Me and the editor of my newspaper

The more I see of Ghana, the less I understand it. My life here is a whirlwind of meeting new people and doing new things, and it feels like I am just along for the ride. It is impossible not to get sucked in to the irrational but natural flow of things.
Yesterday I woke up rather late. We had gone out to Thursday night Karaoke at the bar near our house, and stayed there till far in to the wee hours. I’ll mention here that I met a nice Finnish girl there, whenever I find a white girl at a predominately locally patronized spot they naturally gravitate towards me if only to escape the ceaseless advances of Ghanaian men. But she genuinely liked me, we had a good time dancing together and I’ll be seeing her again. Anyway, I’m drinking my tea on our patio and my neighbor Ema calls to me from his balcony to see if I want to go swimming.
Yes, I do, and while I wait for him to get dressed (He is very concerned about his appearance) I kick the football around in the street. Now, if there is anyway to meet people in Ghana its to play soccer, every guy who passes motions for me to pass him the ball, and soon we have a nice little game of keep away going on. I end up talking to one of the guys, and he invites me to come with him to a meeting that evening of GAG (!), the Ghana Actors Guild.
At the swimming pool, Ema and I did some underwater wrestling and tried to pick up a German girl. She was doing very slow laps of the breaststroke, but we were always waiting patiently for her at the end of the pool.
Later I met up with my actor friend Daniel a.k.a. Baby. He couldn’t afford the twenty cents it costs to take a tro in to town, so as we walked he told me about his future as a Ghanaian superstar and asked me extensively about my sister. I told him your cell phone number; do you think you could marry him? He’s really a very nice guy.
We got to the GAG meeting, which was conducted in an open air courtyard in central Accra. It opened by the chairman telling everybody to turn off their cell phones. About 30 seconds later, he was on his cellphone competing with the man reading off the minutes. The meeting went on, interrupted every now and then by an outburst from a man in the back. A typical example: The chairman is talking about how actors reflect society, and metaphorically describing how society is composed of many different kinds of people.
Chairman: Some choose to go through life with bare heads, some go with hats. Some people wear shoes, while others go…
Man in Back: NAKED!
Another example; Chairman: …. How many weeks are there, There are 52 weeks in a year…
Man in Back: HAHAHAHAHAHAHA!
I don’t know if you find this hysterically funny, but I did, and so did everybody else at the meeting, except for the Chairman, who, to his credit, didn’t really seem to mind. What was weird is that the overall tone of the meeting was rather sad, as a number of Ghanaian actors had, coincidentally, recently died, including regular members of GAG. The grief over these deaths climaxed suddenly during a five minute prayer session. A woman at the front stood up to lead everybody in song, and then she led the prayers. People didn’t really follow her, though. Everyone, with heads bowed and eyes closed, murmured to themselves. The collective but disjointed praying quickly built in intensity. A woman in front was openly sobbing, some people stamped their foot, everyone was experiencing a beautiful agony, myself included. I too bowed my head and whispered feverishly too myself as I felt a tightness in my chest. This is definitely the closest I’ve ever had to a religious experience; we ended with another song, very beautiful.
Just as quickly it was over. The chairman immediately began talking about a need to replace members of the sports committee and the jokes were soon flying again.
I left and made my to Pigfarm, the area of town where a party for all the volunteers was being held. It was very nice, a lot people were dancing in the rain and all the volunteers were friend and most of them were female. Most of us then made our way to Champs, a horrible Western style sports bar, although I did meet a very interesting guy there, a Marine who had been guarding the U.S. embassy in Ghana was leaving for Iraq in just a few days. Another weird thing that I’m sure my mother doesn’t want to hear. The director of volunteers in Accra was a woman in her mid twenties, and the night was her last before she left Ghana. She had been fawning over me all night, telling me I was very cute and good, and when I said goodbye she gave me a quick smooch.
I spent most of the rest of the night trying to help this stupid girl find her hotel. She had utterly forgot where it was, and everybody we asked had never heard of it. About 4:30 we called off our search and went back to my place where she could sleep with the other girl here. She has since, inexplicably but gratefully, disappeared; no one saw her leave.
Its now early afternoon Saturday. I spent the morning at Ema’s house watching a real low budget action flick; I think I’ll spend the rest of the day doing nothing. Aight.

They really love their Jesus here, religious stickers adorn every taxi, as you can just barely read at the top of the pic
Heres me and my British housemate Mike at a football game.
I've been to a lot of different beaches, but, I swear, I have never seen a handsomer boy.

The frogs here are louder than they are in America. They live in sewers and somewhere outside my window, and only croak at night, the better to keep me up. They are in alliance with the feral roosters that roam around the streets at random, going 'Cock a doodle doo' way before dawn.
Our house is infested with Geckos. They wait near the lights on the ceiling for flies, then scurry over and try to catch them with their tongues.
There is a family of baby goats down the street from us. aahh!!

We went dancing at this little hole in the wall club the other night, and after a while I went to sit down outside. A small man approaches me and shakes my hand and asks me the same questions I've been asked by every other Ghanaian. I don't really want to talk to him, but he doesn't seem to mind, he just wants somebody to talk to. He tells me that he is vendor in Osu, the big tourist part of town. Most vendors there rip off tourists he says, an obvious truth. But he goes on and on about it, how it costs them so many cedis to buy a jersey and then how much they sell it for, and soon I see there are tears in his eyes. He is really upset about this! He says his people are liars and thiefs, and, that, when he sees me he will give me a free soccer jersey. Now, this has been going on for a while, so I thank him and go back inside.
Ten minutes later, he approaches me again. I think that he wants to talk more about how his 'brothers' want to rip off tourists, but, no! he wants money! It is hard to get him to go away. This is a weird thing about Ghana. Everybody is very friendly, and is always eager to help you, and, quite naturally, I am often in need of help, being a stranger in a strange land. Most of the time thats it, they're glad to be of service. But, at places like nightclubs, beaches, and other spots frequented by tourists, there is a whole blossoming service industry. It is conducted by young people whom we refer to disparagingly as Rastas. Thats because most of them introduce themselves as such, talk about one love and Jah almost continuosly, and, unlike other Ghanaian men, sometimes wear their hair long. Not all Rastas are trying sneakily to take money off of you, and not all those who sneakily take money off you are Rastas. But, for simplicities sake, we call them Rastas.
It is hard what, exactly, to make of them. On the one hand, they are most definitely trying to take money off you through preprosterous scenarios they enter you in. For instance, one showed my friend the way to the bathroom, and then, later, demanded money for the favor. But, on the other hand, they sometimes really seem to believe you owe them. They lie so convincingly that they fool themselves. I have seen a Rasta in tears because he was not given the money he thought he was owed. More0ver, they seem to represent the only real alternative youth culture in Ghana. In America, we have punks, goths, skaters, whatever. But here, the Rastas are the only youth who talk and dress differently from their peers. They are a weird phenomena, created perhaps as a rebellion against the predominate culture but subsisting by preying on western tourists.
I've been lazy, but I'll try to put photos up soon. Ok, peace!

Its a slow Friday at the newspaper office, i.e. I'm the only person here. Thats ok, though, as it means I get to use the only computer with internet.
Last night I went to the weekly Karaoke at the Karldorf bar, just up the rode from my house. The place was packed, and crowds of Ghanaian youth spilled out on to the street. The speakers were pumping African hip hop, called hip life, and many people were dancing. We made our way through the crowd, and had just ordered a few drinks, when a man showed us some seats, rare scores in such a crowded a place, though. They came at a price, though; He sat down next to me and started yelling and spitting in my ear over the noise of the speakers. "You like to Fuck?!Fuck! You like to Fuck?"
I turned away from him to talk to my friends, but it was hard to hear them over the music, so we decided to leave. I could feel the mans fingers on my pockets as I stood up, a last attempt to get money from me, but I ignored it because I knew I had nothing. We made our way out of the circle of tables but got caught up in a dancing crowd and were soon lost, lost in the music.
I danced with a full figured African girl for a bit, but most of the time I was dancing with guys. This is not considered weird at all, in spite of Ghana's strong anti-homosexual sentiment (I haven't met a Ghanaian who didn't hate gays). At one point me and another boy faced each other and rapped the lyrics to Cisco at each other, another time a guy approached me and began yelling in Twi at me. I yelled what little Twi I knew back, this went back in forth until we were embracing and screaming gibberish in each others ears.
Men here are very physical with each other, when you meet some one they immediately reach for your hand and often don't let go until the conversation is over. Often, I have met someone at a dance, that is one of the three dances I've been to, and found there arm around my waist a moment later. I am convinced that this is motivated from pure friendly spirit (as long as they're not trying to pick your pocket), and also, from a practical stand point, it makes sense because one needs to be very near someone else to be understood when the music is loud.
Ghanaians like their music, and they like it loud. I remember seeing a young woman dancing in front of a loud speaker at a beach party, and then being surprised when she turned around and I saw she was carrying an infant on her back. But music seems to have a irresistible pull for the Ghanaian. On several occasions, all work has stopped at the newspaper office as people started dancing to the ever blasting radio.
Back to the Karldorf. A well dressed Ghanaian boy put his arm around me and introduced himself as Batman, a popular Reggae artist. He told me about the many awards he has won and his upcoming gig with Jay-Z, the American rapper, and then asked me if I wanted to sing karaoke with him. Why a famous Ghanaian singer wanted to sing karaoke with a white boy, an Oburoni, I don't know, and I had other reasons to doubt his honesty as well. But that was irrelevant. Me, my British friend Michael, and Batman went to the DJ and told him we wanted to sing 'Ghetto' by Akon. I had never heard the song, and it didn't help that the karaoke machine didn't work, but I yelled and whined and sang on the microphone while our friend Batman poured his heart on the other mike.
Nobody much payed attention, but when we were done, the dj told everyone to thank us 'white brothers' and I was happy that I had done what I could to improve international relations.
The rest of the night passed uneventfully, I met a few more people and went through all the handholding and question asking and laughing that is part of the elaborate ritual of greeting practiced here. Then we finally got away from Batman, whose habit it was to grab you and sing lyrics in your ear, and went home. Good night.

Monday afternoon at the Busy Internet in Accra. My first article that I wrote alone was published today, a thrilling but rather controversial piece on natural gas. Today I went in to the office, started typing, and then the power went out. With out air conditioning, the place was unbearably stuffy, so I left.
Generally, though, heat hasn't been too much of an issue, although I am generally glad to take a cold shower in the evening. I'm not always glad, but thats not really an issue, seeing as there's no hot water in the house, or in much of Accra, for that matter.
Water, water, water is drunk out of little plastic baggies. Prepubescent girls and women with the bodies of prepubescent girls carry big bowls on their head and walk through the traffic, yelling 'puhe watuh, puhe watuh'. When I'm sitting in a tro (mini bus) and I spy one near me and I'm hankering for a drink, I gesture or grunt and one comes running over to my window. I hand her the equivalent of three cents and she passes me the H20. I rip open the corner with my teeth and suck. A very satisfying way of drinking.
A large portion of business in ghana is done in this way, people hawking wares carefully balanced on their head to passing commuters in tro tros. When the tro is stuck in traffic, which is most of the time, all the nearby vendors come running and pressup against the windows. So if you're on your way home from work, and the traffic is bad, maybe you do a little shopping in the meantime, buying a snack of plantain chips or a flashlight or some christian literature.
The local dishes I have mostly stayed away from, as a large portion involve meat. In poorer areas, meat is pretty much unavailable but in Accra they have a wide variety of meat sauces or soups to douse your mashed up cassava in. They also eat a lot of rice and yams and plantains, none a good source of protein. They also have a dish called redred, which is beans in somesort of sauce, and I've been eating a lot of that. Plus, energy bars are always a good snack, and the locally produced chocolate is delish. Ok, my friends are here, I'm out.

Its Friday evening, but I just have time to dash off a quickie before I have to go back to work. We covered a big news conference today about the construction of a natural gas pipeline in to Ghana, lots of reporters and tv cameramen. My heart was beating about a mile a minute, but I stood up and asked the Chairperson of The Resource Center for Whatever a question about the 'completion date' of the pipeline, and was pleased to recieve a satisfactory answer. My friends and I are going away to a beach resort town for the weekend, so in order to make sure the story will be filed in time for the Monday paper I have to do it tonight.
The newspaper business is fascinating and I'm learning a lot. One should write simple sentences and short and snappy paragraphs.
George, an editor at the paper, called me 'Downtown Manhattan', and it stuck. As I walk through the gate and make my way to the office, I am besieged on all sides by calls of 'Downtown!' 'Downtown!'. In the street, I am Obruni, whiteman. But this is not derogatory, it is a greeting and many random pedestrians have started conversations with me this way.
I will have pictures next time.

Hey! My first post.
Africa is a trip. Its not dangerous, I haven't seen or felt a single mosquito and poisonous snakes and the deadly AIDS virus, when left alone, are not a nuisance. I'm glad I don't live here, though. To find this internet linked computer I had to travel twenty minutes by tro tro, a sort of privately owned bus thats really a dirty old van packed with people, and then wade through blocks of vendors and beeping taxis and smog. Its like Canal street, except with open sewers in the place of side walks.
I live in a well to do suburb of Accra in a walled-off little house. I peep over the gate and Kofi, the house boy, comes running to let me in. I say something incomprehensible to him, he says something incomprehensible to me, and we both laugh. Mrs. Sackey, my host, is waiting behind the door to fuss over me the way grandmas do all over the world. She is really very nice, though, and she gives me Pineapple and Papaya treats like you have never tasted. Her two grandkids are normally around, one very young and one a nice little girl of five who chases me around and trys to bite me.
My roommate is a smart, nice Irish boy who talks too much and down the hall is a prim German girl who wears her Protestantism around her neck and an English boy with a big nose who I might go to Mali with. All of us are journalists, but they have crap placements and I have a good one.
I work at the Chronicle, which has a nice big office that I walk to in the late morning. I'm the only volunteer there, but everyone is very nice and very chatty. The organization is a bit spotty and no one seems to be really in charge, so the first day, after I was introduced to everybody, I just sat down and wrote an article. I don't think they'll publish it but thats okay. Today I accompanied Tina to cover the birth of a new political party. We went to the Electoral Institute of Ghana and waited, and an hour late arrived the chairman of the Ghana National Party and his little posse. It was really an exhilirating and proud event, he formally turned in his party's proposed logo and constitution and all the signatures he needed and the commissioner of the electoral college formally accepted them. But then, this being Ghana, it turned the commissioner and the chairman were somehow distantly related and they sat down and talked and laughed for an hour while Tina and I sat bored stiff. Then everybody shook everybody's hand like everyone does in Ghana, like a normal handshake except that when you're drawing your hand away from your friend's you press your fingers against his so that they make a snap! Everybody shook my hand, too. It was very nice.
All Ghanaians are very nice. It seems that they are genetically predisposed to be friendly. They want to know my name and know where I'm from and know my address, too, which is a bit odd. But even the cabbies who honk at you on the street honk with a smile, although I must add that the prostitutes who solicited my attention were all business and didn't smile back when I shook my head at them.
Maxwell, a Ghanaian boy I met, invited me to a beach party and I musn't be late. Signing off, Me.

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