Something you want to tell us?
In these economic times...
Modern parenting - reversal of roles...
Thanks to Toothpaste For Dinner for the funnies - one of my fav cartoonists.
Posts
Six degrees: From Raising Hare to …
5 days ago
Wednesday, December 9, 2009
Parenting funnies from Toothpaste for Dinner
How was your day, son?
Something you want to tell us?
In these economic times...
Modern parenting - reversal of roles...
Thanks to Toothpaste For Dinner for the funnies - one of my fav cartoonists.
Something you want to tell us?
In these economic times...
Modern parenting - reversal of roles...
Thanks to Toothpaste For Dinner for the funnies - one of my fav cartoonists.
Saturday, December 5, 2009
The market children
Today in the market, the omnipotent Sun God drove us out of the jostling chaos, down a tiny grey alley called Chicken and Rice, lined with bright yellow plastic chairs, Maggi promotional thick plastic table covers… around the covered corner, where the constructed cave came to a dead end and held it’s promise of food and drink and muted lull.
The children scrambled below our plastic bags of random purchases, our drenched gritty limbs. There were five of them. Tiny, timid, they approached the counter on tippy toes, dusty little feet poking out from under long Muslim cloth dresses, the rubber of the slippers ground to nothing under their tiny heels.
Little ladies with head scarves and kohl under their deep brown eyes. They giggled as they jostled and peeked back over their shoulders at the disheveled *Obrunis.
They held up their offering to the tall counter, one small coin, and asked in turn for a miracle.
They scrambled into the seats at the plastic table, helping the tinier ones to reach. They waited, and discussed in hushed tones, while we sipped luke warm Pepsis, complaining to ourselves about the lack of proper cold Coke when you want one…
And the old man emerged from the makeshift kitchen, shuffling on his own worn down slippers. He held only one plate that held a small scoop of rice with a matchbox sized piece of meat atop the meager pile. The children exchanged glances – the moment held their hunger, desperation, excitement and fear – fear that each would not be able to carry to their mouth with their tiny little scooped fist, enough of this food to stop the aches in their belly.
The air was tight, tense, with the look you find in children’s eyes on Christmas morning in front of the unopened presents at the base of the tree. But today, like all days for these little ones is no Christmas, it is a day where they need to eat.
There the two podgy obrunis that we were, immersed, we could not look away. We were at once elated by the beauty of their impossible innocence, and humbled by the shame of the haves among the have-nots.
We called the old man and offered up a Cedi (less than a dollar) to feed the children some more. He shuffled away dutifully. His own hunger following slowly behind.
He emerged with a gruff command – shouted at the children and pointed in our direction. His finger poked the air and insisted they file over to us and hang their heads in gratitude.
Like a spectacle, we insisted loudly, awkwardly that they sit and enjoy.
The next plate arrived, this time piled far higher than the first. And we looked away as the children glanced wary at us. We nodded sheepishly. They returned to their task with fervor.
Soon the second plate was clean. The children licked and popped tiny fingers in and out of their mouths and quietly they slipped from the chairs, turned to say Thank you! And they were gone. Back out into the mayhem of the bustling market street.
Back to a life of hungry tomorrows and rough lessons. To heartache and laughter and the mysteries that held them like a dream from us.
We picked up our things and left the troubled dream, enveloped once again by the inhuman sway of the market beast.
*Obruni - white person (or any foreigner) in the Twi language
The children scrambled below our plastic bags of random purchases, our drenched gritty limbs. There were five of them. Tiny, timid, they approached the counter on tippy toes, dusty little feet poking out from under long Muslim cloth dresses, the rubber of the slippers ground to nothing under their tiny heels.
Little ladies with head scarves and kohl under their deep brown eyes. They giggled as they jostled and peeked back over their shoulders at the disheveled *Obrunis.
They held up their offering to the tall counter, one small coin, and asked in turn for a miracle.
They scrambled into the seats at the plastic table, helping the tinier ones to reach. They waited, and discussed in hushed tones, while we sipped luke warm Pepsis, complaining to ourselves about the lack of proper cold Coke when you want one…
And the old man emerged from the makeshift kitchen, shuffling on his own worn down slippers. He held only one plate that held a small scoop of rice with a matchbox sized piece of meat atop the meager pile. The children exchanged glances – the moment held their hunger, desperation, excitement and fear – fear that each would not be able to carry to their mouth with their tiny little scooped fist, enough of this food to stop the aches in their belly.
The air was tight, tense, with the look you find in children’s eyes on Christmas morning in front of the unopened presents at the base of the tree. But today, like all days for these little ones is no Christmas, it is a day where they need to eat.
There the two podgy obrunis that we were, immersed, we could not look away. We were at once elated by the beauty of their impossible innocence, and humbled by the shame of the haves among the have-nots.
We called the old man and offered up a Cedi (less than a dollar) to feed the children some more. He shuffled away dutifully. His own hunger following slowly behind.
He emerged with a gruff command – shouted at the children and pointed in our direction. His finger poked the air and insisted they file over to us and hang their heads in gratitude.
Like a spectacle, we insisted loudly, awkwardly that they sit and enjoy.
The next plate arrived, this time piled far higher than the first. And we looked away as the children glanced wary at us. We nodded sheepishly. They returned to their task with fervor.
Soon the second plate was clean. The children licked and popped tiny fingers in and out of their mouths and quietly they slipped from the chairs, turned to say Thank you! And they were gone. Back out into the mayhem of the bustling market street.
Back to a life of hungry tomorrows and rough lessons. To heartache and laughter and the mysteries that held them like a dream from us.
We picked up our things and left the troubled dream, enveloped once again by the inhuman sway of the market beast.
*Obruni - white person (or any foreigner) in the Twi language
Wednesday, December 2, 2009
Bars for Canada, Bikes for Ghana, Bucks for Cadbury
I love a feel good, help-the-world, tree-hugger type story. I love a good creamy, rich, sinfully sweet bar of chocolate too. So I should be impressed that Cadbury Canada partnered with Cadbury Ghana and the Bicycle factory, to donate 5000 bicycles to needy children in Ghana.
The campaign ran through the summer this year in Canada. All you had to do was buy a Caramilk or Dairy Milk or Dentyne gum etc. and send in the UPC code. For every hundred codes, Cadbury donated one bicycle, until the number reached 5 thousand.
Here’s the feel-good commercial that accompanied the campaign.
Instead of feeling inspired though, I was disturbed by the following:
1. Can we assume Canadians had an altruistic motive in participating? Come on, they only had to buy a chocolate bar. Hardly seems like selfless sacrifice…
2. Cadbury’s (the confection division of Cadbury Schweppes) revenue last year was over USD $5 Billion. I estimate the cost of this promotion for them to be about USD $225,000 or roughly twenty two thousand times less than their profits. Hardly seems like a HUGE sacrifice on their part either really.
3. Therefore this smells like a MASSIVE promotion for the Cadbury brand at little cost, and I’m not sure what impact.
4. My other concern is with the implications of the advert. They show the ‘African child’ using the bicycle as the following:
a. An ambulance – This is pathetic and sad but true. By showcasing this, Ghana is forced to admit that there is no healthcare in rural areas, and kids with bicycles will be expected to carry ill people to far off hospitals. The unimplied but more disturbing issue is the complete lack of facilities that will be awaiting them when they arrive.
b. A water truck – Hello! What happened to the millions and millions of wells donated and dug by the hundreds of NGOs over the years? Again, Ghana admits there is no safe drinking water for miles upon miles… and a kid on a bicycle is the answer????!!!!
c. A school bus – well as Canadians, the first thing that should strike us is the complete and utter lack of safety depicted here. The video shows 4 people on one bicycle – with a toddler sitting in the front basket, completely unharnessed. Over the untarred roads of rural Ghana. I guess it’s the assumption that if you can get 4 kids to school whatever way possible, then you’ve done your part – throw safety out the window, afterall they’re only African kids who would have had to walk anyway… There is no inference in this advert that of the small percentage of rural kids who actually go to school, most can expect to spend half their time labouring on their 'teachers' farms...
So thanks Canadians for eating more chocolate, making Cadbury richer and helping Africa by asking 5000 lucky juvenile recipients to solve Africa’s massive problems with bicycles!!!
Cadbury has been under fire recently for exploitative fair trade marketing, so it’s no wonder they are aiming to boost their reputation as a caring community oriented company.
According to Toyin Agbetu, head of Education and Social policy at Ligali, “Cadbury has a long history of exploitative behavior in Ghana. It was formed in England by the Quakers in 1900 and moved to what was then called the ‘Gold Coast’ in 1907. Its rampant abuse of the system of colonial enslavement in order to extract the best quality cocoa beans made the company the huge profits it enjoys today.”
What exactly constitutes fair trade status? In Cadbury’s case, they have agreed to pay $150 per tonn of cocoa above the minimum market price.
I posted a recent advert Cadbury’s released, promoting their fair trade brand of chocolate from Ghanaian cocoa. Agbetu points out that the advert alone “is likely to have cost more to make than their ‘social premium’ (of $150 per tonn) could generate in usable revenue each year.”
Sorry Brett - I tried to get positive about this one. It's great the kids got some bikes, but if you ask me, Cadbury's got a whole lot more out of the deal. And Canadians got to feel good about splurging on chocolate. Hmmmm.
The campaign ran through the summer this year in Canada. All you had to do was buy a Caramilk or Dairy Milk or Dentyne gum etc. and send in the UPC code. For every hundred codes, Cadbury donated one bicycle, until the number reached 5 thousand.
Here’s the feel-good commercial that accompanied the campaign.
Instead of feeling inspired though, I was disturbed by the following:
1. Can we assume Canadians had an altruistic motive in participating? Come on, they only had to buy a chocolate bar. Hardly seems like selfless sacrifice…
2. Cadbury’s (the confection division of Cadbury Schweppes) revenue last year was over USD $5 Billion. I estimate the cost of this promotion for them to be about USD $225,000 or roughly twenty two thousand times less than their profits. Hardly seems like a HUGE sacrifice on their part either really.
3. Therefore this smells like a MASSIVE promotion for the Cadbury brand at little cost, and I’m not sure what impact.
4. My other concern is with the implications of the advert. They show the ‘African child’ using the bicycle as the following:
a. An ambulance – This is pathetic and sad but true. By showcasing this, Ghana is forced to admit that there is no healthcare in rural areas, and kids with bicycles will be expected to carry ill people to far off hospitals. The unimplied but more disturbing issue is the complete lack of facilities that will be awaiting them when they arrive.
b. A water truck – Hello! What happened to the millions and millions of wells donated and dug by the hundreds of NGOs over the years? Again, Ghana admits there is no safe drinking water for miles upon miles… and a kid on a bicycle is the answer????!!!!
c. A school bus – well as Canadians, the first thing that should strike us is the complete and utter lack of safety depicted here. The video shows 4 people on one bicycle – with a toddler sitting in the front basket, completely unharnessed. Over the untarred roads of rural Ghana. I guess it’s the assumption that if you can get 4 kids to school whatever way possible, then you’ve done your part – throw safety out the window, afterall they’re only African kids who would have had to walk anyway… There is no inference in this advert that of the small percentage of rural kids who actually go to school, most can expect to spend half their time labouring on their 'teachers' farms...
So thanks Canadians for eating more chocolate, making Cadbury richer and helping Africa by asking 5000 lucky juvenile recipients to solve Africa’s massive problems with bicycles!!!
Cadbury has been under fire recently for exploitative fair trade marketing, so it’s no wonder they are aiming to boost their reputation as a caring community oriented company.
According to Toyin Agbetu, head of Education and Social policy at Ligali, “Cadbury has a long history of exploitative behavior in Ghana. It was formed in England by the Quakers in 1900 and moved to what was then called the ‘Gold Coast’ in 1907. Its rampant abuse of the system of colonial enslavement in order to extract the best quality cocoa beans made the company the huge profits it enjoys today.”
What exactly constitutes fair trade status? In Cadbury’s case, they have agreed to pay $150 per tonn of cocoa above the minimum market price.
I posted a recent advert Cadbury’s released, promoting their fair trade brand of chocolate from Ghanaian cocoa. Agbetu points out that the advert alone “is likely to have cost more to make than their ‘social premium’ (of $150 per tonn) could generate in usable revenue each year.”
Sorry Brett - I tried to get positive about this one. It's great the kids got some bikes, but if you ask me, Cadbury's got a whole lot more out of the deal. And Canadians got to feel good about splurging on chocolate. Hmmmm.
Monday, November 30, 2009
Pork Show in Ghana - the swine are safe! Only foreigners have the flu...
Luckily Ghana has escaped the epidemic numbers of H1N1 cases so far. In fact most of Sub-Saharan Africa has very few cases (apart from South Africa). It’s just as well, with the lack of adequate healthcare and access to clinics, medication etc.
According to the World Health Organization, Ghana has only 18 reported cases of confirmed swine flu.
ALL of these are from the International School that my son attends. He is one of the 18.
The Ghana Health Service took the whole thing quite seriously and closed the school down for over a week. They even made it front page news!
Meanwhile behind the scenes, in our case, the GHS didn’t bother to call us nor provide Tamiflu. Luckily, my son’s case was really mild. By the time we had the results of his tests back (2 days after the test), his symptoms were gone.
Also not so sure how contagious this virus is, since the rest of us in the house didn’t get a sniffle…
But I digress.
The fact that Ghana (except for a few privileged International students) has escaped the worst of the H1N1 strain, does not mean that Ghanaians are oblivious to the global hype.
In fact, the pork farmers and the roadside sellers here know all too well how rumours can ruin an industry.
This weekend, while at a Christmas bazaar in the 35 degree heat of Accra, I happened upon THIS:
What cracked me up – besides EVERYTHING – was the way they chose to 'get the message across' – pork is safe (i.e. cool – notice the cartoon pig with black shades), in contrast with the whole dead, cooked pig, nose burnt to a charred crisp, with pineapples for eyes!!! Gotta love Ghana.
Also, I think we have a logo copyright issue – notice the sponsors listed in the lower right side of the banner…
According to the World Health Organization, Ghana has only 18 reported cases of confirmed swine flu.
ALL of these are from the International School that my son attends. He is one of the 18. The Ghana Health Service took the whole thing quite seriously and closed the school down for over a week. They even made it front page news!
Meanwhile behind the scenes, in our case, the GHS didn’t bother to call us nor provide Tamiflu. Luckily, my son’s case was really mild. By the time we had the results of his tests back (2 days after the test), his symptoms were gone.
Also not so sure how contagious this virus is, since the rest of us in the house didn’t get a sniffle…
But I digress.
The fact that Ghana (except for a few privileged International students) has escaped the worst of the H1N1 strain, does not mean that Ghanaians are oblivious to the global hype.
In fact, the pork farmers and the roadside sellers here know all too well how rumours can ruin an industry.
This weekend, while at a Christmas bazaar in the 35 degree heat of Accra, I happened upon THIS:
What cracked me up – besides EVERYTHING – was the way they chose to 'get the message across' – pork is safe (i.e. cool – notice the cartoon pig with black shades), in contrast with the whole dead, cooked pig, nose burnt to a charred crisp, with pineapples for eyes!!! Gotta love Ghana.
Also, I think we have a logo copyright issue – notice the sponsors listed in the lower right side of the banner…
Friday, November 27, 2009
Oprah Out-earns a Country: my birthday and the poverty of a continent
This morning while nursing my mini-hangover (the aftermath of Grey Goose on ice, lots of sushi, unknown quantities of red wine and Irish coffee to finish), I happened upon the bill from my birthday dinner.
It turns out that to feed a lovely crew of 12, along with our share of drinks and sweets, we spent the equivalent of 10 months salary of my gardener.
Wow, that really puts things in perspective. Filling the bellies of 12 people in one evening… added up to 10 months salary for an average Ghanaian?!
Besides feeling like a true Expat – in every spoiled sense of the word – it sparked my interested to take a look at the disparities that abound all around me.
Today I found out that the annual revenue for the entire country of Sierra Leone (one of Ghana’s close neighbors on the West African coast) is USD $96million.
Oprah Winfrey alone made over two and a half times that… OF AN ENTIRE COUNTRY!!! According to Forbes list she pulled in $275million over the same period.
Tiger Woods and Madonna also out-earned Sierra Leone, with over $100m each…
Here’s another eye opening fact. The list below is the GDP per capita (ANNUAL take home pay) of the average person in these countries:
Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$)
1. Burundi ... $90
2. Ethiopia ... $110
3. Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110
4. Liberia ... $110
5. Malawi ... $160
6. Guinea-Bissau ... $160
7. Eritrea ... $190
8. Niger ... $210
9. Sierra Leone ... $210
10. Rwanda ... $210
All of these countries are in Africa, and each figure is less than I spend at the Supermarket (in Africa!) every Saturday. People are surviving (really?!) on $200 per year?!!!
I feel a gratitude list coming on, but also a reality check.
Oprah’s 55th birthday this year (celebrated with a Mediterranean cruise for 1700 of her closest friends), cost $10m.
Equivalent to the annual income of over 100,000 Burundians.
Now I don’t feel so bad.
It turns out that to feed a lovely crew of 12, along with our share of drinks and sweets, we spent the equivalent of 10 months salary of my gardener.
Wow, that really puts things in perspective. Filling the bellies of 12 people in one evening… added up to 10 months salary for an average Ghanaian?!
Besides feeling like a true Expat – in every spoiled sense of the word – it sparked my interested to take a look at the disparities that abound all around me.
Today I found out that the annual revenue for the entire country of Sierra Leone (one of Ghana’s close neighbors on the West African coast) is USD $96million.
Oprah Winfrey alone made over two and a half times that… OF AN ENTIRE COUNTRY!!! According to Forbes list she pulled in $275million over the same period.
Tiger Woods and Madonna also out-earned Sierra Leone, with over $100m each…
Here’s another eye opening fact. The list below is the GDP per capita (ANNUAL take home pay) of the average person in these countries:
Ten Poorest Countries (based on 2004 GNP per capita in US$)
1. Burundi ... $90
2. Ethiopia ... $110
3. Democratic Republic of Congo ... $110
4. Liberia ... $110
5. Malawi ... $160
6. Guinea-Bissau ... $160
7. Eritrea ... $190
8. Niger ... $210
9. Sierra Leone ... $210
10. Rwanda ... $210
All of these countries are in Africa, and each figure is less than I spend at the Supermarket (in Africa!) every Saturday. People are surviving (really?!) on $200 per year?!!!
I feel a gratitude list coming on, but also a reality check.
Oprah’s 55th birthday this year (celebrated with a Mediterranean cruise for 1700 of her closest friends), cost $10m.
Equivalent to the annual income of over 100,000 Burundians.
Now I don’t feel so bad.
Thursday, November 26, 2009
40 begins with life...
I woke up this morning pretty much like any other. The alarm sounds, we hit snooze for 10 minutes, cherishing every last second of cuddliness before the second alarm, and then the forcing of the feet to hit the floor, stumbling crusty eyed into the washroom. Face wash, pee, brush teeth and so the day begins.
Turning 40 is kind of like New Year’s Eve. It’s supposed to be a big deal of some sort, but when it finally comes and there are no miraculous, life changing events, you just feel disappointed.
I’m not sure what I expected to happen today. I knew there’d be lots of facebook Happy Birthday messages and some face to face wishes. I knew I’d be looking forward to sushi and some great company at supper tonight, but on a deeper level I have been conditioned to believe something – bad or good – would happen.
I’ve read a bunch of things about turning 40. They include predictions that your eyesight fails, memory falters, and that you become somehow more wise. For me, halfway through day one, I believe my eyesight is still 20/20, my memory has been crap for years so no change there, and I don’t seem to have acquired a new outlook or any profound wisdom.
I have been trolling the Internet for interesting things, quotes, epiphanies on turning 40. Here’s an example of what I found:
“The first forty years of life give us the text: the next thirty supply the commentary”
“Forty is the old age of youth; fifty is the youth of old age.”
“Mental powers peak at 22 and start to deteriorate at 27” (Depressing!)
“Somebody told me the other day that "Life does Not begin at 40. Life begins when the last kid moves out and the dog dies."
(Not sure how relevant this is, but I’ve got a year and a half till the last kid moves out and the last dog we had, found a new home years ago.)
I then found a site with a woman’s list of “The 40 things every self respecting woman must have by the time she turns 40.”
Thought I’d check out how I measure up:
THE TOP 40
1.) Peace of mind (and a piece of property) – I hope a boat counts as a piece of property.
2.) A will – does it have to be updated? I wrote one when I was 27…
3.) Willpower – I hope dieting doesn’t count here, cuz if so, I’ve failed miserably and I don’t see any miracles happening this year…
4.) A savings account in your own name – Got it! Had one of those since I was 14 though…
5.) A mammogram – can I blame living in Ghana on NOT having this done? Wow – it’s my birthday and I feel guilty now… will add this to my TO DO list…
6.) A manicure (not to mention a pedicure, a facial and a massage--all on the same day) – gonna book one of those! I have an excuse now ☺
7.) A set of matching luggage – I paid an unfathomable amount for a set last year and never use them together…
8.) A ticket to some exotic place to unpack it – Grenada – no ticket yet, but the boat is waiting… so I’m ok on this one.
9.) A great hairdresser, gynecologist and stockbroker – NONE of these….
10.) A passionate, fiery, unforgettable love affair – I’ve been living one of these for the past 8 years!
11.) A little black dress that makes you look five pounds thinner – definitely need to go shopping. I’ve never had one of these. I might have had little black dresses over the years, but none made me look thinner.
12.) A sense of humor, style and purpose – Humour sometimes, style.. um…., purpose – I purposefully live toward a life of freedom, adventure and relaxation.
13.) A selfish streak – shopping must fit in here somewhere…
14.) A spiritual foundation that gets you through a very bad night without going crazy – I struggle with this one, but I know my little boy shines through for me on those brutal nights.
15.) A facial foundation that gets you through a very long day – living in Ghana this would backfire into a sweaty pool of peachy pudding on my collar!
16.) A good bra - I’ve got a few – for every type of shirt (which is no easy thing, wearing a non-standard size you can’t find in any North American store! Thank the universe for British bra sizes!)
17.) A good spa – well there is one I’ve been to in Accra, but the masseuses and pedicurists are known to cause damage at times…
18.) A library card (used often) – this must be old. I’ve got the Internet!!!
19.) A credit card (used sparingly) – Yes on both accounts. I don’t believe in debt.
20.) At least one person in your life who says: "You call, I come” – got a few of those. Lucky me!!! You know who you are – and THANKS for being there!
21.) Good body language (multilingual!) – I think I’m pretty good at this. I used to know how to flirt too, but that was long ago ☺
22.) A broken heart and the knowledge you can survive it – been there, definitely survived and came out better the other side of it.
23.) A cause celebre (domestic violence, infant mortality, save the whales--your choice) – I find myself getting worked up over gay marriage rights…does that count?
24.) A personal relationship with a higher being – I believe it’s all inside, just not always easy to find!!!
25.) A personal trainer – I wish!!! I always convince myself these are the reason Hollywood girls looks great, and I get wobblier…
26.) Selective amnesia ("What Saturday morning meeting?") – I have this without trying.
27.) Gall – Yup.
28.) A good skin-care regimen – Lux soap and water? Maybe I should be doing more?
29.) The ability to converse on any subject without benefit of concrete knowledge or access to facts – working with mostly men in the Telecomms industry has made me a pro in this area…
30.) A shocking secret – I’m sure I’ve got a few, but with my failing memory, I’ve forgotten them!
31.) A pair of silk pajamas – whoever wrote this does NOT live in the tropics. Birthday suit suits me fine.
32.) A lifetime membership in at least one organization dedicated to uplifting women – I prefer to surround myself with women who I admire.
33.) The phone number of someone who is good with their hands – I have one of these in-house!
34.) At least one drop-dead, don't-speak-to-me-because-you-know-you-don't-know-me gorgeous photo of yourself – This is why I love photoshop! What wrinkles??
35.) A friendship that has stood the test of time – if by the test of time you mean since we were 5, then yes!!!
36.) One last chance to tell the guy you were crazy about in your 20s who treated you like cigarette ashes on the floor what you were too dumb to know when he walked out with your heart in his hands: "Thank you, thank you, thank you." – I’ve done this and man it felt good.
37.) A soul mate – when I was 32 I found mine and never looked back.
38.) Faith, hope and a good fantasy – these are always within reach.
39.) A dream – definitely have one of those!
40.) A plan to make it come true – Grenada, Shiloh, we’re coming!!!
So, as I make my way through day one of the rest of my ‘over 40’ life, I reflect on the things I’ve done, those I’ve chosen not to do, and how I have faced the life that’s come my way.
I’m happy and that has to count for a lot.
I don’t feel so bad on this supposed milestone day. Afterall, most people I went to school with (not surprisingly) turned 40 this year, and they still seem normal! They are surviving, thriving and getting on with life.
Even famous people turn 40 this year – ones we still find hot like Gerard Butler and Jennifer Aniston.
I think life is about taking what’s thrown at you and sifting through it. Taking the things that you like and throwing back the rose creams… I’m hoping that each year I get better at doing that.
It’s also about standing up, standing out, asserting yourself for yourself and no one else. Whether you want to be rich and famous or a good knitter, or something in between…
Life is the journey and the journey is all we have.
Monday, November 23, 2009
'Tis the season - Ghana supermarket style
When I moved to Ghana all those years ago, I had to leave behind all my Western consumerist obsessions – Diet Coke, Kraft Dinner, chocolate bars - even boxed breakfast cereals for my little boy were things of another world. Firstly, they weren’t available. Second, even if they were, on our volunteer ‘stipend’ we wouldn’t have been able to afford them.
But there were always days when, buried in the blur of culture shock, we all longed for a ‘taste of home’. There was a small Lebanese grocery store called Kwatsons that we'd visit, at the top of the Osu main strip, just admiring all the expensive imported foods. And once in a blue moon I’d buy a little block of cheese, or some real butter (as opposed to the cheap and readily available, non-refrigerated mystery bread fat), a jar of jam and a fresh baguette bread.
Kwatsons became Koala over the years, though I assume it’s the same family who owns it. They’ve grown and expanded and today you can pretty much buy anything you might want. And these days I don’t have to look longingly, I just get on with the grocery shopping.
Accra has a big mall now, up the other end of town, through throngs of traffic… but I still prefer the family run Koala. They really try. Last December, in the blazing heat, they set up a fake snow machine outside the door, so when you were at the check outs looking out, it appeared as a blistery winter’s day in Canada. (Now THAT’s trying). They acknowledge each holiday – from Easter to Eid and of course Christmas.
It could be said that they are just capitalizing on the season. That there’s no authenticity, no heart. That maybe the staff who string these things up have no clue of the cultural significance…
I was in Koala on the weekend, and noticed they’d put up a Christmas tree this year!
I just had to take a photo and share. Here it is (and no, I did not stand on my head to take the picture):
But there were always days when, buried in the blur of culture shock, we all longed for a ‘taste of home’. There was a small Lebanese grocery store called Kwatsons that we'd visit, at the top of the Osu main strip, just admiring all the expensive imported foods. And once in a blue moon I’d buy a little block of cheese, or some real butter (as opposed to the cheap and readily available, non-refrigerated mystery bread fat), a jar of jam and a fresh baguette bread.
Kwatsons became Koala over the years, though I assume it’s the same family who owns it. They’ve grown and expanded and today you can pretty much buy anything you might want. And these days I don’t have to look longingly, I just get on with the grocery shopping.
Accra has a big mall now, up the other end of town, through throngs of traffic… but I still prefer the family run Koala. They really try. Last December, in the blazing heat, they set up a fake snow machine outside the door, so when you were at the check outs looking out, it appeared as a blistery winter’s day in Canada. (Now THAT’s trying). They acknowledge each holiday – from Easter to Eid and of course Christmas.
It could be said that they are just capitalizing on the season. That there’s no authenticity, no heart. That maybe the staff who string these things up have no clue of the cultural significance…
I was in Koala on the weekend, and noticed they’d put up a Christmas tree this year!
I just had to take a photo and share. Here it is (and no, I did not stand on my head to take the picture):
Saturday, November 21, 2009
Toilet Politics, Oil and the Malibu Mansion
I was going to write the other day, on World Toilet Day – which was on Thursday. Not because I wanted to highlight the sad reality that a vast number of people on the continent where I live have no access to proper sanitation, including toilets…
I was going to write on that day because I heard, on the same BBC radio broadcast, another story about yet another massively rich, corrupt African stashing his billions abroad.
In other news, yesterday I heard the flabbergasting news that the EU is donating $1 BILLION to Nigeria, to help with corruption…
HUH? To help WITH corruption. Why does stuff like this still surprise me?
Right. A bit of background…
In the first story, our reluctant hero is Mr. TN Obiang, the Minister of Forestry and Agric. (and the son of the President) of Equatorial Guinea.
His country is the third richest in oil in Africa, just below Angola and Nigeria. There is a tiny population of half a million people. In 2007, the government sold USD$4.3 Billion in oil. Yet 90% of the 500,000 inhabitants live on less than a dollar a day.
This leaves quite a few billion for the government guys…
The news story goes on to explain that Mr. Obiang travels freely between his little country and the USA, to his Malibu Mansion, commonly carrying millions in cash each time he enters the states(normally punishable by a 5 year prison term), despite supposed laws in the states that deny entry to corrupt foreign officials. He keeps quite a few millions in bank accounts in America as well.
These laws are enforced, when it comes to guys like Mugabe – Zimbabwe’s tyrannical despot.
Why the double standard then?
Oil. And America’s interest in it.
Which brings us to the second story. The EU working with the Nigerian government, globally renowned for corruption, by offering them USD$1 Billion to assist…
Other African countries are up-in-arms about the choice of this massive donation to the richest oil country in Africa, eighth richest oil country in the world.
But that is the point really.
Oil. And the EU’s interest in it.
In the BBC story, the reporter asked so many of the questions I was squirming in my seat, itching to ask.
“Why Nigeria? With it’s vast oil reserves and billions in annual income from oil?”
“With the Nigerian government’s dismal track record for corruption, surely the EU is somewhat concerned that the funds will not be used as per their intended aim?”
etc. etc. etc.
The answers from the EU press officer were wishy-washy, non-committal. No surprise.
What makes my blood boil is that the bleeding heart Americans and Europeans don’t put all these facts together.
NGO’s grow and collaborate and fundraise, and promote guilt and scrape like finger nails on the thin raw skin of western conscience, to help, help, help! These helpless Africans.
Meanwhile the Western governments condone, concede, support and feed into the corruption.
When Mr. Obiang is welcomed at LAX, whisked over to his Malibu mansion in the stretch limo, darkened windows, cool aircon and refreshments in the back seat, there is a directly proportionate mass of slum dwellers back home, robbed of the basics of sanitation, housing, education, clean water, electricity. Babies are born and die the next day in a pool of their mother’s blood where the midwife couldn’t save their lives in the corrugated iron shack amid the thousands in a shanty.
I read further that despite his official salary of $6000 per month, he bought his mansion for $26million cash. Plus three Bugatti Veyron sports cars at £1.2million each.
The proceeds from just one of these cars would have bought enough mosquito nets for every child in his country, where malaria is the number one childkiller.
So the next time a campaign to end poverty in Africa comes my way, I’ll give them the address of T N Obiang in Malibu. I doubt he’s given yet.
I was going to write on that day because I heard, on the same BBC radio broadcast, another story about yet another massively rich, corrupt African stashing his billions abroad.
In other news, yesterday I heard the flabbergasting news that the EU is donating $1 BILLION to Nigeria, to help with corruption…
HUH? To help WITH corruption. Why does stuff like this still surprise me?
Right. A bit of background…
In the first story, our reluctant hero is Mr. TN Obiang, the Minister of Forestry and Agric. (and the son of the President) of Equatorial Guinea.
His country is the third richest in oil in Africa, just below Angola and Nigeria. There is a tiny population of half a million people. In 2007, the government sold USD$4.3 Billion in oil. Yet 90% of the 500,000 inhabitants live on less than a dollar a day.
This leaves quite a few billion for the government guys…
The news story goes on to explain that Mr. Obiang travels freely between his little country and the USA, to his Malibu Mansion, commonly carrying millions in cash each time he enters the states(normally punishable by a 5 year prison term), despite supposed laws in the states that deny entry to corrupt foreign officials. He keeps quite a few millions in bank accounts in America as well.
These laws are enforced, when it comes to guys like Mugabe – Zimbabwe’s tyrannical despot.
Why the double standard then?
Oil. And America’s interest in it.
Which brings us to the second story. The EU working with the Nigerian government, globally renowned for corruption, by offering them USD$1 Billion to assist…
Other African countries are up-in-arms about the choice of this massive donation to the richest oil country in Africa, eighth richest oil country in the world.
But that is the point really.
Oil. And the EU’s interest in it.
In the BBC story, the reporter asked so many of the questions I was squirming in my seat, itching to ask.
“Why Nigeria? With it’s vast oil reserves and billions in annual income from oil?”
“With the Nigerian government’s dismal track record for corruption, surely the EU is somewhat concerned that the funds will not be used as per their intended aim?”
etc. etc. etc.
The answers from the EU press officer were wishy-washy, non-committal. No surprise.
What makes my blood boil is that the bleeding heart Americans and Europeans don’t put all these facts together.
NGO’s grow and collaborate and fundraise, and promote guilt and scrape like finger nails on the thin raw skin of western conscience, to help, help, help! These helpless Africans.Meanwhile the Western governments condone, concede, support and feed into the corruption.
When Mr. Obiang is welcomed at LAX, whisked over to his Malibu mansion in the stretch limo, darkened windows, cool aircon and refreshments in the back seat, there is a directly proportionate mass of slum dwellers back home, robbed of the basics of sanitation, housing, education, clean water, electricity. Babies are born and die the next day in a pool of their mother’s blood where the midwife couldn’t save their lives in the corrugated iron shack amid the thousands in a shanty.
I read further that despite his official salary of $6000 per month, he bought his mansion for $26million cash. Plus three Bugatti Veyron sports cars at £1.2million each.
The proceeds from just one of these cars would have bought enough mosquito nets for every child in his country, where malaria is the number one childkiller.
So the next time a campaign to end poverty in Africa comes my way, I’ll give them the address of T N Obiang in Malibu. I doubt he’s given yet.
Sunday, November 15, 2009
Death to Uncle Ben!
I make a mean chili (con carne). It’s true (ok, people tell me it’s true so I choose to believe them). And the amazing thing about this fact is that it’s one of the only things I can cook. Well. My culinary skills are quite limited. You’re about to find out just how limited…
So it’s a lazy Sunday, the diet starts tomorrow (as usual), and I peel myself off the couch, inspired out of nowhere (but for the looming supper hour approaching), to make some chili. (I am usually off the hook for this task, as we have a cook who comes from Monday to Friday... I know, I know... spoiled).
I was humming away to myself in my sauna-cum-kitchen (in the house we inhabit, which used to be the Libyan Embassy of Accra – no joke! Irrelevant to this story but interesting and random).
I was actually feeling quite happy with myself, since I’d remembered to pick up chili powder in Houston last week. Chili powder cannot be bought in Ghana. Here, chili powder is exactly what it says it is – fire hot peppers, dried and ground into powder. I found this out the hard way once in my earlier years in Ghana, while making one of my ‘killer chilis’. I near killed a couple of guests…
But I digress. So there I was this fine evening, cutting and sautéing and humming, (this is a rare thing in my life), when Q walks in with that inevitable teenager question,
“What’s for supper?”
Me, proudly, “Chili!”
Q - “With rice?”
Me – “No, why?”
Q – “Well chili’s not chili without rice!”
So there it was. All my cooking ineptitude quivering, hanging, about to spill out, on this statement.
I cannot cook rice. There, I’ve said it.
I haven’t tried many times, but when I have it’s always been a disaster. Think rice pudding with lots of salt. Hmmm.
It’s not entirely my fault though. I grew up on the hideous fast-food-inspired Uncle Ben’s Instant rice. WHAT IS THAT STUFF?! I always hated rice as a result. Uncle Ben is creepy in general - who owns that company? Somehow I doubt it was Uncle Ben himself. Between he and Aunt Jemima, lots of racial stereotypes have stood the test of time... but apparently in unrelated news, Uncle Ben has a new image! He is now a CEO executive type, traveling the world...
Shit, where was I?
When I moved to Africa, I met a continent that is obsessed with rice. Carbs in general, but rice specifically.
I have a colleague from Mali who declared at lunch one day, “Without rice, there is no life. There is no life without rice.”
So, I tried rice in Africa, all over Africa, and it is great. Cooked so many ways, but always delicious. The texture, the taste. Who knew? Then I discovered all this rice is imported from Thailand, or thereabouts… When I had the misfortune of tasting local Ghanaian rice, I understood why everyone imported rice. Come on Africa! Come on Ghana! The climate is perfect – grow your own rice commercially!... sigh, one day…
But we are here to expose my pathetic ineptitude for making rice. And there we stood, my son and I in the steamy kitchen… and we made a decision.
An hour later, my humble gardener returned from his ‘quarters’ with the remaining dry rice and a tub of salt in one hand, a full, steamy pot of perfectly cooked rice in the other.
Yes, I asked my gardener to make rice for me. I know how pathetic this sounds. Having a gardener, who lives on-hand, available for my demented whims…
The fact that I laughed at myself nervously to him, offered him a bag of uncooked rice and some beers from our fridge as well as a small ‘overtime pay’ does not make up for it, I’m sure…
I think I’ve sunk to an unprecedented low.
I can imagine he and his new lady friend in their room…
Eric: “Please, we have to make a pot of rice for Madam”
Lady friend, “What? Rice for your madam, why? She cannot make rice?” Lady friend thinking, WHAT WOMAN CANNOT MAKE RICE?!
Eric and lady friend thinking, AH, THESE STRANGE, DEPENDENT OBRUNIS (whites), WE’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND THEM…
The truth is that if we take a look across cultures, and then back at ourselves, a lot is revealed about strange practices and habits we find normal. But sadly, in this instance, I cannot even blame cultural differences. I am just a spazz – cross culturally, who can’t make a pot of rice to save her life.
PS – the chili AND the rice were delicious! The diet starts tomorrow…
So it’s a lazy Sunday, the diet starts tomorrow (as usual), and I peel myself off the couch, inspired out of nowhere (but for the looming supper hour approaching), to make some chili. (I am usually off the hook for this task, as we have a cook who comes from Monday to Friday... I know, I know... spoiled).
I was humming away to myself in my sauna-cum-kitchen (in the house we inhabit, which used to be the Libyan Embassy of Accra – no joke! Irrelevant to this story but interesting and random).
I was actually feeling quite happy with myself, since I’d remembered to pick up chili powder in Houston last week. Chili powder cannot be bought in Ghana. Here, chili powder is exactly what it says it is – fire hot peppers, dried and ground into powder. I found this out the hard way once in my earlier years in Ghana, while making one of my ‘killer chilis’. I near killed a couple of guests…
But I digress. So there I was this fine evening, cutting and sautéing and humming, (this is a rare thing in my life), when Q walks in with that inevitable teenager question,
“What’s for supper?”
Me, proudly, “Chili!”
Q - “With rice?”
Me – “No, why?”
Q – “Well chili’s not chili without rice!”
So there it was. All my cooking ineptitude quivering, hanging, about to spill out, on this statement.
I cannot cook rice. There, I’ve said it.
I haven’t tried many times, but when I have it’s always been a disaster. Think rice pudding with lots of salt. Hmmm.
It’s not entirely my fault though. I grew up on the hideous fast-food-inspired Uncle Ben’s Instant rice. WHAT IS THAT STUFF?! I always hated rice as a result. Uncle Ben is creepy in general - who owns that company? Somehow I doubt it was Uncle Ben himself. Between he and Aunt Jemima, lots of racial stereotypes have stood the test of time... but apparently in unrelated news, Uncle Ben has a new image! He is now a CEO executive type, traveling the world...
Shit, where was I?
When I moved to Africa, I met a continent that is obsessed with rice. Carbs in general, but rice specifically.
I have a colleague from Mali who declared at lunch one day, “Without rice, there is no life. There is no life without rice.”
So, I tried rice in Africa, all over Africa, and it is great. Cooked so many ways, but always delicious. The texture, the taste. Who knew? Then I discovered all this rice is imported from Thailand, or thereabouts… When I had the misfortune of tasting local Ghanaian rice, I understood why everyone imported rice. Come on Africa! Come on Ghana! The climate is perfect – grow your own rice commercially!... sigh, one day…
But we are here to expose my pathetic ineptitude for making rice. And there we stood, my son and I in the steamy kitchen… and we made a decision.
An hour later, my humble gardener returned from his ‘quarters’ with the remaining dry rice and a tub of salt in one hand, a full, steamy pot of perfectly cooked rice in the other.
Yes, I asked my gardener to make rice for me. I know how pathetic this sounds. Having a gardener, who lives on-hand, available for my demented whims…
The fact that I laughed at myself nervously to him, offered him a bag of uncooked rice and some beers from our fridge as well as a small ‘overtime pay’ does not make up for it, I’m sure…
I think I’ve sunk to an unprecedented low.
I can imagine he and his new lady friend in their room…
Eric: “Please, we have to make a pot of rice for Madam”
Lady friend, “What? Rice for your madam, why? She cannot make rice?” Lady friend thinking, WHAT WOMAN CANNOT MAKE RICE?!
Eric and lady friend thinking, AH, THESE STRANGE, DEPENDENT OBRUNIS (whites), WE’LL NEVER UNDERSTAND THEM…
The truth is that if we take a look across cultures, and then back at ourselves, a lot is revealed about strange practices and habits we find normal. But sadly, in this instance, I cannot even blame cultural differences. I am just a spazz – cross culturally, who can’t make a pot of rice to save her life.
PS – the chili AND the rice were delicious! The diet starts tomorrow…
Thursday, November 12, 2009
Walk in - Roll Out. Houston hosts Holli
I landed in Houston for the second time in my life. The weather was gorgeous. Nothing else was…
I witnessed mile after strip mall infested mile to the hotel, to town, to the airport, and in between, I witnessed these:
- FLAT. F. L. A. T. - A speed bump might be considered a mountain in Houston.
- Christmas pics with pets… I’m not kidding. Dogs and cats are food in parts of the country where I live…
- Beautiful green precision cut lawns. New, just poured? sidewalks everywhere, and not a pedestrian in sight.
- In fact, on my solemn walk, I found out the hard way that not only are pedestrians NOT given the right of way, they are not given ANY way! There were NO pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights!
- I was confused with a Mexican (no doubt) as I WALKED (OMG, unheard of) – as young Mexicanos in pimped up cars slowed down, base thumping, to chat me up in Spanish… are you serious?
- Jack in the box
- Did I mention strip malls?
- Chili’s
- Nail salons (in strip malls)
- McDonald’s – no seriously. Every 2 blocks. In between the Jack in the Boxes…
- Drive-thru Pharmacies.
- Baby back ribs – like the kind on the Flintstones - massive. YUM!
- Bumpits – for big Texas hair – as seen on TV. This is SOOO Texas stereotype! C’mon people, we need to work at breaking these down, not fulfilling them to the letter… sigh.
- Muslim American military doctor goes postal… kills 13? He’d just been promoted and was headed to Afganistan to help Muslim Americans with their conflicting feelings… This was big news during my 3 day stay. Only in America.
- Restaurant motto on massive sign board – “Walk in – Roll out”
- Sheriff/police eat free policy at all conferences, including ours – Offshore Communications… and they did! Just waddled in, sat down at sponsored event lunches, (at reserved tables), and then waddled out. Wow. Wonder if this is listed in the perks of the job?
- Street names: Beauregard, Rip Van Winkle, Mossycup, Overcup, Broken Bough, Broken Arrow…
You gotta love Houston… or not. In my case, I think there will be no love lost from either side if I don’t make it back…
What I gained from the experience? 3 pounds.
I witnessed mile after strip mall infested mile to the hotel, to town, to the airport, and in between, I witnessed these:
- FLAT. F. L. A. T. - A speed bump might be considered a mountain in Houston.
- Christmas pics with pets… I’m not kidding. Dogs and cats are food in parts of the country where I live…
- Beautiful green precision cut lawns. New, just poured? sidewalks everywhere, and not a pedestrian in sight.
- In fact, on my solemn walk, I found out the hard way that not only are pedestrians NOT given the right of way, they are not given ANY way! There were NO pedestrian crossings at the traffic lights!
- I was confused with a Mexican (no doubt) as I WALKED (OMG, unheard of) – as young Mexicanos in pimped up cars slowed down, base thumping, to chat me up in Spanish… are you serious?
- Jack in the box
- Did I mention strip malls?
- Chili’s
- Nail salons (in strip malls)
- McDonald’s – no seriously. Every 2 blocks. In between the Jack in the Boxes…
- Drive-thru Pharmacies.
- Baby back ribs – like the kind on the Flintstones - massive. YUM!
- Bumpits – for big Texas hair – as seen on TV. This is SOOO Texas stereotype! C’mon people, we need to work at breaking these down, not fulfilling them to the letter… sigh.
- Muslim American military doctor goes postal… kills 13? He’d just been promoted and was headed to Afganistan to help Muslim Americans with their conflicting feelings… This was big news during my 3 day stay. Only in America.
- Restaurant motto on massive sign board – “Walk in – Roll out”
- Sheriff/police eat free policy at all conferences, including ours – Offshore Communications… and they did! Just waddled in, sat down at sponsored event lunches, (at reserved tables), and then waddled out. Wow. Wonder if this is listed in the perks of the job?
- Street names: Beauregard, Rip Van Winkle, Mossycup, Overcup, Broken Bough, Broken Arrow…
You gotta love Houston… or not. In my case, I think there will be no love lost from either side if I don’t make it back…
What I gained from the experience? 3 pounds.
Monday, November 2, 2009
The Modern Mission
In a random European Airport, under the harsh lights, at some ungodly hour, somewhere between the comfort of home and the great unknown, a group are huddled together for reassurance, uniform in cotton t-shirts, with big eyes and sturdy backpacks from Bass Pro Shops. Eager beavers, goats before the slaughter. Their thick backs bear the inscription ‘Malawi 2009’. Their armour is weak for the journey they have yet to begin.
Characteristically pudgy and pale, stodgy raw sausage ankles push out from under sensible cotton trousers and long modest skirts, stuffed into Dr. Scholls and Tevas for comfort. Their packs, like them, are stuffed, taut. Unscented sunblock, mosquito spray and bed nets; and ‘little gifts for the children’- and Dairy Milk fruit and nut bars for themselves. For strength.
They are jovial, yet a tangible nervous energy hangs over them like animals devoid of instinct, when the forest around them knows there is danger ahead. They have no idea. They decide to sing.
They hover, docile and domesticated around their guide. He is confident and all-knowing. He has actually BEEN TO AFRICA before, and he will lead this unprepared motley crew into the wild. His cheeks are a deeper red than the others, his enthusiasm rehearsed. He knows what lies ahead, but has pledged himself to a make believe cause…
The bland mass are willing but not able, well-meaning but insincere, sheltered and softened by processed foods and years of inactivity. They have emerged from the warm dark cave where they’ve been nurtured on clean running water and Starbucks, electricity and mod-cons, the frivolity of Hallmark love and television emotions.
There is not a muscle in sight. The sinews of these creatures have never strained. Never pulsed against the enemy that awaits.
Poverty the rat will mock them and eat it’s children with wanton fangs, and these soft bellied creatures will weep and mourn and look up to the Hosanna they’ve had inscribed on their XL tees. Cheek flesh will tremble, hot tears will well up and spill uselessly on the dry crusted surface of the African slum.
And the naïve smiles painted on their blank faces will be replaced. Temporarily smudged.
They will return a few weeks or months later, believing they’ve been changed forever. Licking their wounds they will retreat. They will cling limply to the belief that something has changed. That their mission has had a higher purpose…
They will remember the bright saucer eyes in the tiny brown faces atop spindly limbs, and believe there was connection, love, hope… while countless faceless rats scurry underfoot.
When our group are back in their warm caves, baking Pilsbury chocolate chip cookies, the trip to the wild will slip into a pocket of memory, a conversation for tea. A flash reflection before excess and indulgence overcome them once again. Swallowed by mountains and mountains of things.
Saturday, October 31, 2009
Crushed
I'm still new to blog-love in the formal sense, so I was astonished to find out someone's got a 'blog-crush' on me! *blushes*, looks down, sweeps ground with toes...sways from side to side coquettishly (is that a word?)...
Well i have to say, it's mutual, I just didn't know how to show it - there's so much to learn!
Thank you wholeheartedly to Julochka, mother of the wonder-blog, Moments of perfect clarity - an outlet for madness with occasional flashes of insight. I've been visiting and thoroughly enjoying this blog for a while now... sort ot stalking from the sidelines and now it's all out in the open! J wrote a lovely tribute type post about Holli's Ramblings today. I'm trying not to let it go to my head, but it just might... (reminds self: "Holli, remember crushes pass, don't be broken hearted" later) :)
She also posted a wonderful photo of a globe with a beautiful Africa as the focal point - it's gorgeous and I'm posting it here (all rights reserved or something, photo belongs to Julochka - hopefully she will still like me and not have me arrested for using the image without permission)
Interestingly, Julochka and others who fearlessly go where others have not gone before - have pioneered new terms, which I've discovered, have not even made it into the world famous urban dictionary (let alone Websters)!!! The terms 'blog crush' and 'blog love' are all new and innovative people! We are molding and editing language to follow the trends of our time! Aren't you excited?!
I'm starting to feel part of something bigger than all of us as individuals. Thanks again... Oh, and Happy Halloween!
Well i have to say, it's mutual, I just didn't know how to show it - there's so much to learn!
Thank you wholeheartedly to Julochka, mother of the wonder-blog, Moments of perfect clarity - an outlet for madness with occasional flashes of insight. I've been visiting and thoroughly enjoying this blog for a while now... sort ot stalking from the sidelines and now it's all out in the open! J wrote a lovely tribute type post about Holli's Ramblings today. I'm trying not to let it go to my head, but it just might... (reminds self: "Holli, remember crushes pass, don't be broken hearted" later) :)
She also posted a wonderful photo of a globe with a beautiful Africa as the focal point - it's gorgeous and I'm posting it here (all rights reserved or something, photo belongs to Julochka - hopefully she will still like me and not have me arrested for using the image without permission)
Interestingly, Julochka and others who fearlessly go where others have not gone before - have pioneered new terms, which I've discovered, have not even made it into the world famous urban dictionary (let alone Websters)!!! The terms 'blog crush' and 'blog love' are all new and innovative people! We are molding and editing language to follow the trends of our time! Aren't you excited?!
I'm starting to feel part of something bigger than all of us as individuals. Thanks again... Oh, and Happy Halloween!
Friday, October 30, 2009
Friday Funnies from Natalie and Toothpaste
I discovered the hilarious comic genius of Natalie Dee a while ago and borrowed some of her bits here and here and here.
Her hubby is equally funny - his site is called Toothpaste for Dinner.
Here's a few of their recent comics that made me smile, and after all, TGIF! Smile with me :)
You have to love this, with all these new TV shows telling us how to 'dress for your body type'... as if we're all various fruits!
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Her hubby is equally funny - his site is called Toothpaste for Dinner.
Here's a few of their recent comics that made me smile, and after all, TGIF! Smile with me :)
You have to love this, with all these new TV shows telling us how to 'dress for your body type'... as if we're all various fruits!
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Tuesday, October 27, 2009
Girl in the box
Last time I was back in Canada visiting the family I found a box of my old life. It had hundreds of dusty and molding papers, photos, clippings, print outs, and mostly poems I had written.
I decided they would be worth keeping, if only for the humour and nostalgia in going over the thoughts and offerings of the teenage dreamer I was.
The plan has been to scan the lot, and then send the paper piles back for a boxed existence in my mother’s basement on some back shelf.
Last night I dragged out the various envelopes within, and sifted through. Most of the poems I found there were naïve and badly composed. They try too hard, with long adjectives and disjointed concepts. Who was that girl? I find it amazing that she lived in my frame, looked in the mirror and saw the young me.
So much has changed and I have forgotten how she felt. All that is left is the paper trail of her untidy emotions.
And then I found the following. It is dated April 22nd, 1994. I was 24 years old and Q was just over 1 year. We were living in an old row house in Toronto. The back window looked out over rusted train tracks and beyond that, lake Ontario.
The highrises around us were overflowing with the city’s poorest and most marginalized. We dodged used needles and condoms that littered the sidewalks on our daily outtings. I remember having at first thought the neighborhood was vibrant and gritty, when we had opted to move out here, for cheaper rent but still within walking distance to work.
We had recently lost our restaurant, investors had backed out right as the place was establishing itself as a fixture in the area. It was a few blocks over in the ‘trendy’ neighborhood of Queen West, and Q’s father, (my ex-locker partner and high school sweetheart) was on a slippery path to self destruction. It was the reason the business had fallen apart. Too much too young? Addiction: lies, behaviour changes followed.
This particular day, he gathered our comforter from the bed and carried it with purpose to the living room with it’s big bay window. Q and I watched him with curiousity, and I with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He hoisted himself up on a chair, and stretched from his tippy toes to nail the heavy blanket across the top of the window frame.
The smashing noise from the hammer was deafening and Q looked up at me, uneasy. I scooped him up and whisked him off to the other room to play. Then M walked by us. The light in the hallway had disappeared, shrouded in thick cloth.
M: “That old lady from next door! She keeps watching us! Well, I’ll show her…”
me: “What are you talking about?!”
Door slam. He was gone for the afternoon. I could only guess where, and did not want to take that mental journey. I lied down beside Q and his stuffed animals and sang softly, running my hands gently through his loose black curls, until he drifted off to sleep. Then I got up and decided to write, to put things in perspective and keep myself sane:
“His face was broad, the skin creamy and smooth and tight. This carefully beautiful face, created as if to make a mother question the sarcastic overtones of a ‘concept of God’.
Oh, he was no ordinary soul. A mother was sure. Why, one only had to ponder the enormous circumference of his eyes. Not uncommon was it to be stopped several times during the daily walks, with comments of praise and astonishment at the wonder of his gaze.
A mother again had to question her accomplishment. For even then she knew it was a twosome till death-do-us-part. Mother and child. Somehow she's known this while he played within her. Mompati - 'my companion', the name she'd given him after all the others on his birth papers.
And she felt comfort in that shred of stability, as everything else slowly fogged over around her.”
I decided they would be worth keeping, if only for the humour and nostalgia in going over the thoughts and offerings of the teenage dreamer I was.
The plan has been to scan the lot, and then send the paper piles back for a boxed existence in my mother’s basement on some back shelf.
Last night I dragged out the various envelopes within, and sifted through. Most of the poems I found there were naïve and badly composed. They try too hard, with long adjectives and disjointed concepts. Who was that girl? I find it amazing that she lived in my frame, looked in the mirror and saw the young me.
So much has changed and I have forgotten how she felt. All that is left is the paper trail of her untidy emotions.
And then I found the following. It is dated April 22nd, 1994. I was 24 years old and Q was just over 1 year. We were living in an old row house in Toronto. The back window looked out over rusted train tracks and beyond that, lake Ontario.
The highrises around us were overflowing with the city’s poorest and most marginalized. We dodged used needles and condoms that littered the sidewalks on our daily outtings. I remember having at first thought the neighborhood was vibrant and gritty, when we had opted to move out here, for cheaper rent but still within walking distance to work.
We had recently lost our restaurant, investors had backed out right as the place was establishing itself as a fixture in the area. It was a few blocks over in the ‘trendy’ neighborhood of Queen West, and Q’s father, (my ex-locker partner and high school sweetheart) was on a slippery path to self destruction. It was the reason the business had fallen apart. Too much too young? Addiction: lies, behaviour changes followed.
This particular day, he gathered our comforter from the bed and carried it with purpose to the living room with it’s big bay window. Q and I watched him with curiousity, and I with a sinking feeling in my stomach. He hoisted himself up on a chair, and stretched from his tippy toes to nail the heavy blanket across the top of the window frame.
The smashing noise from the hammer was deafening and Q looked up at me, uneasy. I scooped him up and whisked him off to the other room to play. Then M walked by us. The light in the hallway had disappeared, shrouded in thick cloth.
M: “That old lady from next door! She keeps watching us! Well, I’ll show her…”
me: “What are you talking about?!”
Door slam. He was gone for the afternoon. I could only guess where, and did not want to take that mental journey. I lied down beside Q and his stuffed animals and sang softly, running my hands gently through his loose black curls, until he drifted off to sleep. Then I got up and decided to write, to put things in perspective and keep myself sane:
“His face was broad, the skin creamy and smooth and tight. This carefully beautiful face, created as if to make a mother question the sarcastic overtones of a ‘concept of God’.
Oh, he was no ordinary soul. A mother was sure. Why, one only had to ponder the enormous circumference of his eyes. Not uncommon was it to be stopped several times during the daily walks, with comments of praise and astonishment at the wonder of his gaze.A mother again had to question her accomplishment. For even then she knew it was a twosome till death-do-us-part. Mother and child. Somehow she's known this while he played within her. Mompati - 'my companion', the name she'd given him after all the others on his birth papers.
And she felt comfort in that shred of stability, as everything else slowly fogged over around her.”
Monday, October 26, 2009
When Ordinary Art is Extraordinary
I’ve been on a cyber journey for the past two months – seeking out interesting and exciting blogs to populate my link list and to inspire me in writing.
I looked to ‘writing’ focused blogs and found a lot of highly motivated American mom/writers who get up every day and fold the laundry, pack the kids lunches, and find the ‘me’ time somewhere to work on their books. They talk of WIPs and ‘Me Time Thursdays’ and I feel small and excluded like junior high at recess…
I looked into funny blogs – the witty ones who’s authors think of all the cute titles for their followers and have one liners to fit all life’s day to day drone. They leave me feeling amateur and ill-equipped to comment. They are outside the world of the PC moms, a world I like but am afraid to join.
I stumbled upon racial focused blogs and made my small comments amidst those filled with angst and resentment.
I even went over to the development bloggers – those who represent a past in me that I have yet to analyse and deconstruct. Hence I am skeptical and dismissive yet still drawn to their experiences and perspective. Yet there too I am an outsider. I loathe projects and funding and all the industry entails.
I am an expat now – and looked to this group as well. The expat bloggers. I joined some sites, linked some great blogs. It is here I relate best to what is written, to the experiences and outlook.
In my search I have found some great people, sites, inspiration.
But I have been false in my intentions and I have been led astray. By the desire to fit somewhere, to get a blog award with a pretty tea cup on the picture and post it proudly on my blog, from an appreciative ‘blogger friend’. It is addictive this linking and commenting and creating of a network.
But it is not why I started to blog. It has nothing to do with the powerful gut deep desire to express, to write, to create. To share genuinely what I have to share.
And that is why today’s post is a dedication. To a blogger I randomly found, who has truly inspired me and made me regret my hours making small comments around the blogosphere.
This is a woman in a small corner of the web, in a small town somewhere, who has not been blessed with a perfect life or millions of friends and followers. But she is a true writer. She is the essence of the word. She is a great, a classic, undiscovered.
I feel like I’ve been busking and found the hidden diamond. I am torn between sharing and not. But it is not for me to hold her writing to my heart alone. After all, art is like life and should be shared, opened up and appreciated.
Her name is Kelly and the site is humbly called Ordinary Art.
Please read and digest the beauty and talent you find there. Real self-giving words that grace the page in a way I can only dream of. Share the link to this site. Send her a blog award. Or not. But she deserves recognition and a broader audience and I felt compelled today to do my little part.
Kelly – thank you for genuine inspiration and a glimpse of your beautiful soul.
I looked to ‘writing’ focused blogs and found a lot of highly motivated American mom/writers who get up every day and fold the laundry, pack the kids lunches, and find the ‘me’ time somewhere to work on their books. They talk of WIPs and ‘Me Time Thursdays’ and I feel small and excluded like junior high at recess…
I looked into funny blogs – the witty ones who’s authors think of all the cute titles for their followers and have one liners to fit all life’s day to day drone. They leave me feeling amateur and ill-equipped to comment. They are outside the world of the PC moms, a world I like but am afraid to join.
I stumbled upon racial focused blogs and made my small comments amidst those filled with angst and resentment.
I even went over to the development bloggers – those who represent a past in me that I have yet to analyse and deconstruct. Hence I am skeptical and dismissive yet still drawn to their experiences and perspective. Yet there too I am an outsider. I loathe projects and funding and all the industry entails.
I am an expat now – and looked to this group as well. The expat bloggers. I joined some sites, linked some great blogs. It is here I relate best to what is written, to the experiences and outlook.
In my search I have found some great people, sites, inspiration.
But I have been false in my intentions and I have been led astray. By the desire to fit somewhere, to get a blog award with a pretty tea cup on the picture and post it proudly on my blog, from an appreciative ‘blogger friend’. It is addictive this linking and commenting and creating of a network.
But it is not why I started to blog. It has nothing to do with the powerful gut deep desire to express, to write, to create. To share genuinely what I have to share.
And that is why today’s post is a dedication. To a blogger I randomly found, who has truly inspired me and made me regret my hours making small comments around the blogosphere.
This is a woman in a small corner of the web, in a small town somewhere, who has not been blessed with a perfect life or millions of friends and followers. But she is a true writer. She is the essence of the word. She is a great, a classic, undiscovered.
I feel like I’ve been busking and found the hidden diamond. I am torn between sharing and not. But it is not for me to hold her writing to my heart alone. After all, art is like life and should be shared, opened up and appreciated.
Her name is Kelly and the site is humbly called Ordinary Art.
Please read and digest the beauty and talent you find there. Real self-giving words that grace the page in a way I can only dream of. Share the link to this site. Send her a blog award. Or not. But she deserves recognition and a broader audience and I felt compelled today to do my little part.
Kelly – thank you for genuine inspiration and a glimpse of your beautiful soul.
Thursday, October 22, 2009
My Apple turnovers are NOT sweet
Apple computers are renowned for their reliability. They don’t freeze, they don’t crash. They make PC’s look like crippled dinosaurs. (All of these statements are up for debate, but are not the core topic of my rant). 
So when JW and I got matching Macbook Airs, we looked forward to the carefree ease of working with the Mac operating system, on these slim, slick new devices. And it started off well! It boots up in 30 seconds and closes down in 3! It has adorable icons and finger scroll features I love!
I had always coveted these, since I first saw one – slim as a notebook and that cool metallic class… almost sexy I tell you. JW sees computers as he does all gadgets. He personifies them and gives them a peck now and then. He cleans them almost compulsively and makes sure all updates are current. He claims you must love and speak to your machines for them to respond and work for you. And his machines work for him. Seemingly forever. When he hands something down years later it looks brand new, no scratches, no apparent wear and tear. He even keeps all the boxes and manuals. I’ve written about his gadget mania here.
But today we are talking about me. About the complete opposite. I see machines as a means to an end. I need to do e-mails for work, I love to write and surf the net – a computer lets me do that. Thanks computer. But kiss it? C’mon. Even my sexy MacAir, which I love, is still just a computer.
I am beginning to believe there is something in JW’s theories though. I’ve had this machine for a few months. In that time it has experienced a myriad of bizarre glitches and freezes from time to time without explanation. Sometimes it flips. Goes crazy and starts calling me names. Then it’s functions break down one by one… If I cuddled it, would it be nicer?
There is another popular theory (in my household) that electronics are allergic to me. That I emit some sort of evil radioactivity that cripples them temporarily in my presence.
Only when I hold the TV remote does it get stuck on a channel, and the only fix is a complete shut down, reset… When I had a PC I easily blamed all the mysterious happenings on the inferiority of the software/hardware. Now that excuse is gone…
JW’s Macbook has only ‘misbehaved’ twice, and I was present both times. He was not amused.
Should I feel powerful or cursed? Special or freakish?
All I know is that I’ve stopped reporting all the bizarre things that happen with me and the electronics around us. It’s become my dirty little secret. My private little hell. I secretly wonder if I should choose the back seats in airplanes, just so I don’t inadvertently tamper with the cockpit electronics…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to break my diet with some red red for lunch.
So when JW and I got matching Macbook Airs, we looked forward to the carefree ease of working with the Mac operating system, on these slim, slick new devices. And it started off well! It boots up in 30 seconds and closes down in 3! It has adorable icons and finger scroll features I love!
I had always coveted these, since I first saw one – slim as a notebook and that cool metallic class… almost sexy I tell you. JW sees computers as he does all gadgets. He personifies them and gives them a peck now and then. He cleans them almost compulsively and makes sure all updates are current. He claims you must love and speak to your machines for them to respond and work for you. And his machines work for him. Seemingly forever. When he hands something down years later it looks brand new, no scratches, no apparent wear and tear. He even keeps all the boxes and manuals. I’ve written about his gadget mania here.
But today we are talking about me. About the complete opposite. I see machines as a means to an end. I need to do e-mails for work, I love to write and surf the net – a computer lets me do that. Thanks computer. But kiss it? C’mon. Even my sexy MacAir, which I love, is still just a computer.
I am beginning to believe there is something in JW’s theories though. I’ve had this machine for a few months. In that time it has experienced a myriad of bizarre glitches and freezes from time to time without explanation. Sometimes it flips. Goes crazy and starts calling me names. Then it’s functions break down one by one… If I cuddled it, would it be nicer?
There is another popular theory (in my household) that electronics are allergic to me. That I emit some sort of evil radioactivity that cripples them temporarily in my presence.
Only when I hold the TV remote does it get stuck on a channel, and the only fix is a complete shut down, reset… When I had a PC I easily blamed all the mysterious happenings on the inferiority of the software/hardware. Now that excuse is gone…
JW’s Macbook has only ‘misbehaved’ twice, and I was present both times. He was not amused.
Should I feel powerful or cursed? Special or freakish?
All I know is that I’ve stopped reporting all the bizarre things that happen with me and the electronics around us. It’s become my dirty little secret. My private little hell. I secretly wonder if I should choose the back seats in airplanes, just so I don’t inadvertently tamper with the cockpit electronics…
Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m off to break my diet with some red red for lunch.
Tuesday, October 20, 2009
Today’s lesson in cultural imperialism
We have a couple of lovely visitors staying with us from the land down under. They were both raised on rural dairy farms and are quite down to earth.
I have been asking about the cultural relations between the Aboriginal population and those of European ancestry in Australia. Their perspective is quite honest and derived from personal experience as opposed to academic. They are not concerned with political correctness or viewing relations objectively. I find their candidness refreshing.
Last night I heard the following story: in the white farming community where our visitor *Pamela grew up, there was an Aboriginal grouping quite close by, living on what they called a ‘reserve’.
The story goes, that when one of the influential and well known Aboriginal chiefs died, the priest from Pamela’s village insisted that he officiate at the funeral, and ‘splashed out’ on a fancy, expensive coffin of hardwood and a plush interior for the chief.
After the funeral, the priest made a courtesy visit to the chief’s family some time later. What he found was that the body had been dug up and the children of the chief’s family were found in the coffin, splashing around in their makeshift bathtub.
Imagine the shock for the priest! I’m sure he was incredulous. To this date, the majority of whites assume that the people were simply ignorant, uncultured and ‘wild’…
_______________________________________________________________________________
So after Pamela’s narration of the story , I decided to investigate/research the beliefs and practices surrounding death and burial amongst Australia’s Aboriginal groups.
What I found cemented the notion I had about the blatant cultural/religious imposition.
Aboriginal groups have a completely different concept of what happens to body and soul after death and the traditional practices differ widely and wildly from the Christian conservatives who settled in these areas and proceeded to set up missions.
I found a highly detailed article online here (for those of you who might find this interesting), about the complicated funeral of an influential Aboriginal chief in 1997.
Basically, after a Christian funeral (to appease the ‘whitefellas’), the body is transported to a specially selected cave, removed from the coffin (which is simply a mode of carriage to the spot), and arranged on a high platform, protected from animals and exposed to drying wind.
After two years the bones are collected and ceremonially treated, and then presented to the family of the deceased in an elaborate ceremony of mourning and remembrance. Traditional belief sees the body being locked up in a box and sunk ‘six feet under’ as against the natural procession for body and soul.
Can’t blame them really…
Find here a very concise and well presented site on statistics regarding Aboriginal Australians.
*Any names of real people in this story have been changed to protect their identity.
Monday, October 19, 2009
The Cobra the beans and the belly
So today is Monday. We promised (JW and I as a team) that the diet starts Monday. It was with conviction, after a few months of excess and due to the fact that our clothes are stretching to the limit to accommodate our girth…
So this morning my colleague comes to my desk, and assaults me with an offer I find I can’t refuse. Red red from the roadside seller in Osu. For lunch. Today.
“Ok! Great, thanks.” I’m all excited.
All those vows taken last night, as I chomped on a biscuit smothered in butter, with accompanying warm tea…forgotten in an instant.
But how could I fall so quickly? Day one, meal two?? (Breakfast was a very controlled scrambled egg. Plain. With water and multivitamins).
.JPG)
“Oh, but I shouldn’t. My diet started today.” Laughter from colleagues ensues… You see, this 'diet starting Monday' may have had quite a few public false starts…
The thing is that this red red from this seller is not something you can resist.
Red red is a local Ghanaian dish consisting of a tomatoey bean stew, served with fried plantains. Not low cal stuff. It’s yummy.
The famous seller has been sitting at her tiny outdoor stall, serving up the delicious stuff in bright green banana leaves, for literally YEARS. She sits on a bumpy untarred dead end road, near the old American Embassy in Osu (before they built their new fortress of epic proportions). People come from miles around.. (My colleague being a case in point. I will call him Ernie here, to protect his innocence).
On Friday Ernie mentioned going there and how amazing the food was – the smell, the texture as he indulged with his hands, scooping the beans from the waxy leaf, just like the good old days. The experience transported him to his youth and the carefree days of school.
As he was narrating the story, another colleague walked by and said:
“You know what you are eating!” in a warning tone and walked off. Ernie called her back.
“No, come back! Tell us what!”
A small crowd of us gathered. All the Ghanaians knew what she was going to say. I was the only clueless one (A common occurrence for me here!).
“The cobra under the table!”
Everyone laughed. It is apparently common knowledge/superstition/rumour that this woman uses juju (in this case a mystical cobra snake that hides in her stall), to get her customers craving her food and coming back for more.
I was amazed at this silly belief people hold, creating a witchhunt mentality – just because someone is doing well and has maintained a customer base.
Now it’s Monday. I am supposed to be on day one of a strict and purposeful diet, and yet my mouth has been watering since first thing this morning at the mere suggestion of the red red…
Perhaps there’s more to this juju thing than I care to admit???
On the other hand I could just be a typical diet failure, losing the willpower before it began!!!
The diet starts Tuesday.
So this morning my colleague comes to my desk, and assaults me with an offer I find I can’t refuse. Red red from the roadside seller in Osu. For lunch. Today.
“Ok! Great, thanks.” I’m all excited.
All those vows taken last night, as I chomped on a biscuit smothered in butter, with accompanying warm tea…forgotten in an instant.
But how could I fall so quickly? Day one, meal two?? (Breakfast was a very controlled scrambled egg. Plain. With water and multivitamins).
.JPG)
“Oh, but I shouldn’t. My diet started today.” Laughter from colleagues ensues… You see, this 'diet starting Monday' may have had quite a few public false starts…
The thing is that this red red from this seller is not something you can resist.
Red red is a local Ghanaian dish consisting of a tomatoey bean stew, served with fried plantains. Not low cal stuff. It’s yummy.
The famous seller has been sitting at her tiny outdoor stall, serving up the delicious stuff in bright green banana leaves, for literally YEARS. She sits on a bumpy untarred dead end road, near the old American Embassy in Osu (before they built their new fortress of epic proportions). People come from miles around.. (My colleague being a case in point. I will call him Ernie here, to protect his innocence).
On Friday Ernie mentioned going there and how amazing the food was – the smell, the texture as he indulged with his hands, scooping the beans from the waxy leaf, just like the good old days. The experience transported him to his youth and the carefree days of school.
As he was narrating the story, another colleague walked by and said:
“You know what you are eating!” in a warning tone and walked off. Ernie called her back.
“No, come back! Tell us what!”
A small crowd of us gathered. All the Ghanaians knew what she was going to say. I was the only clueless one (A common occurrence for me here!).
“The cobra under the table!”
Everyone laughed. It is apparently common knowledge/superstition/rumour that this woman uses juju (in this case a mystical cobra snake that hides in her stall), to get her customers craving her food and coming back for more.I was amazed at this silly belief people hold, creating a witchhunt mentality – just because someone is doing well and has maintained a customer base.
Now it’s Monday. I am supposed to be on day one of a strict and purposeful diet, and yet my mouth has been watering since first thing this morning at the mere suggestion of the red red…
Perhaps there’s more to this juju thing than I care to admit???
On the other hand I could just be a typical diet failure, losing the willpower before it began!!!
The diet starts Tuesday.
Thursday, October 15, 2009
Stumps to spark action abroad - Ghanaians plant the seed locally!
A petite pervasive Scottish blond woman arrived on Ghanaian soil two years ago with a vision. A bizarre and complicated vision.
She wanted to uproot 10 massive rainforest tree stumps, and have them shipped to the UK. (Each is the size of a gnarled house – note the size of a man beside the uprooted stump in the photo)…
Her name is Angela Palmer and her vision is about to be realized, and the fruits of her labour will comprise the Ghost Forest Project, to be on display in London in November.
What!?!
Yes, I am not kidding. At a cost of £250,000 for the transport aspect alone, not to mention the logistical nightmare encountered getting them out of the forest, the manpower involved and even libations poured to angered gods in the area….
What is the point of this seemingly indulgent and over-the-top endeavour?
Art.
Oh, and the desire to highlight issues of deforestation.
The stumps will be displayed in Trafalgar Square in London from November 16th to 22nd, and then moved once again to Thorvaldsens Plads, Copenhagen, Denmark to coincide with UN Climate Change conference.
Many questions need to be raised here. What is the carbon footprint of this project? What are the costs in total and could the funds have been better allocated in a campaign to highlight climate change?
What is the desired and measurable effect? Is it a mad delusional artist’s self indulgent dream or is it an important and unprecedented step in exposing the issues at hand?
What are the issues at hand?
Deforestation in the tropics accounts for nearly 20 per cent of carbon emissions due to human activities. That’s quite a staggering figure.
Considering that Ghana has lost 90% of its virgin rainforest in the past 50 years, there is definitely a need for a change in practise.
This exhibit will definitely be eye-catching and thought provoking, both in London and Copenhagen. But here where we need it – here where the deforestation persists and where the affects of global climate change will be most harshly felt – what will be the benefit?
Ghanaians know nothing of this project or it’s aims. Apart from those involved in moving these mammoth stumps from the rural areas down to the Takoradi port and schlepping them onboard the cargo ships, it has slipped under the radar. It has missed it’s chance to shock and educate and to inform.
I get visions of Live 8 back in 2005, aimed at raising awareness and money to eliminate African poverty, yet not one African band or contributor was included.
If we want to make a difference in the so-called third world, we need to involve, include and make accountable the communities that need it most.
All is not lost though. In 2008, Ghana became the first country in Africa to enter the VPA (Voluntary Partnership Agreement) with the European Union in an effort to outlaw illegal logging, which incidentally still accounts for over half its harvested timber.
This year, the John Bitar company in Western Ghana where the tree stumps were excavated from, began one of the world's largest private reforestation programmes, which involves planting 25 million trees on degraded land over the next five years.
Meanwhile, back home for me in Accra, on a street I walk by all the time, a massive majestic wonder of a tree was unceremoniously hacked down earlier this year, at the edge of a residential plot. The tree was so big that it blocked the street for days while teams of men hacked the giant corpse into small enough pieces to carry away.The roots were so hard and big and old, that thy abandoned the job from about 4 feet to the ground…
I kept waiting to see what would be built there in it’s place. What on earth could justify cutting a tree that was centuries old and provided shade and a home to wildlife all it’s days.
Today, on Blogger Action Day, I walked by the familiar corner. The owner of the house has planted some garden plants to hide the eye sore that is the massive base of the tree.
Come on Ghana!!! Let’s value our trees and ourselves!
Start asking about climate change and it’s affects. Let’s not attend seminars on climate change, just to collect our per diems and get the funding.
In the end, Ghana is for Ghana’s children and they deserve a better and stable future without flooding and famine.
Read, explore, learn... Get involved for the sake of sharing knowledge and promoting change – right here at home.
Today is Blog Action Day! Visit the site! Take part!!!
Sunday, October 11, 2009
Ghana shines in Cadbury pop video!
I found this catchy, cute, well put together video - thanks to fellow Ghana blogger Prissy over at her great site SIMPLY PRISSY. Great to see a Ghana goat in gold sequins and an animated cocoa bean galloping through a typical village street in a music video!
Found some info. about it here.
Cadbury is celebrating the move to fair trade chocolate with the launch of Glass and A Half Records, an album inspired by the music of Africa. The first single, “Zingolo”, celebrates all things Ghana, its people, its rappers, its dancers, its cultural figures and, of course, its cocoa beans.
The initiative is aimed at emphasising Cadbury’s 101 year-history of trading with Ghanaian cocoa farmers. Starring villagers of a Ghanian village, all proceeds from the Zingolo single at iTunes will go to charity Care, which works with the cocoa communities in Ghana.
The campaign also features print ads designed and painted by Ghanaians using traditional Ghanaian techniques.
Phil Rumbol, marketing director for Cadbury says: “We wanted to celebrate Cadbury Dairy Milk’s Fairtrade certification and Ghana, the heart of our Fairtrade cocoa, in a unique way. Music has always been a big part of Glass and a Half Full Productions and we were inspired by Ghana’s love of music so it seemed the perfect way to capture the spirit of the country was through a track. We hope we’ll bring a smile to people’s faces.” Cadbury Dairy milk is now Fairtrade in the UK and Ireland and will extend this to Canada Australia and New Zealand in 2010.
I'm going to reserve my comments about the charity aspect of the video, with proceeds going toward Care International, but interestingly, all the credits on the video are for people and post production outside Ghana...
Credits
The Zingolo campaign was developed at Fallon, London, by executive creative director Richard Flintham, creative directors Chris Bovill, John Allison, creatives Filip Tyden, Dan Watts, Chris Bovill, John Allison, account director Nathalie Clarke, agency producer Tom Goodwin, executive producer Nicky Barnes and agency producer Gemma Knight.
Filming was shot by director Ringan Ledwidge via Rattling Stick with producer Sally Humphries with director of photography Franz Lustig.
Editor was Rich Orrick at Work Post. Post production was done at The Mill, London.
Music was composed by Paul Epwort and produced by Alex Lavery and Simon Rose at Pitch & Sync. Audio post-production was produced by Parv Thind at Wave Studios.
Media planner was Ellie Roberts at PHD.
Found some info. about it here.
Cadbury is celebrating the move to fair trade chocolate with the launch of Glass and A Half Records, an album inspired by the music of Africa. The first single, “Zingolo”, celebrates all things Ghana, its people, its rappers, its dancers, its cultural figures and, of course, its cocoa beans.
The initiative is aimed at emphasising Cadbury’s 101 year-history of trading with Ghanaian cocoa farmers. Starring villagers of a Ghanian village, all proceeds from the Zingolo single at iTunes will go to charity Care, which works with the cocoa communities in Ghana.
The campaign also features print ads designed and painted by Ghanaians using traditional Ghanaian techniques.
Phil Rumbol, marketing director for Cadbury says: “We wanted to celebrate Cadbury Dairy Milk’s Fairtrade certification and Ghana, the heart of our Fairtrade cocoa, in a unique way. Music has always been a big part of Glass and a Half Full Productions and we were inspired by Ghana’s love of music so it seemed the perfect way to capture the spirit of the country was through a track. We hope we’ll bring a smile to people’s faces.” Cadbury Dairy milk is now Fairtrade in the UK and Ireland and will extend this to Canada Australia and New Zealand in 2010.
I'm going to reserve my comments about the charity aspect of the video, with proceeds going toward Care International, but interestingly, all the credits on the video are for people and post production outside Ghana...
Credits
The Zingolo campaign was developed at Fallon, London, by executive creative director Richard Flintham, creative directors Chris Bovill, John Allison, creatives Filip Tyden, Dan Watts, Chris Bovill, John Allison, account director Nathalie Clarke, agency producer Tom Goodwin, executive producer Nicky Barnes and agency producer Gemma Knight.
Filming was shot by director Ringan Ledwidge via Rattling Stick with producer Sally Humphries with director of photography Franz Lustig.
Editor was Rich Orrick at Work Post. Post production was done at The Mill, London.
Music was composed by Paul Epwort and produced by Alex Lavery and Simon Rose at Pitch & Sync. Audio post-production was produced by Parv Thind at Wave Studios.
Media planner was Ellie Roberts at PHD.
Saturday, October 10, 2009
Penguins, Pink Tongues and ATMs - a great wedding all round
Not surprisingly I survived the wedding. Not only survived, but actually enjoyed it. I mean hey, it was a week long holiday to one of the most beautiful cities in the world, in the company of all my boys. Ideal almost!
It was Q’s first time south of the equator and he kept obsessing about figuring out whether water goes down the drain in the opposite direction from the northern hemisphere. In the end I don’t think it was ever figured out. We were too busy having a blast.
We stayed in a bunch of amazingly trendy flats in an area of Cape Town called De Waterkant (Afrikaans, and absolutely rude when pronounced properly (duh vah ter kuhnt) to us English speakers!)
Q had a field day with that one! Their website lists the properties as ideal for ‘gay stay’ which was quite far from our agenda, but nonetheless, we found out the area had other ideas… The area used to be quite rough, but has been cleaned up recently and lots of cafes, cute shops and boutique hotels line the streets. The owners are a friendly enough gay couple, who have an array of gay focused brochures and newspapers, and while we sat in the office on a serious note, discussing a potential theft of camera SD cards, I couldn’t help but pick up a copy of the Pink Tongue!!
But I definitely digress.
We went for a wedding and it was a great one. It was all a bit last minute and why not?! Stress shouldn’t be part of the party to unite two souls in my opinion. The day before the nuptials, we were huddled around an ATM en mass, trying to draw enough cash to pay the stubborn wedding planners who told us just then that thy didn’t take credit cards…
On the morning of the wedding, the ceremony was e-mailed to the officiating friend to read and remember, and on the way to the venue with our bride in tow, she let us know she’d forgotten a cake. No worries! We pulled over at a bakery in Simonstown and picked up a cute little chocolate lemon cake, which the wedding venue decorated with flowers and which came in handy later, for bride and groom to cut symbolically together and smear in each other’s faces. All in good fun.
The ceremony itself, at Boulder’s Beach, with the penguins and other visitors to the park as the background audience, was blessed with the best weather in Cape Town one could ever hope for. No wind, lots of sun…
It looked like a movie scene… Our bride looked beautiful. The whole backdrop was surreal. I don't think you could have asked for better.
I volunteered as photographer while JW and our boy's mom sat upfront to proudly ‘give away’ their son. I saved my hugs and pride for later, and wiped away the happy tears from behind my lense…
And the after party put all family differences in the bin, while we bonded and danced and drank and danced some more until it was midnight and the DJ called it a night… I think we could have gone on for hours.
The best part of this trip was seeing all the boys bond. In step-families it can go wrong so easily. It can make life uneasy and put all the relationships on edge. In our case however it has always gone well. Everyone gets along. Everyone accepts and gets on with life. And on this trip everyone had the chance to hang out (which isn't often now that the big boys are scattered across North America and we are here on the dark continent), to support each other, to be proud and to feel the love that family represents. I felt something shift. We’d all become closer. We’d all grown and we’d gained even more respect for each other. And that is good enough for me!
It was Q’s first time south of the equator and he kept obsessing about figuring out whether water goes down the drain in the opposite direction from the northern hemisphere. In the end I don’t think it was ever figured out. We were too busy having a blast.
We stayed in a bunch of amazingly trendy flats in an area of Cape Town called De Waterkant (Afrikaans, and absolutely rude when pronounced properly (duh vah ter kuhnt) to us English speakers!)
Q had a field day with that one! Their website lists the properties as ideal for ‘gay stay’ which was quite far from our agenda, but nonetheless, we found out the area had other ideas… The area used to be quite rough, but has been cleaned up recently and lots of cafes, cute shops and boutique hotels line the streets. The owners are a friendly enough gay couple, who have an array of gay focused brochures and newspapers, and while we sat in the office on a serious note, discussing a potential theft of camera SD cards, I couldn’t help but pick up a copy of the Pink Tongue!!
But I definitely digress.
We went for a wedding and it was a great one. It was all a bit last minute and why not?! Stress shouldn’t be part of the party to unite two souls in my opinion. The day before the nuptials, we were huddled around an ATM en mass, trying to draw enough cash to pay the stubborn wedding planners who told us just then that thy didn’t take credit cards…
On the morning of the wedding, the ceremony was e-mailed to the officiating friend to read and remember, and on the way to the venue with our bride in tow, she let us know she’d forgotten a cake. No worries! We pulled over at a bakery in Simonstown and picked up a cute little chocolate lemon cake, which the wedding venue decorated with flowers and which came in handy later, for bride and groom to cut symbolically together and smear in each other’s faces. All in good fun.
The ceremony itself, at Boulder’s Beach, with the penguins and other visitors to the park as the background audience, was blessed with the best weather in Cape Town one could ever hope for. No wind, lots of sun…
It looked like a movie scene… Our bride looked beautiful. The whole backdrop was surreal. I don't think you could have asked for better.
I volunteered as photographer while JW and our boy's mom sat upfront to proudly ‘give away’ their son. I saved my hugs and pride for later, and wiped away the happy tears from behind my lense…
And the after party put all family differences in the bin, while we bonded and danced and drank and danced some more until it was midnight and the DJ called it a night… I think we could have gone on for hours.
The best part of this trip was seeing all the boys bond. In step-families it can go wrong so easily. It can make life uneasy and put all the relationships on edge. In our case however it has always gone well. Everyone gets along. Everyone accepts and gets on with life. And on this trip everyone had the chance to hang out (which isn't often now that the big boys are scattered across North America and we are here on the dark continent), to support each other, to be proud and to feel the love that family represents. I felt something shift. We’d all become closer. We’d all grown and we’d gained even more respect for each other. And that is good enough for me!
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