baby pig get butchered in India and it was no where nearly as awful (granted I got to eat it later). I can't even begin to phonetically create a word that accurately represents it's horrific-ness, but the best way to describe it would be to say it's like the sound you expect to hear coming from something being slowly and systematically beaten to death. I believe it was simply mating season.
Anyways, hopefully it makes sense.
My Second Morning in Ghana:
4am-ish (maybe earlier): fuckin' rooster
6am-ish: fucking rooster
7am: expletive expletive rooster expletive rain expletive
7:30: would you like your coffee? yea, that would be great. but please I'll just grab it. No, no, no. please sit. ok ok.
7:35: she went to get bread, wait ten minuets.
7:40: 3 year old grandson does something wrong, is reprimanded by grandmother, ignores, young aunt goes to stop him, he attacks with feet and fists.
7:50: coffee arrives with bread. Thanks, oh and i forgot to say thank you for the eggs yesterday, they were great. you want some today. oh no, don't worry about it. No no, eggs are coming.
8:15: awesome egg, tomato and onion omelet.
8:20: Can you show me how to do the laundry. Bring it and I'll do it this time. Half-assed attempt to insist on doing it myself, followed by ok, but just this once.
8:30: it is pointed out to me that the male duck has mounted the female duck.
8:45: grandson annoys large duck. duck bites kid. kid runs to porch crying.
9:00: I think I am supposed to be at the school. Wait we will take you when we are done.
9:15: dog who has been ignoring the world, at times half covered by dirty clothes, and empty buckets, must feel naked without them, wakes up and begins snapping at flies. a kitten follows suit. soon both are consumed by attempting to consume flies.
9:30 the washing is done, the ladies have gone inside to eat, and avoid the grandson who had just taken to whacking things with a long, narrow piece of plastic tube and then crying whenever one of the young aunts grabs the other end and tries to control him.
9:35: having forgotten the previous encounter with the ducks, the grandson starts acting uber hyper and running around them with a toy pistol.
9:38: with a flurry of wings and quacking the male duck jumps onto the boy's side, latching on with his webbed feet, wings still beating and tries to bite the boys back.
9:38 and 10 seconds: both boy and myself realize that while he can go toe to toe with his aunts, he is no match for the fury of a pissed off white duck with a red face.
9:38 and 12: tears and screaming ensue.
9:38 and 13 seconds: I hop off the porch and whack the duck with my book. duck hisses while the boy clings to my leg before I hoist him onto the porch and he goes running to his Grandma.
9:50: The incident has been forgotten.
9:55: the ducks are fed. why do you keep them around, what are good for? they keep the snakes away. fair enough.
10:15: Leave for school.
The following is pretty much a typical morning in the life of the dysfunctional family I stayed with. The only thing that changed in four weeks is that the rooster's wake up call was replaced by the equally early and much more disturbing sound of goats bleating. I heard a baby pig get butchered in India and it was no where nearly as awful (granted I got to eat it later). I can't even begin to phonetically create a word that accurately represents it's horrific-ness, but the best way to describe it would be to say it's like the sound you expect to hear coming from something being slowly and systematically beaten to death. I believe it was simply mating season.
Anyways, hopefully it makes sense.
My Second Morning in Ghana:
4am-ish (maybe earlier): fuckin' rooster
6am-ish: fucking rooster
7am: expletive expletive rooster expletive rain expletive
7:30: would you like your coffee? yea, that would be great. but please I'll just grab it. No, no, no. please sit. ok ok.
7:35: she went to get bread, wait ten minuets.
7:40: 3 year old grandson does something wrong, is reprimanded by grandmother, ignores, young aunt goes to stop him, he attacks with feet and fists.
7:50: coffee arrives with bread. Thanks, oh and i forgot to say thank you for the eggs yesterday, they were great. you want some today. oh no, don't worry about it. No no, eggs are coming.
8:15: awesome egg, tomato and onion omelet.
8:20: Can you show me how to do the laundry. Bring it and I'll do it this time. Half-assed attempt to insist on doing it myself, followed by ok, but just this once.
8:30: it is pointed out to me that the male duck has mounted the female duck.
8:45: grandson annoys large duck. duck bites kid. kid runs to porch crying.
9:00: I think I am supposed to be at the school. Wait we will take you when we are done.
9:15: dog who has been ignoring the world, at times half covered by dirty clothes, and empty buckets, must feel naked without them, wakes up and begins snapping at flies. a kitten follows suit. soon both are consumed by attempting to consume flies.
9:30 the washing is done, the ladies have gone inside to eat, and avoid the grandson who had just taken to whacking things with a long, narrow piece of plastic tube and then crying whenever one of the young aunts grabs the other end and tries to control him.
9:35: having forgotten the previous encounter with the ducks, the grandson starts acting uber hyper and running around them with a toy pistol.
9:38: with a flurry of wings and quacking the male duck jumps onto the boy's side, latching on with his webbed feet, wings still beating and tries to bite the boys back.
9:38 and 10 seconds: both boy and myself realize that while he can go toe to toe with his aunts, he is no match for the fury of a pissed off white duck with a red face.
9:38 and 12: tears and screaming ensue.
9:38 and 13 seconds: I hop off the porch and whack the duck with my book. duck hisses while the boy clings to my leg before I hoist him onto the porch and he goes running to his Grandma.
9:50: The incident has been forgotten.
9:55: the ducks are fed. why do you keep them around, what are good for? they keep the snakes away. fair enough.
10:15: Leave for school.
Accra to Ouagadougou
I decided that after 4 months in the tropics, it was time to escape to Europe. Here's some of what happened on the way back to civilization.
If anyone asks me what it means to be a developing country, here is what I would say: It means that they have yet to develop ways to do anything easily. And trying to take a bus from Accra, Ghana to Ouagadougou (pronounced wa-go-do-goo) in Burkina Faso is a perfect example of this. To begin with one must go through no less than five phone numbers listed in various places to find one that works. At this point you are told that reservations can only be made in person, and as a matter of fact the person you are talking to has on idea if there are seats left. Next you are informed that there is a customer service center at a filling station just around the corner so you go there. They call the depot and inform you that yes there are tickets, but they are running out and no the customer service agent cannot reserve one for you. Then you wonder what this person in an office at a random filling station actually does for 8 hours everyday, but figure it's best just not to ask - after all, it's a state run company.
The next step is to go to the depot, it's one day before departure and the agent has already told you their are tickets available. There are, but they are in Kumasi, the next big city about five hours away. The nice lady at the depot calls them for you but the assistant answers as her boss has gone home for the day. Only he can reserve a ticket so you are advised to show up 2 hours early to get one in the morning. I later learned that they had told several guys from Burkina Faso to get there 6 hours early. On the morning of the trip, you arrive at the station early and get a ticket, as you do you observe a sign that says there will be no extra charge for putting your luggage underneath the bus so you go and spend what money you have left on food and drinks for the day (by day I mean +24 hours) long trip.
An hour after the bus was supposed to leave you go and get your bags weighed and the weight is written down on the back of the ticket which you take to an obese lady behind another ticket counter. She will print you up a bill for you luggage which you must pay before boarding. A guy I'd been sitting with had already confirmed the sign at the first ticket counter saying luggage was free of charge and so I was pretty much out of money at this point. To make an already long and painful story short, she was a real bitch about the whole thing. Telling me several times that I would have to get a later bus because I needed the equivalent of 25 cents more, then telling me that I should have the guy who weighed the luggage change the ticket, then he was out to lunch, then she started yelling at me because I didn't have enough money (all white people always have money) and then I yelled back at which point she played the race card and a Burkinabi guy stepped in and gave me the money.
At two points both ladies behind the counter were yelling at me and I was yelling back, "WHY ARE YOU TALKING LIKE THIS!?!?!?" I think that's when the race card got pulled. And yes, I am racist. I hate African people who yell for no reason. Their deep voices make it so much worse than when anyone else does it. When the baggage was being loaded two or three guys screamed at each other for a solid ten mins, I think because one guy had a huge package that weighed next to nothing and the driver was upset about it taking to much room? Or maybe the driver tried to put it in the bus the wrong way? Or possibly the man had tried to put it in himself? Later, while unloading the bus to cross the boarder, a passenger opened one of the undercarriage doors himself and got a good verbal thrashing. Around midnight, a guy got on and was promptly abused for about ten minutes for incorrectly answering a question about his ticket.
The same guy turned out to be pretty interesting. He was a Burkinabi who worked for the private arm of the World Bank, running an energy development program in a country to the south east and I'm fairly certain he could have owned the bus he just got yelled at for boarding. Later he bought me lunch at the boarder crossing and explained that while the Ghanaian's were bad with the yelling, they were nothing compared to the Nigerians, who even the Ghanaian's thought were crazy. He couldn't give a reason for why the Burkinabi's didn't enjoy a good shouting match but I suspect it is because they speak French. I don't think it lends itself as readily verbal abusing. And unlike Ghana, which officially uses English but in reality doesn't in day-to-day life (and when the do the words spoken never make grammatical sense), the people of Burkina Faso speak French all the time. I have no idea why this is, but they also eat lots of French food - couscous, baguettes and omelets at every roadside eatery.
The actual trip to Ouagadougou was hellish. In addition to the coach bus lacking a bathroom, the driver turned out to be a bully, yelling at passengers, stopping every hour or two so he could get out and do whatever it was the he needed to, and driving slow. Slow driving in a developing country is the only thing more dangerous than driving too fast. Partly because people risk their lives to pass you and partly because it makes the passengers want to beat you into a bloody pulp and leave you on a roadside to be devoured by whatever death carrying bugs, worms and mammals happen to be in the area. At one point where the road disappeared and we were forced to maneuver through an obstacle course of potholes, we did a Ghanaian-style reenactment of the opening to the movie Office Space, in which an old lady with a walker is moving faster then the rush hour traffic. In this case it was two teens jogging (slowly) along the deserted road while we bumped our way towards pavement.
If anyone asks me what it means to be a developing country, here is what I would say: It means that they have yet to develop ways to do anything easily. And trying to take a bus from Accra, Ghana to Ouagadougou (pronounced wa-go-do-goo) in Burkina Faso is a perfect example of this. To begin with one must go through no less than five phone numbers listed in various places to find one that works. At this point you are told that reservations can only be made in person, and as a matter of fact the person you are talking to has on idea if there are seats left. Next you are informed that there is a customer service center at a filling station just around the corner so you go there. They call the depot and inform you that yes there are tickets, but they are running out and no the customer service agent cannot reserve one for you. Then you wonder what this person in an office at a random filling station actually does for 8 hours everyday, but figure it's best just not to ask - after all, it's a state run company.
The next step is to go to the depot, it's one day before departure and the agent has already told you their are tickets available. There are, but they are in Kumasi, the next big city about five hours away. The nice lady at the depot calls them for you but the assistant answers as her boss has gone home for the day. Only he can reserve a ticket so you are advised to show up 2 hours early to get one in the morning. I later learned that they had told several guys from Burkina Faso to get there 6 hours early. On the morning of the trip, you arrive at the station early and get a ticket, as you do you observe a sign that says there will be no extra charge for putting your luggage underneath the bus so you go and spend what money you have left on food and drinks for the day (by day I mean +24 hours) long trip.
An hour after the bus was supposed to leave you go and get your bags weighed and the weight is written down on the back of the ticket which you take to an obese lady behind another ticket counter. She will print you up a bill for you luggage which you must pay before boarding. A guy I'd been sitting with had already confirmed the sign at the first ticket counter saying luggage was free of charge and so I was pretty much out of money at this point. To make an already long and painful story short, she was a real bitch about the whole thing. Telling me several times that I would have to get a later bus because I needed the equivalent of 25 cents more, then telling me that I should have the guy who weighed the luggage change the ticket, then he was out to lunch, then she started yelling at me because I didn't have enough money (all white people always have money) and then I yelled back at which point she played the race card and a Burkinabi guy stepped in and gave me the money.
At two points both ladies behind the counter were yelling at me and I was yelling back, "WHY ARE YOU TALKING LIKE THIS!?!?!?" I think that's when the race card got pulled. And yes, I am racist. I hate African people who yell for no reason. Their deep voices make it so much worse than when anyone else does it. When the baggage was being loaded two or three guys screamed at each other for a solid ten mins, I think because one guy had a huge package that weighed next to nothing and the driver was upset about it taking to much room? Or maybe the driver tried to put it in the bus the wrong way? Or possibly the man had tried to put it in himself? Later, while unloading the bus to cross the boarder, a passenger opened one of the undercarriage doors himself and got a good verbal thrashing. Around midnight, a guy got on and was promptly abused for about ten minutes for incorrectly answering a question about his ticket.
The same guy turned out to be pretty interesting. He was a Burkinabi who worked for the private arm of the World Bank, running an energy development program in a country to the south east and I'm fairly certain he could have owned the bus he just got yelled at for boarding. Later he bought me lunch at the boarder crossing and explained that while the Ghanaian's were bad with the yelling, they were nothing compared to the Nigerians, who even the Ghanaian's thought were crazy. He couldn't give a reason for why the Burkinabi's didn't enjoy a good shouting match but I suspect it is because they speak French. I don't think it lends itself as readily verbal abusing. And unlike Ghana, which officially uses English but in reality doesn't in day-to-day life (and when the do the words spoken never make grammatical sense), the people of Burkina Faso speak French all the time. I have no idea why this is, but they also eat lots of French food - couscous, baguettes and omelets at every roadside eatery.
The actual trip to Ouagadougou was hellish. In addition to the coach bus lacking a bathroom, the driver turned out to be a bully, yelling at passengers, stopping every hour or two so he could get out and do whatever it was the he needed to, and driving slow. Slow driving in a developing country is the only thing more dangerous than driving too fast. Partly because people risk their lives to pass you and partly because it makes the passengers want to beat you into a bloody pulp and leave you on a roadside to be devoured by whatever death carrying bugs, worms and mammals happen to be in the area. At one point where the road disappeared and we were forced to maneuver through an obstacle course of potholes, we did a Ghanaian-style reenactment of the opening to the movie Office Space, in which an old lady with a walker is moving faster then the rush hour traffic. In this case it was two teens jogging (slowly) along the deserted road while we bumped our way towards pavement.
Wednesday, October 20, 2010
The Ghanaian Way: Totally backwards and completely at ease with it
Disclaimer: The spelling is horrific as I can't spell well, the word processing program I use doesn't really do spell check, the google blog site wants to do it in spanish cause I'm in madrid and I hate profreading. Hopefully nothing gets lost in translation.
The topic of conversation on the morning talk radio was what would you do if you found out your mom was a lesbian? About a third of the callers said they would have no problem with it (I recall that nearly all in this category were the female callers), another third would give the women in question a good beating and then disown her and the rest were split between outrage that such a situation could even exist and expressing a desire to murder their own mother. The consensus in the office was that a good beating followed by disownment would suffice, while murder was a little over the top. My office is entirely staffed with Pentecostal Christians who go to church nearly everyday and abstaine from every form of vice save the occausional coke-a-cola.
Later that day, I traveled with a younger co-worker, Clement to his father's home in the mountains outside of Accra for the yearly tribal festival. In typical developing world the fashion, the trip which could not have been more than a few dozen kilometers took several hours and involved three vans and a taxi and a trek across urban Accra. While walking through Accra at night my attention was caught by a man standing in a large circle of light, ringed with people, and shouting in as scary a voice as he could muster. The light was cast by a large construction style spotlight on the top of a poll with a speaker besides it blaring his creppy voice. I asked Clement what it was all about and he replied that it sounded to him like a voodoo magician performing for the people. As we neared, he did indeed have several small dolls on a table underneath the spotlight and Clement proceeded to tell me about one time when a voodoo guy came to his village.
The man had come and done his usual street performer routine, gotten the crowd all riled up and was about to pack up and go when he made one last claim - if any man had a gun he should bring, shoot him and he would heal himself, or something along those lines. He probably never thought that in these parts, a place where people still hunt with slingshots, anyone could possibly have a gun. It's equally possible that in the midst of the frenzy he had created he actually believed he had the power to repel a bullet. But, either way, a man from the crowd stepped forward and said that he had one at home as his father had been a government executioner. He persauded by the man to go and fetch it and so he did. Then the voodoo magician, against the man's many protests convinced him to point the gun at his chest and pull the trigger. He insisted that he could heal himself and everything would be fine. The executioner's son did so and the crowd watched, enthralled as the man writhered on the ground, apparently performing ancient voodoo magic. After a few minuets he stopped and was pronounced dead.
The topic of conversation on the morning talk radio was what would you do if you found out your mom was a lesbian? About a third of the callers said they would have no problem with it (I recall that nearly all in this category were the female callers), another third would give the women in question a good beating and then disown her and the rest were split between outrage that such a situation could even exist and expressing a desire to murder their own mother. The consensus in the office was that a good beating followed by disownment would suffice, while murder was a little over the top. My office is entirely staffed with Pentecostal Christians who go to church nearly everyday and abstaine from every form of vice save the occausional coke-a-cola.
Later that day, I traveled with a younger co-worker, Clement to his father's home in the mountains outside of Accra for the yearly tribal festival. In typical developing world the fashion, the trip which could not have been more than a few dozen kilometers took several hours and involved three vans and a taxi and a trek across urban Accra. While walking through Accra at night my attention was caught by a man standing in a large circle of light, ringed with people, and shouting in as scary a voice as he could muster. The light was cast by a large construction style spotlight on the top of a poll with a speaker besides it blaring his creppy voice. I asked Clement what it was all about and he replied that it sounded to him like a voodoo magician performing for the people. As we neared, he did indeed have several small dolls on a table underneath the spotlight and Clement proceeded to tell me about one time when a voodoo guy came to his village.
The man had come and done his usual street performer routine, gotten the crowd all riled up and was about to pack up and go when he made one last claim - if any man had a gun he should bring, shoot him and he would heal himself, or something along those lines. He probably never thought that in these parts, a place where people still hunt with slingshots, anyone could possibly have a gun. It's equally possible that in the midst of the frenzy he had created he actually believed he had the power to repel a bullet. But, either way, a man from the crowd stepped forward and said that he had one at home as his father had been a government executioner. He persauded by the man to go and fetch it and so he did. Then the voodoo magician, against the man's many protests convinced him to point the gun at his chest and pull the trigger. He insisted that he could heal himself and everything would be fine. The executioner's son did so and the crowd watched, enthralled as the man writhered on the ground, apparently performing ancient voodoo magic. After a few minuets he stopped and was pronounced dead.
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