a blogger is born...

Comic courtesy Natalie Dee

Eat local - Except during famine...

All the talk about getting 'green', buying organic and local... it just doesn't have the same clout in Africa...

Comic above courtesy the husband of my other favourite cartoonist Natalie Dee, his website/comic is called Toothpaste for Dinner

The Frightening new South Africa

South Africa of 2008 is crime ridden, the electricity doesn't work and corruption permeates all levels of public service and government. The promises of hope and glory in 1994 have evolved into mayhem and despair. The poor have gotten poorer and more desperate and yet another black government in Africa is letting it's people down.

Watch this disturbing video, produced by a reputable 60 minutes type program called Carte Blanche in South Africa - describing the current state of affairs.

There is mass exodus of whites and this video explains sadly why...

Mysterious bats of Accra

There is a spectacle in my adoptive city of Accra – a phenomenon that engulfs many mysteries and folklore abounds about it.

At one particular intersection, above the military hospital, in about 20 trees, there are bats. Millions of bats. They swirl and shriek and hang up side down in the trees all day every day. At times they fill the sky at this traffic light, blackening the sky with their sheer numbers.

Bats. Bats are hideous. All my life the only thought I ever had about bats was that they lived in dark damp caves and looked like flying mini wild boars with Devil fangs.



I guess all that is still true, but in Ghana they fly above the trees at one place only and they represent something intriguing – a mystery.

The bats are a phenomenon that you inevitably hear about and whenever you drive by this intersection you definitely notice. And no matter how many years you live in Accra, you just never get used to it. It’s just not something you take for granted whenever you are in the area and the sky is chocker block full of the web winged creatures.

Why? You have to ask what on earth lured this massive colony of bats to these relatively few trees in one random area of the city, when there are thousands of other trees and neighborhoods where not a bat can be found.
There are hundreds of stories of why the bats have come to these particular trees. Most of the stories centre around a certain chief and the belief is that the bats followed him from his region, where bats are the totem, and highly revered. They still wait for him outside the hospital, years after he died there.

This is a fun and romantic way to look at it, but scientists surely have a better idea? Something logical? Sane? Not. Unfortunately things just don’t work in that straightforward sensible way in Accra, nor Ghana as a whole. The grey zones outnumber the black and white answers. The bats live in the grey zone.

BBC visited in 2006 and wrote an inconsequential article about the bats defecating on the cars and the hospital building. They never asked the big questions of why!?

I could only find one other article about the bats and it was a contribution by a romantic Ghanaian who took the grey way and extolled the virtues of the bats, believing they were indeed there following their chief…

Today as we drove under the bat trees and watched them circle – it was not the usual activity that caught my eye. Today there were chainsaws and workmen and chaos. Someone - the forces that be I suppose – has decided to cut down or at least severely cut back the majestic trees that house our bats! The sides of the street today were like mass graves of wood – chunks of tree trunks and leaves, piled anonymously and uncaringly down the boulevard. What of the bats? Their housing has been cut in half. Their shelter from the sun removed. What will they do? Where will they go?

I can’t wait to see the developments. In Ghana it has to be said that the trees are resilient. They will grow back and will be sprouting up within weeks, replenished in months. However not soon enough to repair the damage that has been done today to the home of the bats. It’s grey against black now, science against folklore – the bats against the chainsaws. If they disappear then I have no choice but to believe the chief claimed their souls to join him. If they’ve moved a few trees down, science will win this battle, but only partly… stay tuned.

Pablo Neruda is the world's best poet

I just have to share the amazing vibrancy of my favourite poet. He's a Chilean called Pablo Neruda. I discovered his poems in my first year of university and fell in love with the way he uses words. The only problem is that he writes in Spanish and then his words are translated with much artistic license by English writers. Some are much better than others. I actually have one of his poetry books where they list the original Spanish poem beside the translation and despite not knowing Spanish fluently, you can just tell the English version does not do justice to the expression.
Despite that, I would love to share his work in my small way as it makes me happy!

He has written hundreds of odes to everything from old socks to a tomato. This one is my favourite. (I've included two separate translations - which one do you think is better?)



Ode to a Lemon by Pablo Neruda

Out of lemon flowers
loosed
on the moonlight, love's
lashed and insatiable
essences,
sodden with fragrance,
the lemon tree's yellow
emerges,
the lemons
move down
from the tree's planetarium

Delicate merchandise!
the harbors are big with it-
bazaars
for the light and the
barbarous gold.
We open
the halves
of a miracle,
and a clotting of acids
brims
into the starry
divisions:
creation's
original juices,
irreducible, changeless,
alive:
so the freshness lives on
in a lemon,
in the sweet-smelling house of the rind,
the proportions, arcane and acerb.

Cutting the lemon
the knife
leaves a little cathedral:
alcoves unguessed by the eye
that open acidulous glass
to the light; topazes
riding the droplets,
altars,
aromatic facades.
So, while the hand
holds the cut of the lemon,
half a world
on a trencher,
the gold of the universe
wells
to your touch:
a cup yellow
with miracles,
a breast and a nipple
perfuming the earth;
a flashing made fruitage,
the diminutive fire of a planet.



Ode to the Lemon

From blossoms
released
by the moonlight,
from an
aroma of exasperated
love,
steeped in fragrance,
yellowness
drifted from the lemon tree,
and from its planetarium
lemons descended to the earth.

Tender yield!
The coasts,
the markets glowed
with light, with
unrefined gold;
we opened
two halves
of a miracle,
congealed acid
trickled
from the hemispheres
of a star,
the most intense liqueur
of nature,
unique, vivid,
concentrated,
born of the cool, fresh
lemon,
of its fragrant house,
its acid, secret symmetry.

Knives
sliced a small
cathedral
in the lemon,
the concealed apse, opened,
revealed acid stained glass,
drops
oozed topaz,
altars,
cool architecture.

So, when you hold
the hemisphere
of a cut lemon
above your plate,
you spill
a universe of gold,
a
yellow goblet
of miracles,
a fragrant nipple
of the earth's breast,
a ray of light that was made fruit,
the minute fire of a planet.

-- Pablo Neruda.

Highschool Graduation offers more than a Diploma Paper in Ghana

I am nostalgic and emotional and basically choked up. A great song will bring me to tears today. And yesterday. And the day before.

This weekend was Graduation.

Not mine – in fact I didn’t even attend my own, way back in the 80’s from my ghetto fabulous highschool. There just wasn’t that feeling of closeness as a whole class. There were cliques and segments, and like the street gangs of L.A. we moved through the halls of the windowless day prison, carefully eyeing the enemy. The uncool, the rockers, the ‘Enriched Program’ brainiac geeks, the Punjabis with the knives in their socks. There were the mysterious smokers who hung out at the back of the school, all pencil thin in jean jackets and Farah Fawcett hair – both the guys and the girls. There were the unwritten rules of segregation in the cafeteria and the danger of being in the wrong locker bay at the wrong time. It was a rough and tough school and no one really shed a tear at leaving.

On the last day of classes we all walked down the tree lined suburban side streets to the ‘right’ or the ‘wrong ‘ side of the main road – the classist line that divided the properties and caused further divergence among the students. We never looked back. We were grateful it was over and none of us had a united future, or common goals to look forward to. We passed the grade and did our time and it was over.

This scenario could not be further from the reality of the kids we watched through their Graduation ceremonies this weekend. My tears were brought on firstly by the reality that I’ll be losing a surrogate son – surrendering an amazing child to adulthood and the big world.

But what struck me during the numerous events arranged around the Graduation, was the amazing comraderie and sense of purpose among a class of 50. All alive and vibrant and determined. All of them convinced they will be great. None of them weighed down by the soul sucking weight of reality. None of them obsessed about themselves in that negative, self loathing way that is exhibited in the attitude of so many teenagers in the west today. The class has been together like a force, a swarm, for years. The friendships developed will span their lifetimes and have etched memories into each other forever.

All of these kids are forced upon each other, all taken from the comfort zones of their own cultures and dumped into a mixing pot called an International School, while their fathers do the daily grind with infinite frustrations and their mothers try to find women’s groups for tea and oversee the servants and try not to lose their grip on reality.

They come from everywhere – Denmark, Sri Lanka, Lebanon, Korea, America, Australia, South Africa ... the world.

Still, what comes out of this experiment in education abroad is an amazing self esteem and sense of purpose the children gain. They are privileged but not spoiled, they travel the world and they are responsible. They are tolerant and open minded and they see the world far beyond country borders. They become leaders from within.
So at the graduation ceremony there are hundreds of photos and speeches and hugs and tears and the sentiment is real and the kids are all headed somewhere with purpose. But will definitely miss where they’ve been.

And the parties afterwards are shared with parents and families and everyone has fun. No one is too cool to dance with their mother, too bored to talk to their uncle, joke with their teachers, enjoy the love that surrounds them.

And the songs that serenaded the kids as they threw up their caps, and at the parties later will hold memories for all of us, and remind us that it is possible to have a positive outlook and have pride in the generation that we are raising. And years down the road I will undoubtedly be driving along and hear the song that pulsated, “My dream is to fly over the rainbow so high”, and I will see in my memory’s eye, the crowded dancefloor and the jumping bodies, all excited and hopeful and alive, and I will get all choked up and nostalgic and remember this graduation as if it were my own.

Yoga my style

Tessa will appreciate this one...

The scary things in the fridge

I've always been the one in the family who reaches deep deep inside and pulls out the purple sour cream that expired 10 years earlier.

In Ghana it only needs to be a few days... It's very scary after a long weekend especially.

Great!

Modern bullying...

Too much of a good thing is always bad

I’m falling apart. Literally. Who knew that a person could “OD” on canned tuna.

I started 2008 on the right foot. After months of indulgence at the end of last year I decided this year would be all health and vibrancy, my body is my temple, warm fuzzy feeling type year.

Well think again before you embark on a health food diet. I had decided on the Candida diet which is meant to inhibit the growth of yeast in your body, but boils down to a typical sustainable diet like all the other mainstream ones – only healthier. Or so I thought.

The list of allowable foods is pretty limited, but includes all the things which we have come to believe are good for us. Lots of veggies - apart from the starchy ones, lots of seeds and nuts and fish of all sorts. Chicken, occasionally beef and a few fruits and beans. The amazing thing is that I managed to get into it, stick with it and find things I liked. No cheating – no fries, bread, desserts, not even caffeine. What could be bad in that?

Little did I know that the supposed ‘brain food’ I was consuming daily, sometimes twice daily for months in the form of fish, was slowly filling my body with a powerful neurotoxin. Mercury.

It’s not like there aren’t warnings about ocean fish consumption everywhere, especially with the sushi craze that’s hit North America over the past 5 years… but who can take these things seriously? I mean, you have to choose your demons. It’s safe to say that bleached white starches and processed sugars are bad. But fish??!!

It turns out that a diet including more than one can of tuna in 3 weeks can put you way over the danger limit. I am also convinced that the grade of tuna sold locally in Ghana (there is a Starkist factory here), is subjected to far fewer stringent regulations about what toxin levels can be...

How did I realize that this monster was accumulating in my body? About a month ago my hair started falling out in clumps. In the shower, dark brown furry animal-like balls of hair would cascade down my body and clog the drain. I was alarmed over the few weeks it continued persistently and then began my usual first step toward investigations: self diagnosis via the Internet!!! The first site I found, “Something’s fishy” came out of a random search about unexplained hair loss. Some scary stuff there. Then I read in deeper detail the technical side of what mercury does in the body. One of the points in that article mentioned that mercury poisoning causes tremors which commonly start as an eye twitch. So you can imagine my alarm when three days ago my right eye started a persistent twitch along with the hair loss.

So needless to say, I have stopped all consumption of fish. Which quite sadly for me, means NO MORE SUSHI!!! (That’s like taking away Christmas and birthdays to a child!)
It takes from a few months right up to 15 years for mercury to leave various parts of the body, once it’s attached itself to cells. It does not float in the bloodstream and is hence difficult to remove.

So now that I have polluted my body unknowingly or ignorantly over the past 5 months, on my “healthy” diet… I can look forward to further hair loss, and I shudder to think of the further complications…

So what do the experts suggest as a detox from Mercury? Aside from a controversial drug called DMPS that was commonly given to people who got mercury poisoning from amalgam teeth fillings a couple decades ago, they advocate another bloody diet….

Blogger's vow

I visited Washington recently...

Does this need explanation? Phallic symbol, self absorbed nation... big concrete slab of a tower we all rally around... hmmm.

Pathetic but so true - this is me

You can only convince yourself it's healthy and it's to avoid the harsh chemicals etc. etc and then one day you just have to admit ... it's laziness

New Great Comic

So I was meandering aimlessly through cyberspace instead of writing something useful on my blog, when I discovered an inspiring comic who is a middle aged woman - someone who has discovered that you don't always have to write something useful or deep or self indulgent. You can just be funny or smug or ridiculous and it can be just as rewarding.

So I thought I'd share her wisdom through posting some of the comics that hit home.

To be fair - I guess I should provide the link to her site: she's called Natalie Dee

Today's entry:

For Quinci

If you were a fish
You would be a doctor fish
Protected by gorgeous turquoise scales
Opalescence reflecting
Deflecting everyone from your secret world
Within

If you were brown you would
Be smooth and varied and steady
As chocolate
Hardwood
And the mild earth itself
You would remember each footstep
That crossed your path

If you were memory itself
You would be immaculate in your intricacy
Not missing a single detail

But you are trapped in our mortal world
That topples you
My delicate one
The mundane routines
Banal in their irrelevance to you

Earth water and sky
The things that preoccupy you

Yet your skin your feet must walk
And carry you through…

If you were a bird
You would be an owl
You would perch above it all
your all seeing eyes
smiling at me and shrugging at the world.

Ageless vision

Sometimes you meet a person who puts your life in perspective. Someone who challenges your beliefs with their smile and handshake and general existence.
There are times in life when you realize that you have been limited – boxed in by your experiences – to the point that you have not imagined beyond the invented boundaries.

Last weekend we left the chaotic reality of Africa – left the stench and pulsating rhythms - for the peaceful crisp cool of the Avon river. We followed the smooth highways and combed the fresh green paths, far outside the confines of grey grimy London, to the South coast of England.

We arrived at my cousin’s place – a distant relative tied to me in loose yet inexplicably binding ways. The whole plan was orchestrated by e-mails and reassurances from family members that this would be a wonderful reunion. And it was.
He greeted us at the gates of the old mansion – his smile resounding, the smell of nearby pastures permeable. I instantly felt welcome. Within minutes we were seated around the table on the back porch, overlooking the duck pond, in the late afternoon sun, sipping fresh raspberry daiquiris and champagne, discussing our extended family’s convoluted history.

This cousin of mine has made a point of asking and gathering information and is now quite a source of information about our shared grand-relatives’ lives. For some reason we all want to know as much as possible about where we came from, what has contributed to make us who we are – sinew for sinew, trait for trait. I guess I am no different. We drank up all the information he could share and soaked up the sun, the spirit, the delicious pink of his cashmere sweater and the soft, lulling voices of the gang seated around us.

This cousin of mine has left quite an impression on me. He is an inspiration. A life that keeps living, hopeful, alive, exciting. The first thing he told us was his age. We spent the next two days disbelieving this statement in every way.
My cousin is 69yrs old. He has recently married and is the typically giddy, goofy newlywed with the grin of a 21yr old. His dress sense is the sophisticated cool of a 40yr old who has learned enough but still takes chances to look young and hip. His smile has the genuine surety of a 12yr old boy. His zest for climbing and biking and exploring his world are the defiant ready for the universe edge of a 19yr old.

My cousin and his new bride defy all the notions I’ve blindly accepted about age and limits and life’s predetermined steps. By 69 memories are life. Daily routines involve soft cereal and teeth floating in murky water. Power over bodily functions is not guaranteed and neither is recognizing ones’ self in a mirror. Dressing involves polyester and elastene. There are special stores that cater for this sector – churning out man made monstrosities that make the statement – I am old and hunched and dull pastels keep me comfortable. There are no vacations – barring the adventurous who make it to Florida annually. Decisions are influenced by the proximity to a health facility and a public restroom.

This cousin of mine met his bride online. They travel globally –enjoying good wine and gorgeous sunsets, after completing challenging treks and trails. They climb mountains and plan for the future. They appreciate beauty and indulgence and they watch TV with limbs intertwined. They wake up and dress for the day – jumping up to the possibilities that lie ahead.



My cousin is maroon and fire in the face of oatmeal grey. He is a deep magenta with olive undertones. He answers life’s rules with a vitality unknown to me before now.

And I thank him from the heart for proving what I forgot I knew – that rules are limited and small minded. That life is immense and multicoloured. That every day and week and month and year we have are blank canvases we fill in whichever way we choose. Life continues as long as you want it to. If you keep loving and tasting and smelling and stepping forward into it – the mist yields a new experience every single day.

Maybe it was the cool sea air or the pungent gardens but I woke up last weekend a little more. I appreciate the colours around me. The soft hand of my lover, the bright deep eyes of my son.

I see just a bit more clearly what life holds in store.
Life is about love and self confidence and good friends. And that does not change at any age.

African Triangle - a poem

Lush
Green
Siphoning
Sipping earthwine
nectar of putrid poverty
Cocktail of sadness and salty tears
Potholes of memories
Laughter trees
Emerald
Lime
Mango
Africa

Wet flesh
Sloppy yellow sliding down
Chocolate chin

Wide white grin
Dusty fingers sliced
through with the rabid juice
Cry to the red red blood soil boy
of torn GAP t-shirt
The widening gap of evolution
Stained yellow and red and smudged brown
Stain the universe with a foul history
No simple game here
No recess from school playground life
No life at all

The great white hope is not spelled U, N,
On the side of a great white monster speeding by
Spitting lumps of gutter mud
Off to dine wine meet greet retreat
Resolutions afar like rice among maggots
Fed to agencies without arms
Spread over tin ghettos like rust
Perpetuate, ridicule

Blue blue boy
Old old man.
Africa.

Rainbows and Geckos

After living in a tropical place for over a decade, one begins to take their exotic surroundings for granted. Basically you just stop noticing what is around you. And that is a pity.

That's why it's great to host a variety of guests from around the world, who inevitably help you see your world through fresh eyes.

Today we toured Accra with a visitor from Switzerland. He was enamored and amazed by the critters that run alongside us daily. I actually never think of them, but it made me realise that the geckos and rainbow lizards that run by our feet and hang out on our bathroom ceilings are actually pretty cool, exotic and interesting.
The geckos are quite shy guys, hiding behind doors and quietly ridding us of the many ants, cockroaches and miscellaneous insects that crawl endlessly through the house. The sad thing is that these little geckos, sometimes almost transparent and quite prone to being startled, are no match for the 2 inch roaches that come out at night. In fact, the ants too outnumber the geckos exponentially. If they could eat all the ants they'd be monsters, but somehow the ants just seem to have it more together. Perhaps it's the strength in numbers. They are guaranteed to take over the kitchen each night and can be found feasting on any spilled food... even the tiniest blob or crumb...

The geckos are also quite unlucky little creatures - they always seem to get caught in a door slamming or a drawer closing. Cut right in half most of the time.. not a pretty sight. Their tales do grow back though, if accidentally chopped off by an inconsiderate human...

The rainbow lizards on the other hand are quite fast, bold and animated. They spend most of the time doing push ups and they don't like to come indoors. They will however be tempted by a morsel of food, if you're sitting out on any patio having a cold beer.. Their bright orange heads are great - some are so bright they look flourescent.



We don't need to go to the zoo or the exotic pet store... our home is a welcome ecosystem for all these things to grow and flourish - whether we like it or not really.

And there are really some residents we'd rather do without...

Africa's Deadly Skies

We had planned a big farewell dinner for yesterday and booked fancy hotels for our Financial Director who is moving on to greener or snowier pastures as the case may be.

Getting hotel rooms in Accra has turned in to quite a nightmare these days, with a seemingly endless flow of business, aid and trade visitors flocking to Ghana’s capital and lack of planning for this has meant that if you want a decent hotel room you must book months in advance. This time we were organised enough to know the dates that the team would be flying across from Nigeria, and booked the rooms accordingly.
We booked the restaurant venue, the gifts, the speeches – all organised.

But then we got the call from Nigeria – “our plane is delayed – no fuel”. This is common enough. Even British Airways has had to reroute flights between Accra and Lagos, en route to the UK because either of the countries has no aviation fuel available. Nigeria is the 6th largest oil producing country in the world. Yet it is difficult to organise fuel for the aircrafts…

Anyway, we expected the flight would be late so this was not a big issue. Only an hour later they called back to say that there was actually no plane on the runway, so the story about no fuel was losing credibility. A few phone calls from other Nigerians confirmed there was a much more ominous reason for the flight delay. The aircraft had actually made an emergency crash landing in Port Harcourt (a smaller town airport) the night before. Hence there would be no flight. Details of the accident are very sketchy.

Today I found an article online that lists the issue as having been the captain’s response to smoke in the cargo hold and a subsequent alarm.
Our team had considered joining the lines to try and get seats on another of the two airlines also flying to Accra but the mayhem was too much – with the pushing, shoving and general aggression they decided to give the whole thing a miss and cancel the trip. We’ll try again soon.

The question is how confident are they to travel again soon? How likely is it that the plane will not make the journey next time?

In Africa, sadly, the chances are pretty high. This was a major commercial airline. There are hundreds of smaller, less known, banned in Europe airlines across the continent that rent or purchase 20 to 30 year old aircrafts and hope for the best. In 2006/2007 there were three fatal plane crashes in Nigeria. The rest of the continent has the same frightening statistics.

Late last year a Kenya Airways plane took off from Douala in Cameroon, en route to Nairobi and fell from the sky less than 20 km from the airport. Apparently there was a serious storm but the pilot took off anyway. It took rescue crews and all police, fire and army forces over 48 hours to locate the crash site! Meanwhile I was sending e-mails in vain to a customer of ours. He had been on the flight…
Even back in 2003, the BBC ran an article called the Dangers of Flying in Africa.

Below is a brief list of examples of the crashes that have dotted the African landscape over the past 10 years. The last few years have not made the list but the fatalities continue to rise.

Just this week an aircraft took off from the airport in Kinshasa DRC, and crashed into a crowded market minutes later…

Some of the worst recent aviation disasters in Africa are:
• January 1996: More than 300 people died when a cargo plane crashed in a city market in Kinshasa, the capital of the Democratic Republic of Congo.

• November 1996: 142 people were killed when a Nigerian jet fell into a lagoon near the country's economic capital, Lagos.
Later the same month a hijacked Ethiopian plane crashed into the Indian Ocean. At least 125 people died.

• January 2000: A Kenyan plane crashed into the sea off the west African state of Ivory Coast, killing 169 people.

• May 2002: 149 people died when a Nigerian plane crashed in to a slum on landing at the northern city of Kano.

• March 2003: An Algerian passenger craft crashed on take-off from the Sahara desert town of Tamanrasset, killing 102 people.

• May 2003: Some 200 people fell to their deaths in the Democratic Republic of Congo when the door of their plane opened in mid-air.

• July, 2003: The crash of a Sudanese aircraft in the east of the country killed 115 people.

• December 2003: A passenger plane crashed in the sea on take-off from Benin, killing 139 people.

• October 2005: All 117 people aboard a Nigerian aircraft died when it came down in a swamp during a thunderstorm.

• December 2005: 107 people, many of whom were schoolchildren, died when their plane crashed on landing in Nigeria.

• October 2006: Another flight came down in Nigeria, killing 96.

• April 2007: Dozens were killed when a passenger plane crashed near Goma, in the DRC.

• May 2007: A Kenyan passenger plane crashed in Cameroon, killing 114.

• October 2007: More than 50 people died when a cargo plane crashed in a crowded district of Kinshasa, in the Democratic Republic of Congo. - Sapa-AFP

In Africa, who investigates these crashes? Who ensures the safety standards are met? How many accidents are even reported on a broad scale?

I am headed to Liberia in a few weeks time for business. I know that most people believe ‘when our time comes, it comes’ but I must say that flying in Africa is one way to push the envelope, to really tempt fate.

Really puts a farewell party into perspective. I guess a couple cancelled hotel rooms and an annoyed restaurant manager is better than what could have happened…

Dieting in Africa

After months of serious indulgence at the end of 2007, we did the thing people do on December 31st, we vowed to make a New Year's resolution to diet, lose weight, get fit (in that order).

From DAY1 - January 1st, we cut out all bread, grains, potatoes, SUGAR, caffeine and all the other baddies in the world of food.

John leaned toward an Atkins diet, I leaned more toward an Anti Candida diet. Luckily they are both quite similar.

In fact, most main stream diets that have any clout, all advocate that the following guidelines are necessary: cut out most sugars, all white breads, grains and starchy foods, caffeine should be eliminated, you should drink lots of water, and you need moderate exercise. They are mostly common sense.

Well we are 3 and a half months into this diet/lifestyle change and I am happy to report we've each lost 8 kilos/17lbs. The trouble is that common sense is a difficult thing to keep at hand when one is faced with temptation.

Living in Ghana as an Expat in our company means that we are constantly hosting guests from abroad. In a given week we may have one to two guests staying with us, and two to five suppers out at fancy restaurants. This means that will power is as necessary as oxygen, yet as slippery as a slide.

The good thing is that these diets do allow for treats that are both good for you and yummy, and one has to focus on them to avoid cheating constantly.

Dark chocolate has numerous health benefits as well as blueberries. I love both, and these small pleasures keep me on track the rest of the time for the most part. (Except when a good red wine is opened... but they do claim red wine also has it's health benefits!)

This brings me to my issue of dieting - in Africa.

It's all just so self indulgent, when one considers that we are concerned about cutting back on foods that are abundant and everywhere, available in excess, while everywhere around us there are millions of people surrounding us who's annual income could not pay for even one of our dinners out.

It's just so ridiculous that in the new (and only) mall in Ghana we push our carts round the aisles, choosing items based on healthy choices etc, despite the fact that 90% of these items have to be imported. Blueberries at $9 per 100grams... dark chocolate bars at $10... no problem.

WHAT?! This is absurd! Minimum wage here is under $2 per day. So it would take a minimum wage worker here 5 days to be able to afford 100grams of blueberries. Yet these items sell. The shelves fill and empty. We get all excited when the shipment of fresh milk is flown in - $5 per litre. The Expats and the upper middle class Ghanaians mull around the shop doing their weekly shop without much thought.

Meanwhile, we are in Africa. Starvation and poverty are the most pertinent subjects.
Traditional foods here are made of 90% heavy starches - to fill empty bellies.

The concept of dieting is borne out of success, excess, progress. Our choices are many, it becomes our decision to choose the good from the bad.

Give us this day our daily bread - but please make it wheat free, gluten free, sugar free, unbleached, with organic eggs...

Looks like I'm not the only one who thinks the Prez. jets are highly indulgent!

My faith in humanity is restored a tad today - being a Tuesday - and after having read that at least some Ghanaians are also speaking out against the hypocrisy that surrounds them... This article on a Ghanaian website puts the truth out there...

Nothing of course will change the path or decisions of the government, but hopefully the more public outcry, the more these things are challenged and maybe in a few generations these governments will be held accountable.

But whatever you do - DON'T SEND MONEY.

Ghana Government buys luxury jets, and the aid money keeps coming

A friend sent me an e-mail this morning that sent me into such a rant, she had to call me afterwards to inquire as to my state of mental health and general emotional stability. I am just fine I had to assure her, just as I re-iterate here. The thing is that she touched on such a delicate subject. A subject that once opened, like a scab that does not heal, can ooze an ugly trail of true stories and tales, until it simply tires of spewing the pus of truth, that it closes up once again.

She asked me to advise on a charity organization in Ghana to donate money. More money, hard earned by westerners, just dumped into the bottomless pit of African aid. No! No, no no. Do not send money.



How could I advise on this? I have never been more dead set against a concept in my life. After all I’ve seen firsthand, I could not advise on this with a clear conscience.

The friend had the most noble of intentions. She runs an annual cultural trip to Ghana, and this year she thought she would offer the participants a chance to pay for their carbon emissions, by calculating the carbon footprint of their flights and giving it a monetary value. The idea was then to give this money to a trustworthy and viable organization in Ghana which replenishes resources. All a great idea until the execution. Who to trust? Who cares enough about the people? Who doesn’t take every buck they can get for personal gain, flagrantly displaying this without shame or guilt? What type of culture is this? What role models do they have?

It’s not that there aren’t people who need assistance. People who spend their days toiling the land, or helping those who do. It’s just that these people are few and far between. The poor are many but the projects that actually make a difference are non-existent. The agendas are many for these organizations, but actually changing the future of the poor is rarely the aim or outcome.
And the absolute irony of this request from my well intentioned friend was highlighted this morning of all mornings – being a Monday - and I had just heard some news about the two new Presidential jets being purchased by the government of Ghana. To a tune of multi-millions of dollars.

Apparently they received a loan from ‘an unknown source’ and feel the jets are necessary for the President’s many travels and for the image of the country. This statement just sits on my tongue. Will not be swallowed. It feels a bit like my reaction to the national dish of Ghana – fufu –which is a glutinous starchy blob the texture of chewing gum and the size of a grapefruit, and is torn off in balls to be swallowed whole with a coating of soup. I just can’t get a bite of that down my throat.

How is it that the government is concerned with their image and the people cannot get clean water, if any at all. No electricity, no planning, no concern for the dying dirt poor that make up the majority of the population?!!!! How is it that minimum wage in Ghana is less than $2 per day, yet petrol costs over $1 per litre?!

Where did the loan come from anyway? Another donation no doubt from some foreign government. All turning their blind eye to the corruption that rules this continent, and the culture that perpetuates it on every level.

Why should young hopeful hard working students from other continents be concerned about women’s cooperatives in Ghana? Why does Ghana’s president not step off the show room floors of the luxury jet designers in Europe, and take a look himself at his people. Why doesn’t he care that there are no industries in Ghana providing jobs? That Ghana rates among the most corrupt nations in the world (along with every other Africa country) – according to transparency International?



How can he face the people of this country after making such a purchase, leaving such debt, such a disgraceful legacy? How can the people allow him to do all this?

Maybe it’s just me who sees the absurdity in it all. Maybe that is why I am incredulous then, when foreigners keep believing their dollars, time, sweat and tears will make a difference here.

Exhibitions are chump change for Aid Orgs

I’m sitting in a dreary hotel room in Geneva. People may think it’s exotic and a great place to be, but sadly not this time around, not for me.
I’m here for a trade show – it is an exhibition designed to attract the big players in the field of Aid and Trade, otherwise known as NGOs (non-governmental organizations), otherwise known as charities.

What a joke. I hate to be so very skeptical and so early on in my post – but there comes a point when being jaded doesn’t even describe it.

Let me explain. This show is organized by a very profitable (as opposed to non-profit) events company in the UK who contacted my company months ago asking us to sponsor. The cost would be a mere $30,000. In return for this we would get a few big banners around the venue and an honourable mention in the newsletter.
We refused this great offer, but agreed to send two delegates, and set up a stand. Cost: GBP3,000.

BUT this did not include furniture. If we actually wanted to sit down at a small table and perhaps have a place to stack our brochures – that would be extra. Total bill for 2 x small chairs, one card table and a small display stand for 2 days: GBP200.
After spending the $2,000 on flights each, and paying the $200 a night hotel bill for 2 x 4 nights, we got to the actual venue. It turns out it’s outside! This is winter, in Switzerland. It looks like an airplane hangar and there are numerous organizers running around with big mitts and scarves and hot coffees acting like this is normal and worth the mega bucks we paid for a spot here, and they assume we are supposed to pretend it’s not below zero as we prepare to court potential buyers.

The icing on the iceberg came this morning when we asked where the power sockets were as we’d need to plug in our laptops. We were directed to the desk of the venue services – where we met a stern woman, dressed in a down filled coat, with a down filled vest over that, and a large scarf which almost obstructed her face from us. She was busy collecting a fax with her big red mittened paws.

She explained – with a straight face! – that to get a power socket at our stand for the two days would cost an EXTRA $300. BUT she did point out there was free Internet provided. Does anyone see the irony in this?!

Anyway we set up our stand minus power – the cheapos that we are… and we met some of the other exhibitors – which brings me to the crux of my rant.
Most of these NGO exhibitions are just money gobbling rip offs where all the head honchos from the organizations are flown around the world, paying these ridiculous rates for hotels and participation in these events - and whose money is being used to fund this? Where could this money be better allocated?!

Ask yourself!

I spoke to the rep. from Toyota, who has set up a $10,000 stand, showing off their newly released Patrol vehicle. It’s his hope that he’ll cash in at the early end of the year on the budgets of the non profits orgs, and sell FLEETS of these new ‘all bells and whistles’ cars at a price tag of $80,000 each. The thing is that this is what happens, commonly. These non-profits show up and sign on for fleets of 40 of these vehicles to be shipped to their country offices around the developing world because it’s in their budget. Meanwhile, they might not have enough ‘budget’ allocated to help when it comes down to the tasks they were originally set up to help with!!!

The more sad and pathetic aspect of this, is that the majority of these vehicles do not make it to the rural areas they are equipped to serve, but rather make their way onto the streets of the capital cities in Africa, driven by private drivers, used solely for transporting the rich children of the Country Directors of these organizations – to and from the private schools they attend at a price tag of over $10,000 per student per year. And who pays the school fees?! The non-profit organizations!!! So how much money – you must be asking yourself at this point – actually goes to the impoverished masses that these organizations were supposedly created to assist?

Keep asking.

I have been in Ghana for 11 years and the lives of the poor rural people have not been changed AT ALL. Despite over $6billion US dollars being injected via Aid agencies annually to change the lives of these people.
This SHOULD make people go “HMMM…”

Ps – Happy New Year!

JUJU on U

I was getting ready for a fancy dinner out with visiting colleagues from Europe last weekend, when I decided I would wear my very special silver bracelet – which had been hand crafted as a gift to me from a friend who is an extremely talented jeweler, after my son passed away. It says “those we hold in our arms a little while, we hold in our hearts forever” and is engraved on the inside with his name. I lifted the black velvet box where I keep it and my heart sank. I felt like someone had kicked me in the stomach – the box felt so light I knew instantly the bracelet was missing. I opened it anyway and peeked in at the empty cavity within. I talked myself through what I already knew – there was no chance of me having left it anywhere else. I am not a materialistic person by any description, nor very sentimental about most things, but this bracelet holds an indescribable meaning for me. I wasn’t prepared to face it being missing. I searched numbly around the bedroom, looking in places I knew it would not be and eventually allowing myself to face the facts. One of the staff had stolen it.

I immediately thought of all the recent happenings in the house. Eric the gardener’s diesel theft and his subsequent dismissal. Eric’s ominous letter warning me about Beatrice the maid, and Gilbert the cook’s worried comments about how he feared things could go missing with the house so volatile.

I came slowly out of the room and walked downstairs feeling dazed and highly upset. John saw me coming and knew something was up. I guess I had the look on my face. “What?! What is it??”, I explained. John’s first questions were the ones I expected, about whether I might have left it somewhere or in another box etc. Once we both realised it was gone from the room, there was that feeling of being violated and betrayed, but at the same time, not a huge surprise. Just disappointment.

John said the next morning he would fire everyone. I knew we were in for an interesting week. I didn’t know how very interesting…

We came downstairs the next morning, met Gilbert mopping the floor. “Gilbert, you can go home. Something very important is missing and no one can be in the house. Thanks and have a nice life.” Gilbert was bewildered to say the least. I almost felt bad. He asked and I tried to briefly explain what was missing. He said he didn’t have a clue what the thing was but John cut him short, retrieved his key and he stepped out alongside us on the way out. The door was locked. We met the gardener out front with his machete, slicing through the ever growing weeds. John gave him the same speech. He put down the huge knife, wiped his brow and shrugged. “Yes sir. Okay.” He walked out the gate. The only one left was Beatrice who actually lives out back in the staff quarters with her two twin grown daughters. She was already gone for the day to her other job for an Italian Diplomat as his maid. John said, no worry, we’ll see her in the evening.

We saw Bea briefly that night as she was bringing in the laundry. John told her what had happened and that everyone was to leave. She didn't need to work. She asked what was missing and where it had been and I showed her the space on the dresser where it had been. The next morning we met Gilbert at the gate. The security guard had barred him from entering so he had waited for us to drive out. He looked disheveled and his eyes were wild. I rolled down the window – he smelled. A stench barely achievable by human beings at the worst of times. Gilbert has always had a problem with body odour, and his last boss actually bought him deodorant and soap and made him shower regularly throughout the day! She also bought him a full body white servant’s outfit which she insisted he wear. We inherited the product – i.e. Gilbert made sure he was always smelling ok and looking clean when he came to work. That day he obviously had let all the composure out the window, with the prospect of losing his job.

“Madam, sir, please. I have not slept. I cannot steal. I do not know the thing you are speaking of. There is only one way to find the thief. We need to bring a traditional priest. A juju. That way we will know who has done it”.

I couldn’t help but pause at that moment to reflect on how bizarre it was. The fact that someone had just said that to me and was 100% serious. And how even more bizarre it is that I live in a country where the majority of people believe deep down that this IS the true way to catch a thief. I've even read a BBC article on how Witchcraft is alive and well in Africa

I’ve heard many stories from Ghanaians and Expats alike about how things were stolen and that these juju men, dressed in all white with frayed white cloth hats resembling doilies and always bare feet, were called in to set up a test to expose the guilty party. Sometimes there was a pot of boiling oil, sometimes there was a chicken to be killed and there are many other tests – all of these claim to reveal which person is guilty by the results. In all cases I’ve heard of, the guilty person is so fearful that at the last minute they confess. So powerful the human mind is!!! We agreed that Gilbert could find a neutral juju man. I was curious where all this would go.

That evening we were sitting in the lounge with a visitor and Beatrice poked her head in the door. I immediately wondered how she had gotten into the house. We just assumed we had forgotten to lock the door behind us on our way in. She asked if I had seen the bracelet. I said no. John told her that we had decided to call in a juju doctor to find out who took it. She jumped up off the chair. “What?! Why?? Noooooo, not me, I don’t want to be involved in those things. I am a church going woman! You don’t need those things, o!”. Very nervous reaction. Hmmmmm. She told me to take heart, and that she would come by on the weekend and help me look for it. She told me that she had no doubt we’d find it. I thought it was quite strange that she should be sure we’d find it.

When she left John smirked. She or her daughters took it. She’s snuck upstairs and brought it back. Go look, I bet it’s back. Quinci and I ran up the stairs to look. Nothing. I had thought it ridiculous and far too obvious and couldn’t believe it would be, but still I hoped. The bottom line was that I wanted the bracelet back.

We went off for yet another dinner out. This time all of us were out. We got back and I headed to the shower when John called me back. Holli, come and look. The bracelet is back.

I ran around the corner incredulous. There, in a second velvet box that held some of my earrings (that I hadn’t even noticed were missing), was my bracelet shoved in, with the earrings. It didn’t fit so it peeked out. The box where it belonged had been shoved to the back. It was just so obvious. But it meant she had a key! Or she was the witch Eric claimed…
Now it’s the weekend. Bea hasn’t come to help me look, because she knows the bracelet is back and that I’ve found it.

Only now it’s our turn to play mind tricks. Tomorrow she will be told that we have not found the bracelet and that she must leave the house.

Meanwhile the dishes are stacking up, the clothes have become a mountain in the laundry room and the floor has a full layer of dust. There’s been no servants for almost a week!

I called Gilbert today and he’ll be back tomorrow. Ah, I look forward to my glass of fresh squeezed orange juice and a clean house at the end of the day. I’m not spoiled am I?? This is a hardship post (according to most Western and European Embassies). Afterall, we are living among powerful spirits, witches and juju curses surround us.

The Guard and the Gardener

And just when I thought I’d preserved a small cocoon of modern civilization and a trustworthy crew around myself, the surprises of Africa knock me on the head again.

So this is what has been happening in my household over the past few weeks, while friends of mine in Canada are worrying about getting winter coats, and buying groceries, cleaning the house, kids getting a cold and the like, I am dealing with the dark corners of deceit and witchcraft in the heart of Africa.

A few weeks ago, while sitting among friends at Champs Sports Bar (a Canadian owned Mexican joint in Ghana), on Trivia night, surrounded by 20 tables of rowdy Expats, we received a frantic call from the house. It was Beatrice the ex-maid, (recently relegated to ironing only) – she warned John “Sir, please there is big trouble in the house!”. Expecting a fire or worse, we asked what it was. “It’s Eric (the gardener who has been with us for 6 years) – he’s been stealing the diesel! Even tonight, just now, he has taken two jerry cans of diesel, he and the guard” (A professional company has been hired to have one guard sitting on duty at our gate 24/7 to protect us and more importantly the expensive equipment for the company stored in our garages). Beatrice explained that Eric and the guard had been doing this for over a year on nights when we were out, bringing a taxi to the gate, filling the two cans, and then Eric jumping in the taxi, heading off somewhere into town to sell them. She also pointed out that Devon our oldest son had been returning from his friend’s place and had seen the taxi and Eric and the guard at the gate.

I shouldn’t have been, but I was shocked. Eric had always seemed a very loyal if not too intelligent guy. I paid him for numerous small jobs he would do for me, apart from his wages, and had always helped him out when he came with various sad stories over the years, of sick and needy relatives. We bought him a fridge and a TV and he lived for free in the quarters at the back of the house. By Ghanaian standards, for an illiterate guy with no gardening skills he was doing ok. As a gardener he was incompetent if not downright abusive! One day years ago when John had asked him to trim the palm fronds touching the windows, we came home in the evening to find the entire majestic tree pared down to a dead and pathetic stump. “It will grow back!”, he seemed so sure. It still stands, rotten and smelling out back…

But I digress… Now we had to deal with the situation at hand. There are two large drums of diesel sitting in the garage, to refill the generator (one of Eric’s jobs), as and when the electricity went through periods of long outages (very common in our dear Ghana).
We never kept track of the amount of diesel in the drums, it was a tedious job, not worth the time, and we basically trusted Eric. Well now we had to grill the guard, call in the management of the security company and fire Eric.

The guard denied any taxi having been there, denied any knowledge of Eric removing diesel and basically insisted on his innocence. After asking a few other people in the neighborhood, we discovered the same guard had his own diesel business passing out the back gate of the last place he was ‘guarding’! We called in his bosses who were only too happy to have him removed immediately. They were also very interested in what we would do with Eric. “Sir please – we would remove him for you. Throw his things in the road and not allow him through the gate again”. We were less into the dramatics. The truth is that he is a single guy, with few if any family in the city, and no money, skills or resources. We knew he had nowhere to go. John confronted him, he pleaded innocence, we gave him till the end of the month to go.

From that day, there was mayhem in the house. Every day when we left for work there was sneaking, and sneering and distrust and loud arguments and threats abounding. Gilbert the cook and cleaner confronted us one morning on our way out. “Please madam, sir, (I can’t get him to stop calling me this pretentious term which makes me feel old and elitist!). “The house is not fine. Sometimes Eric and Beatrice they fight. Sometimes I am upstairs and Eric could come in, he could take things. Bea too – she brings the laundry when I am not here. Please, the doors, I feel it is not safe to leave them open. Until Eric is gone and things are normal again”. We weren’t too concerned. The day came and went and Eric left. We paid him a few month’s services (as in common in Ghana – instead of putting a thief in jail, you pay them for a few months and see them on their way). And the security company was ready and happily put his things out. We followed up by sending a driver from the office to transport his things to wherever he wanted.

Just before Eric left, he handed me a hand written note. It was very difficult to read, but I pieced together what I could. It basically alleged that the reason Bea had made up these horrible stories against him was that he had confronted her for bringing too many men to the house. He claimed she was a witch and that she promised she would revenge him. This was how she had accomplished it, he claimed. Then he made an ominous statement that I was next on the witches list, as she perceived me to be the cause of her losing the main job in the house (as we had recently brought in the company’s official cook Gilbert). He claimed she would work her way to me next…


I put it down, we laughed a bit. Africa! Eric!!! I just thought to myself how bizarre my life was over here, even now, secluded in the Expat world of work, dinners, big airconditioned house with foreign satellite TV and a real supermarket to shop at (but that's another story!)…