As I have mentioned in previous blogs, my favorite time of day is twilight. There is a magical feeling in the air, like nature pausing to take a deep breath before continuing its’ daily routine.
Wenchi is a town on a hill. When you are driving from Kumasi to Wenchi, you can see the town from miles away. I live near a ridge that over looks rolling hills, green with maize, plantain, palm and coconut trees. There is a wall around my house where I sit on top and watch the sunset. Watching the sunset is a novel idea to Ghanians. As they see me sitting on the wall, doing nothing, just watching the sunset, they ask me what I am doing. I point to the sky and explain how beautiful it is to watch the sun set. They look at me blankly for a moment, then smile shaking their head, thinking’ “Oh this white man is sure strange.”
While I will never dispute that I am strange, (I can see all of you who know me nodding your head), I don’t think it’s strange to take a moment out of a busy day to stop; reflect on life, creation and the beauty of this earth. Granted this is a busy time of the day for most Ghanians. Sunset (which occurs around 6:00 everyday; don’t forget I am near the equator and the hours of the day do not fluctuate much) is time to make dinner. More specifically fufu.
I think that I have explained fufu before, but let me refresh your memories. Fufu consists of plantain and cassava. Plantain is in the banana family and cassava is a tuber, in the potato family. They peel and boil the cassava and mix it with the plantain. Keep in mind that their kitchens are NOT our kitchens. In fact, most of them don’t have a kitchen. They cook outside, no stove, counters, microwaves, or tables. They build a fire, if they have money they will use charcoal, if not they will use wood. Placing a pot of water on top of the fire supported by some stones, they boil the cassava. From there they will take a large wooden pestle about 24” in diameter and place the cassava and plantain in small amounts into the pestle. One person, who is sitting on a wooden stool gingerly moves the cassava/plantain mixture until it becomes a dough like ball. There is a second person who takes a mortar and beats the snot out of the mixture. It is almost like a dance, while one is pounding, the other is mixing. I have never seen any smashed fingers but maybe that is why they haven’t asked me to help. This mortar is usually four feet high 8-10 inches in diameter made out of wood. This process of combining the plantain and cassava and getting the right texture can take up to 45 minutes. The woman is usually mixing the fufu, while a child; anywhere from 10-20 years old is the one who pounds. This is one reason why the kids here are so freaking ripped! They have muscles in their arms and backs that would make a professional weight lifter envious. That is just the fufu. They add it to a soup; the soup usually takes a lot longer; grinding, cutting boiling, cooking...
But this blog is not about fufu. It’s about sunsets remember? At least now you understand why they shake their heads as I sit upon my wall, listening to the constant rythymn of people pounding fufu in surrounding houses. The color and clouds are amazing. Sometimes it’s the large cotton ball clouds ( yes that is the scientific term), or mare’s tails, sometimes the pattern is like fish scales. As the sun sets, the clouds radiate from the color of golden rods, red as crimson as a rose, pure white and the purple of violets. The sky changes coral blue, royal blue to navy. Slowly the sun pulls the color from the sky, turning the clouds into a beautiful hue of grays and purples, saying good night to all creation; promising that tomorrow will be a new day; filled with new hopes and dreams.
Yeah, so OK, I’m a sap. I get a little teary sometimes; overwhelmed at the beautiful world we live in. But as I look at the brilliant display, it helps me keep my prospective. How small we are. How small our troubles are in the scheme of things, and how thankful I am to have my health, friends, family and a Creator who has made this all possible.
So... Take a moment from fufu pounding and look up. Take time to enjoy the beauty of this world! Go ahead and risk that as you do, there will always be people that will shake their heads at you, thinking you’re a little strange. But no worries, you are in good company!
Cheers
Friday, July 30, 2010
Monday, April 5, 2010
Portia Bayor
I have had a few people ask me if and how they could support the work that I am doing here. The Peace Corps has a couple of ways that they have suggest for people to donate to certain causes. However, I hesitate in doing an organized “fund raising” for a couple of reasons. For one, I don’t want to make anyone to feel pressured by PC into giving money. Second, due to the blatant corruption here, even if there was something I think is a good cause, I don’t know how much of the money would actually go to the cause, and how much would end up in someone’s pocket. Third, money isn’t the cure all. I’ve seen too many times where an NGO (non profit organization) throws money at a noble cause, such as a bore hole, or public latrines or even computers, and have the things waste away without being used, because the NGO didn’t get the community’s involvement or, they didn’t properly train the people on the use of thing.
There is however someone I would like to introduce you to. Her name Is Portia Bayor. She is a 27 year old single mom and this is her story:
I live in what is called a compound house. It is a kind of like a dorm of sorts. There are two families that live here with me. They share one “kitchen”, (actually they do most of their cooking outside on a charcoal grill. Portia comes everyday to prepare dinner for the two families. One night she brought me Banku, which is ground corn that is made into a fermented dough ball that they serve with an okra stew. As I ate, I asked her to tell me about herself and what her plans are in the future.
She was going to school up in the Northern part of Ghana, and at age 16, she fell in love with a boy, and got pregnant. She had to drop out of school, because having a child out of wedlock is a disgraceful thing and she wanted to keep her baby. Her plan was to continue with school after the baby was born. Meanwhile, her boy friend took off- she later found out that he had gotten another girl pregnant in a different village. He is completely out of the picture and has not supported her at all.
About the same time, her father passed away, so she was living with her mom. Since she was not going to school and not working, she become what is called here “ a small girl”. Basically she became a servant to the compound where she lived. It’s culturally accepted to have a small girl here. They get up at 5:00 am, sweep the compound, get meals ready, clean the house, bring in the firewood (fuel for the fire to cook on), and fetch water. To give you an idea what I mean by fetching water, the kids will carry a five gallon or more container of water on their head. They get the water either from a bore hole or the river. I have seen kids have to walk over a mile to fetch water. Not an easy task.
Eight years later, life hasn’t gotten much easier for Portia. She has moved to Wenchi, and managed to finish high school. Her daughter lives in my compound with Portia’s sister and husband. Portia can not afford to raise her because she has no money. She is now the small girl for my compound. Even though she finished high school, she failed her final test in math, science and economics. She would like to continue her education and go to nursing school, but she can’t until she retakes her test. In order to do that she needs to hire a tutor for the three classes. The registration fee for the courses is around $75 and then and additional $75 for the cost of paying the tutor. If she had an opportunity to go back to school, she will be able to have a life back again.
$150. What is that? A dinner out and a movie? Not a ton of money for us, but for Portia, it could change her future. If you feel called to help, write me an email. whtmtns@yahoo.com This might not be as grandiose as donating a library to a school, but helping one person gain an education and possibly a career could make a world of difference.
I remember hearing a story that has stayed with me for years. One morning on the coast of Maine, a little boy went down for a walk on the beach. When he stepped onto the sand, he noticed that the ocean had washed thousands of starfish on the beach. He noticed an old timer bending down, picking up, one by one, a starfish and throwing it back into the ocean. The little boy went up to the old man and asked what is was doing.
“I’m trying to save these starfish from getting eaten by the gulls or dying in the sun,” the man answered, bending down and picking up another one. Looking down the beach and seeing the thousands of starfish that covered the beach the boy said, “Mister, look at all these starfish. There is no way you can possibly make a difference.” The old man paused and looked at the small starfish in his cracked and weather worn hands. “Well, maybe your right,” he said, “but I can make a difference in this one.”
We all have a chance a life to make a difference in someone’s life. Whether or not you act upon it, is up to you.
Cheers,
Wayne
There is however someone I would like to introduce you to. Her name Is Portia Bayor. She is a 27 year old single mom and this is her story:
I live in what is called a compound house. It is a kind of like a dorm of sorts. There are two families that live here with me. They share one “kitchen”, (actually they do most of their cooking outside on a charcoal grill. Portia comes everyday to prepare dinner for the two families. One night she brought me Banku, which is ground corn that is made into a fermented dough ball that they serve with an okra stew. As I ate, I asked her to tell me about herself and what her plans are in the future.
She was going to school up in the Northern part of Ghana, and at age 16, she fell in love with a boy, and got pregnant. She had to drop out of school, because having a child out of wedlock is a disgraceful thing and she wanted to keep her baby. Her plan was to continue with school after the baby was born. Meanwhile, her boy friend took off- she later found out that he had gotten another girl pregnant in a different village. He is completely out of the picture and has not supported her at all.
About the same time, her father passed away, so she was living with her mom. Since she was not going to school and not working, she become what is called here “ a small girl”. Basically she became a servant to the compound where she lived. It’s culturally accepted to have a small girl here. They get up at 5:00 am, sweep the compound, get meals ready, clean the house, bring in the firewood (fuel for the fire to cook on), and fetch water. To give you an idea what I mean by fetching water, the kids will carry a five gallon or more container of water on their head. They get the water either from a bore hole or the river. I have seen kids have to walk over a mile to fetch water. Not an easy task.
Eight years later, life hasn’t gotten much easier for Portia. She has moved to Wenchi, and managed to finish high school. Her daughter lives in my compound with Portia’s sister and husband. Portia can not afford to raise her because she has no money. She is now the small girl for my compound. Even though she finished high school, she failed her final test in math, science and economics. She would like to continue her education and go to nursing school, but she can’t until she retakes her test. In order to do that she needs to hire a tutor for the three classes. The registration fee for the courses is around $75 and then and additional $75 for the cost of paying the tutor. If she had an opportunity to go back to school, she will be able to have a life back again.
$150. What is that? A dinner out and a movie? Not a ton of money for us, but for Portia, it could change her future. If you feel called to help, write me an email. whtmtns@yahoo.com This might not be as grandiose as donating a library to a school, but helping one person gain an education and possibly a career could make a world of difference.
I remember hearing a story that has stayed with me for years. One morning on the coast of Maine, a little boy went down for a walk on the beach. When he stepped onto the sand, he noticed that the ocean had washed thousands of starfish on the beach. He noticed an old timer bending down, picking up, one by one, a starfish and throwing it back into the ocean. The little boy went up to the old man and asked what is was doing.
“I’m trying to save these starfish from getting eaten by the gulls or dying in the sun,” the man answered, bending down and picking up another one. Looking down the beach and seeing the thousands of starfish that covered the beach the boy said, “Mister, look at all these starfish. There is no way you can possibly make a difference.” The old man paused and looked at the small starfish in his cracked and weather worn hands. “Well, maybe your right,” he said, “but I can make a difference in this one.”
We all have a chance a life to make a difference in someone’s life. Whether or not you act upon it, is up to you.
Cheers,
Wayne
Saturday, February 13, 2010
It Snowed Today
I’m sitting on my “deck” like I usually do at night, watching the sun set. It’s different today though. A lot different, and for some, after today, it may never be the same.
I traveled to Sunyani today to get my internet fixed; Sunyani about an hour away. I got there and noticed that the weather was very different than most days. There was a strong wind blowing from the north; a hot dry wind. Imagine sticking your head in a dryer, hot air blowing on you sucking all the moisture from your body.
It was hazy too, like a fog covering the distant hills. Welcome to The Harmattan. The Harmattan is the season between the hot season, and the really, really hot season. The main difference is the wind. In Wenchi it is not as bad as being up in the Northern region. Up there, sometimes the wind kicks up the dirt making it impossible to see at times. Here though, it is just a haze, and as the sun sets, it just melts into the bank of dust. The reason why it is so dry is because it hasn’t rained here since October.
The Brong Ahafo Region is the bread basket for Ghana. The rolling hills are covered with farmland, from acres of maize, palm trees, yam, plantain and cashews. Not only is this their source of income, but it is their food they put on the table. This time of year, the corn is finished leaving the dried cornstalks brown and dead. The streams have long since dried up, the whole landscape is a dreary brown color.
On the way back from Sunyani I got a text from a friend of mine asking me if I could see the sun; where he was it was blotted out because of the dust/smoke. As I rode back, I understood what he was talking about. Since I’ve been here, I have heard people talk about bush fires, but really didn’t understand what they were talking about. Until today. It took me a while to figure out what “the bush” meant. Basically, it’s the farmland and the surrounding areas. So when they speak of bush fires, they are talking about their livelihood going up in flames. Entire hillsides were aflame, the columns of smoke billowing like clouds in the sky. They have no real way of stopping the fire once it starts. I think there might be one fire truck here in Wenchi. The blaze consumes everything in sight with it’s unquenching appetite. Electricity poles, lay in embers on the ground, thatched roof houses are laid to waste. Not only is their income lost in smoke, but so is their food supply.
There are several ways the fires are started. Some people start the fires to scare out the grass cutter (kind of like ground hogs) as a way of hunting. Others will try to do “controlled” burning which gets out of hand. And then there are the Filani’s. The Filani are people from the northern region that come down with their cattle. In the State’s they would be like Gypsies, and all the negative connotation that comes with Gypsies are also associated with the Filani’s. The Filani’s will burn the land so the green grass grows for food for their cattle. For whatever the reason, the bush fires consume thousands of acres per year, and there is not really any fire enforcement. Because of this there is a great threat to the agriculture here in Ghana. Something has to be done about this but, like most other things here, it is just a problem that is being ignored.
As I sit writing this, I can hear the crackle of the flames popping like 10,000 people jumping on packing bubbles. My eyes are stinging from the smoke. Across the street I see the silhouette of a church and behind it the horizon is orange. The grey and black ash from the fuel fall from the skies like snow landing on my computer. The rain is still months away.
Monday, January 18, 2010
I'm Nuts about Cashews!!
Boy that really CRACKS me up! Ok I’ll stop; I was just coming out of my SHELL!!!! Hahahahahahaha.
So, I thought I would give you Cashew 101. Maybe even 102, there will be a test later so no sleeping. I don’t know anyone who doesn’t like cashews. And, we all know how expensive they are, compared to peanuts. Why, you ask? What is the difference?
When I came to Ghana, I was clueless on how the tasty kernels got in those cans. I really didn’t care, I was just happy to munch them while sipping a cold beer.
Once in Ghana, I found out that I will be working with a farmer’s association that grows cashews. So I started thinking; where do cashews come from? Did they grow like peanuts under ground? In a bush or tree? Do they simply get delivered like babies, except by a nut stork? I once heard that part of the cashew is poisonous. So many questions.... Brace yourself, you are about to take a trip to the wonderful world of cashews.
There are 6 or 7 West African countries that produce the world’s largest supply of cashews. Ghana is one of those countries. Unfortunately, they do not process the cashews here. In fact, 95% of all cashews grown in Ghana are exported to places like India and Vietnam to be processed. This is very unfortunate because if they did process the nuts here, there would be more jobs created, more of the value of the product would stay here in Ghana. Hence one of the reasons I am here. One of my goals is to help educate people on the advantages of processing in country. We have a long way to go on that, but luckily I have some partners that also have an interest in the project. Good partners... ever hear of the Bill and Linda Gates foundation, or Kraft foods, or Cosco? Well, they have just given $50 million dollars to help me! WHAHOOOOO!!!!! Ok, ok, well, maybe not to help me, but to help the cashew industry. More on that later.
Ghana is a very fertile country. Yes, there are tons of babies here, but I was talking about the land. Although they are a very poor country monetarily, they are rich in resources. It’s frustrating because they could be doing so much better if it where not for poor management and corruption. I don’t know how they will break this horrible cycle- and until they do, Ghana will continue to be a 3rd world country. Cocoa, maize, mango, yams and cashews are just a few to the crops they harvest here. Cashews grow on trees, and after two years, you can expect a harvest, and with not a whole lot of time invested, they can produce a harvest for 2 decades.
The nut is not in the fruit like most fruit trees. The nut grows outside the cashew apple, and the farmers wait until both the nut and fruit fall from the tree before they harvest them. They pick them off the ground, separate the apple from the nut, then let them dry for three days. There is more detail than this, but, this is cashew 101 and I don’t want you to fall asleep. Then they sell it to a middle man, which could be Indians, local buyers, or associations ( like the one I work with). It is then shipped to places like India, where they process it then ship it back to Europe or the US. 20% of the price of cashews is shipping because it is shipped around the world before it lands in your hands. Up until recently, you couldn’t buy cashews to eat here in Ghana. You could show most farmers a cashew, and they would not have any idea that it is the same thing that came from there farm. Luckily, that is starting to change, and we now have a couple of processors here. And, thanks to my buddy Bill (Gates), we are planning to have several more in the next few years. The association I work with have about 1.5 million pounds of cashews that we sell to a local processor, who, sells to Cosco. The company is called Mim, and I met with the owner, Lars, who is from Denmark, and he was nice enough to give me a tour of his facility. It was there that I decided I will never complain about how expensive cashews are. So, here is the process;
They have a large machine that sorts the nuts by size. From there they are cleaned. Then the real fun starts. Most of the rest is done by hand. First, there is a large work bench. There is a vice looking tool that is worked by using your hands and feet. The goal is to crack the nut without damaging the kernel ( the part we eat). So one by one, someone cracks the nut open and pushes it to the other side of the bench, where another person takes a small knife and tries to pick out the kernel from the shell. The other day, I attempted to do this, and when I got through with a pile of nuts, you could make cashew butter with it, but there where hardly any whole kernels. Needless to say it is not easy. From there the kernel is steamed. It still has the husk on it. The steaming helps to loosen the husk, but, one by one, kernel by kernel, someone picks them up and with a small blade, removes the husk. Then they are sorted by hand, dried and packaged into large air tight bags. Then they are shipped somewhere else to be roasted and seasoned. WOW! For every kernel that you eat, it has been touched by at least 5 pairs of hands. (Hopefully they washed their hands).
Now, remember that the next time you take a handful of cashews and pop them in your mouth. A lot of work has gone into the tasty crunchy nugget. Enjoy, and thank you for your support!
Cheers~
Friday, December 11, 2009
Controlled Chaos
I know I’ve talked about traveling here in Ghana before, but please bear with me as I revisit the conversation. The reason why I bring it up is because it so utterly different than how we travel (or how I traveled) in the US. Traveling here is kind of like having 500 people on the dance floor at once. Some are doing the waltz, some are disco, some are line dancing and others are break dancing. It’s magic, somehow it flows altogether. I have not been here long enough (I don’t know if there is enough time) to figure it out, but somehow it works. Most of the time. To give you a better understanding of how this dance works, want to introduce you to the dancers. We have tango tro’s, boogie buses, trippin’ taxi’s mamba motos, and thrown into the mix are poor pedestrians.
Tros
Tros are a large passenger vans. There are usually 5 rows of seats, and comfortably you have 3 per seat. Unfortunately, comfortable is not a word in the Ghana dictionary. Ghanians don’t like to waste space, so they will put four in a row. My personal goal was 22 passengers in a van. Up close and personal. Actually, having all those people around you kind of softens the blow of all the pot holes. Nine times out of ten the doors don’t shut correctly, you usually can see the road underneath your feet, the dash board indicators don’t work. And, let’s not forget the luggage. Big stuff goes in the back. I’ve seen refrigerators, 100 pound burlap bags of stuff, chickens (of course they are alive!! silly) and who know what else. All the “normal” luggage is expected to be on your lap; i.e., back packs, small boxes, groceries. The real big stuff goes on top of the van. 100 pound bags of produce, live goats... There was one time I saw 8 goats tied to the top of the van. Yup.
There is the driver, and he has a mate. The mate is in charge of collecting the money, and communicating with the driver. If the van is not quite full (God forbid), the mate is yelling, as he is hanging half outside the window, the destination of the tro. Of course you can’t understand what it is he is screaming as he goes, for example there is a city called Kofferidguha, but he is yelling “Rodua”. The tro will barely come to a stop, load passengers and make it’s way to the station. As he is pulling out, there are 5 tro’s wanting to take his place, and, of course while he is pulling out, no one is letting him in. Horns blaring, tires screeching, and mates yelling, somehow you make it back on to the road. Don’t ask me why there are not tons of accidents.
The good thing about tros is that they are cheap. And, you don’t usually have to wait too long for one to drive by, the mate shouting the your destination. But, 99% of them would be illegal to be on a road in the US. Most windshields are cracked, transmission works sometimes, and the mechanical parts are somehow working but I am not sure how. One trip I was on was supposed to take 6 hours. Half way towards our destination, something in the gears or clutch stops working. So, we get out, push the tro up the hill, and coast down into a small village. Our vehicle stops next to what looks like a graveyard for tros; heaps and piles of parts and bodies. The driver gets out, talks to the mechanic, who proceeds to crawl under the tro. After much banging and clanging, he comes out with what looks like the drive shaft (I am no mechanic by any means, it could have been the gas tank!), goes to another broken down tro, takes that one off and puts it on ours. In three hours we are up and running again. The sun has gone to bed, and we are almost at our destination,(key word almost). We are heading up a hill on a tiny dirt road when, the transmission decides it is done for the day. We can not move forward or back up; we are stuck like Winnie the Pooh in the Hunney Tree. After 10 hours of being on the road, and not yet at our destination, we are at our wits end. We call the place where we are spending the night and they offer to come and get us. Luckily we are only about 20 minutes away. I feel bad for the poor driver though; he has to stay behind with his vehicle and hope to have it fixed the next day. When we pass through 3 days later, the tro is still sitting there. The driver lost money on that trip!
Taxis
There are two types of taxis; line taxis and drop taxis. Drop taxis are one of the most expensive ways to travel. They will only take you to whatever destination you want. They will always try to gouge you; and you have to fight with them to get the price down. A line taxi will wait until it is full before it will go to your destination. It’s cheaper than a drop taxi, but sometimes you might have to sit in the taxi up to an hour before the taxi fills. The normal capacity is 5 people in the car, plus baggage in the back. Most of the cars are about the size of a Scion, tiny little cars. Now, I said that the normal capacity is 5, two in the front and three in the back. Well, during our training we would have to travel from our home stay to our training site every Friday. Our allowance for training was $2 per day.... beer costs $1.50..... you do the math, we didn’t have a lot of money. So we would try to make a deal with taxi driver, we would pay the fare of 4 people but try to fit more people in the car than that. We got to know each other quite well on those trips. One night after having a few beers at the spot, we fit 12 people in the car. Remember, the car is the size of a Scion. We had three in the front, 6 in the back seat and 3 of us in the very back. I am quite proud of that record!!
Buses
There are three types of buses; Metro, STC, and Scary as Hell Buses. Metro are similar to those similar to those in the states, sort of.... They are cheap, and are usually packed. Again personal space is not a concept the folks here understand. There is a mob to get on the bus first, so you can get a seat. Once the seats are full, you pile in amongst the bags, bowls, kids, and produce. You have to hang on for dear life as you get bounced and thrown around. There are no real bus stops that the driver will stop at. If you want to get off, you yell “Bus Stop” and hopes that the driver will hear you and hope that he feels like stopping. You usually will get dropped within a 1/2 mile of where you wanted to get off.
STC is similar to Grey Hound... sort of. It is a lot more expensive than taking a tro, and is supposed to leave at a designated time. Unfortunately, they never do. Either there is a mechanical problem (the bus is “spoiled’) or they wait for the bus to fill.
One day I had to go down to Accra. Because it is a long drive, and the tro’s are very uncomfortable, I decided to take a bus. I wanted to see which one would fill faster and when I checked, they looked about the same; both were 30% full. I got on the bus and thought, well, I can be patient, it might take little longer to fill but it would be worth it. The seat was actually comfortable though the AC was spoiled. A trip to Accra from Kumasi is about 4-5 hours. I sat down at 9 am. I closed my eyes and took a little nap. When I woke up at 10 we were still sitting there and maybe 50% full. I was surprised that it wasn’t fuller, but when I looked out the window I realized why. There was a battle going on outside. Whenever someone new came through wanting to go to Accra, the person was accosted by each of the drivers. With much pushing, shoving and yelling the drivers would argue which vehicle the poor passenger would take. I thought a fist fight would break out, it was close. It seemed that our bus was on the loosing side. Other vehicles were loaded up and on their way while we just sat there. Elven came and went, so did noon... By one, we were all pissed and yelling at the driver for us to get on our way. Finally by 2:00 we were finally full. I sat there for 5 hours waiting to leave!!! I should have been down in Accra by then! With a sore ass and a pissy attitude, we pulled out of the station hoping that we would be in Accra by 7:00 at the latest. Peace Corps has a rule that we should not travel after dark, because it can be dangerous. The sunsets at 5:30, and Accra is definitely NOT a place I wanted to be wandering around at night. After this ride, I still had to take 2 other taxis to get to my final destination. Well we finally arrived to the city limits around 6:30, but still a way from our destination. The traffic this time of night puts NYC to shame. Cars, tros, buses as well as motorbikes, ladies selling wares on the top of their heads, and of course, goats, sheep and cattle filled the streets. I am not taking about side streets, I am talking about 4 lane “highway” (I hate to use that word because the image that comes to your mind is NOT how it is here. They are doing a massive upgrade to the roads, so the roads are all torn up, not yet paved, and difficult to navigate with no traffic). Our driver gets creative and knows a short cut to avoid the tangled mass of metal. We reach the short cut, which is a one lane road, and find a big truck broken down in the middle of the road making impossible for us to pass. Par for the course. To make a long, long, long story shorter, I finally get to my destination around 10:00; only a 13 hour trip!
Amid the chaotic dance, the drivers have a good grasp on driving. Maybe they are listening to music only they can hear. Whatever the case, when you get on the road here, you learn how to pray fast and hard!
Tros
Tros are a large passenger vans. There are usually 5 rows of seats, and comfortably you have 3 per seat. Unfortunately, comfortable is not a word in the Ghana dictionary. Ghanians don’t like to waste space, so they will put four in a row. My personal goal was 22 passengers in a van. Up close and personal. Actually, having all those people around you kind of softens the blow of all the pot holes. Nine times out of ten the doors don’t shut correctly, you usually can see the road underneath your feet, the dash board indicators don’t work. And, let’s not forget the luggage. Big stuff goes in the back. I’ve seen refrigerators, 100 pound burlap bags of stuff, chickens (of course they are alive!! silly) and who know what else. All the “normal” luggage is expected to be on your lap; i.e., back packs, small boxes, groceries. The real big stuff goes on top of the van. 100 pound bags of produce, live goats... There was one time I saw 8 goats tied to the top of the van. Yup.
There is the driver, and he has a mate. The mate is in charge of collecting the money, and communicating with the driver. If the van is not quite full (God forbid), the mate is yelling, as he is hanging half outside the window, the destination of the tro. Of course you can’t understand what it is he is screaming as he goes, for example there is a city called Kofferidguha, but he is yelling “Rodua”. The tro will barely come to a stop, load passengers and make it’s way to the station. As he is pulling out, there are 5 tro’s wanting to take his place, and, of course while he is pulling out, no one is letting him in. Horns blaring, tires screeching, and mates yelling, somehow you make it back on to the road. Don’t ask me why there are not tons of accidents.
The good thing about tros is that they are cheap. And, you don’t usually have to wait too long for one to drive by, the mate shouting the your destination. But, 99% of them would be illegal to be on a road in the US. Most windshields are cracked, transmission works sometimes, and the mechanical parts are somehow working but I am not sure how. One trip I was on was supposed to take 6 hours. Half way towards our destination, something in the gears or clutch stops working. So, we get out, push the tro up the hill, and coast down into a small village. Our vehicle stops next to what looks like a graveyard for tros; heaps and piles of parts and bodies. The driver gets out, talks to the mechanic, who proceeds to crawl under the tro. After much banging and clanging, he comes out with what looks like the drive shaft (I am no mechanic by any means, it could have been the gas tank!), goes to another broken down tro, takes that one off and puts it on ours. In three hours we are up and running again. The sun has gone to bed, and we are almost at our destination,(key word almost). We are heading up a hill on a tiny dirt road when, the transmission decides it is done for the day. We can not move forward or back up; we are stuck like Winnie the Pooh in the Hunney Tree. After 10 hours of being on the road, and not yet at our destination, we are at our wits end. We call the place where we are spending the night and they offer to come and get us. Luckily we are only about 20 minutes away. I feel bad for the poor driver though; he has to stay behind with his vehicle and hope to have it fixed the next day. When we pass through 3 days later, the tro is still sitting there. The driver lost money on that trip!
Taxis
There are two types of taxis; line taxis and drop taxis. Drop taxis are one of the most expensive ways to travel. They will only take you to whatever destination you want. They will always try to gouge you; and you have to fight with them to get the price down. A line taxi will wait until it is full before it will go to your destination. It’s cheaper than a drop taxi, but sometimes you might have to sit in the taxi up to an hour before the taxi fills. The normal capacity is 5 people in the car, plus baggage in the back. Most of the cars are about the size of a Scion, tiny little cars. Now, I said that the normal capacity is 5, two in the front and three in the back. Well, during our training we would have to travel from our home stay to our training site every Friday. Our allowance for training was $2 per day.... beer costs $1.50..... you do the math, we didn’t have a lot of money. So we would try to make a deal with taxi driver, we would pay the fare of 4 people but try to fit more people in the car than that. We got to know each other quite well on those trips. One night after having a few beers at the spot, we fit 12 people in the car. Remember, the car is the size of a Scion. We had three in the front, 6 in the back seat and 3 of us in the very back. I am quite proud of that record!!
Buses
There are three types of buses; Metro, STC, and Scary as Hell Buses. Metro are similar to those similar to those in the states, sort of.... They are cheap, and are usually packed. Again personal space is not a concept the folks here understand. There is a mob to get on the bus first, so you can get a seat. Once the seats are full, you pile in amongst the bags, bowls, kids, and produce. You have to hang on for dear life as you get bounced and thrown around. There are no real bus stops that the driver will stop at. If you want to get off, you yell “Bus Stop” and hopes that the driver will hear you and hope that he feels like stopping. You usually will get dropped within a 1/2 mile of where you wanted to get off.
STC is similar to Grey Hound... sort of. It is a lot more expensive than taking a tro, and is supposed to leave at a designated time. Unfortunately, they never do. Either there is a mechanical problem (the bus is “spoiled’) or they wait for the bus to fill.
One day I had to go down to Accra. Because it is a long drive, and the tro’s are very uncomfortable, I decided to take a bus. I wanted to see which one would fill faster and when I checked, they looked about the same; both were 30% full. I got on the bus and thought, well, I can be patient, it might take little longer to fill but it would be worth it. The seat was actually comfortable though the AC was spoiled. A trip to Accra from Kumasi is about 4-5 hours. I sat down at 9 am. I closed my eyes and took a little nap. When I woke up at 10 we were still sitting there and maybe 50% full. I was surprised that it wasn’t fuller, but when I looked out the window I realized why. There was a battle going on outside. Whenever someone new came through wanting to go to Accra, the person was accosted by each of the drivers. With much pushing, shoving and yelling the drivers would argue which vehicle the poor passenger would take. I thought a fist fight would break out, it was close. It seemed that our bus was on the loosing side. Other vehicles were loaded up and on their way while we just sat there. Elven came and went, so did noon... By one, we were all pissed and yelling at the driver for us to get on our way. Finally by 2:00 we were finally full. I sat there for 5 hours waiting to leave!!! I should have been down in Accra by then! With a sore ass and a pissy attitude, we pulled out of the station hoping that we would be in Accra by 7:00 at the latest. Peace Corps has a rule that we should not travel after dark, because it can be dangerous. The sunsets at 5:30, and Accra is definitely NOT a place I wanted to be wandering around at night. After this ride, I still had to take 2 other taxis to get to my final destination. Well we finally arrived to the city limits around 6:30, but still a way from our destination. The traffic this time of night puts NYC to shame. Cars, tros, buses as well as motorbikes, ladies selling wares on the top of their heads, and of course, goats, sheep and cattle filled the streets. I am not taking about side streets, I am talking about 4 lane “highway” (I hate to use that word because the image that comes to your mind is NOT how it is here. They are doing a massive upgrade to the roads, so the roads are all torn up, not yet paved, and difficult to navigate with no traffic). Our driver gets creative and knows a short cut to avoid the tangled mass of metal. We reach the short cut, which is a one lane road, and find a big truck broken down in the middle of the road making impossible for us to pass. Par for the course. To make a long, long, long story shorter, I finally get to my destination around 10:00; only a 13 hour trip!
Amid the chaotic dance, the drivers have a good grasp on driving. Maybe they are listening to music only they can hear. Whatever the case, when you get on the road here, you learn how to pray fast and hard!
Tuesday, November 3, 2009
Of Mice and Me....
Damn mice! I feel like I mix of two characters; Bill Murray in Caddy Shack, and Elmer Fudd. Yes, go ahead and have your laughs. But I am PISSED!!! The mice are eating my food!!! The damn thing probably weighs more than I do (though right now that wouldn’t take much). Let me start from the beginning...
Shortly after I moved here, I saw a cute little mouse scurry across the floor, and upon seeing me, ran back for safety behind my refrigerator. Aw, I thought, how nice! He’s coming in to say hello to me. At the time, I didn’t have any problems with him eating any of my stuff,but, come to think of it, I didn’t have any food in the room. To be on the safe side, I asked Chris to send me some mouse traps and cedar chips. Later, I had a counter built with cupboards and slowly started to fill it with food. Well of course you know what happened. But what I can’t figure out is how that little bugger got into this cabinet. It’s not attached to the wall, there are no holes in it, there is only a little crack less than 1/2 inch at the very bottom. Amazingly, that is what it takes for these little guys to get in. And once they’re in, there is nothing they don’t want to taste. They chew through zip lock bags, aluminum foil, heavy plastic and wood. Most times they don’t want to eat the thing inside, they just want to taste it. The problem with that is that once the hole is there, that is a gateway for the gazbillions of ants I have. (Look for upcoming blog on ants. Wahoo bet you can’t wait!!!)
I would buy some crackers or noodles and the next day there would be a corner of the package chewed open and just a small bite taken out of the food. I opened up one closet where I keep all my books and paperwork and paper was shredded all around. I opened up another closet where I keep my bags and utensils, and they have eaten through my roll of plastic wrap. Plastic wrap!!! The whole role shredded into tiny pieces. What the heck? I was getting worried because I was expecting some packages from home and I definitely did NOT want them getting into my US food!!! I needed to take some action. I need to put on my Elmer Fudd hunting cap, and think like the mighty hunter himself! The heck with wabbits, I want to find me some mice.
Plan A: I thought I remembered hearing that mice don’t like the smell of cedar; like moths, and if you spread around cedar chips, it will keep the mice away. So I spread the chips through out my closets and cupboards. A couple of days later I noticed that there where now piles of cedar in the corners. Then I remember when my kids had hamsters they used cedar chips as a covering for the bottom cage. Great! I just gave my little mice a nice comfy home in my cupboard!!! Ugh, they are probably scurrying off to tell their buddies what a cool landlord I am!
Plan B: Mouse traps. In the states the bait I used was peanut butter. It always worked. You spread a little on the trap and it would do wonders. I took 3 traps, lathered them up with ground nut paste (Ghanian peanut butter), set them under my table, counter and in my closet shut out the lights and went to bed. I knew in a matter of minutes my mighty traps would do their magic...Nothing...As I drifted off to sleep I thought for sure I would be awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of the trap going off. I woke in the morning having slept with no interruptions. Bewildered, I got up and checked the traps. They were all there with no mice! Apparently Ghanian mice don’t like ground nut paste. But, ants LOVE ground nut paste!!! I just increased my ant population by 50 times! Great!!
Pan C: Bread. What mouse can refuse tasty bread? See, being the Mighty Mouser that I am, I know all the secrets. That is what puts me in the same league as Fudd and Murray. The next evening, I break off pieces of bread and get ready to make my death trap. However, using bread is much different than peanut butter. With peanut butter you just spread it on and it sticks. How do you put bread on? It just falls off the trap. But, no worries us hunters are verwy twicky. I found a rubber band and, after several attempts, managed to attach the bread to the trap. Now, mice, it’s time to say goodbye!! The Great Hunter has you in his sights!!! Watch out you Wascals!!!
Do you know that time of night where you are just drifting off; the conscious world is fuzzy, as the floaty dream world takes over? Well, that is when the mice come. I hear this scratching/chewing sound that pulls me from my slumber and forces me back to reality. I lie awake, trying to figure out where the invader is- my cupboard, table or closet? Groggy, I try to sneak out of my bed and get tangled up in my bug net that I have around my bed. Yes, a bug net. I am sure you’ve seen them in the movies. They work quite well actually. It’s a net you drape around the bed to protect you from all the creepy crawly things that want to suck your blood; and trust me there are a lot of those creepy crawly things here. At least the mice are just trying to eat my food and not me!
I finally get untangled and sneak to the cupboard and open the door. There is the trap not sprung, but, the bread is gone! I check all the others and find all the bread is gone in them as well. Hmmmm..... these are very smart mice. Not only smart, but well rested in their cedar beds and sleeping soundly with a full stomach; probably dreaming of what nice food they will be treated to next.
Well, one thing you don’t want to do is piss off a mighty hunter. Bill Murray never gave up hunting that groundhog, nor Elmer in his efforts to get Bugs Bunny. I am not easily discouraged! Unfortunately, what I shouldn’t have done is try to rebait the traps in the middle of the night when I am half asleep and pissed. But, I did. And yes, the traps work. Quite well actually. I have bruises on my fingers to prove it. Man that smarts!
Plan D: Crackers. Crackers are bound to work. Right??? After all, I know they like them, cuz the ate most of them already!! So last night, I set them. In the dark of dawn I awakened to a CRACK!!! Ha, I say to myself! Who is the Master now??? Teaches them for messing with somebody with mighty hunter instincts like myself. I force myself back to sleep, not bothering to check the trap; I’ll wait for the morning to see my bounty.
I bounce out of bed in the morning with a spring in my step. I think to myself, this is what Elmer must of felt when finally got Bugs Bunny. I pause, wondering DID E.F. ever get B.B.??? Of course he does.... I just missed that show. I shrug it off, and think about breakfast. I am famished! This hunting is hard work!! After I clean up the breakfast dishes, I decide it’s time to claim my bounty. I open my closet and the trap has been moved. It is under some dirty clothes. No cracker... No mouse. WHAT’S HAPPENING????? Maybe these mice are smarter than me? No...A hunter like me can’t loose to a stupid varmint! After all, Bill Murray won his battle against that evil groundhog, didn’t he?? Gulp. Well, if this is the last blog you get from me, you will know who won.
Shortly after I moved here, I saw a cute little mouse scurry across the floor, and upon seeing me, ran back for safety behind my refrigerator. Aw, I thought, how nice! He’s coming in to say hello to me. At the time, I didn’t have any problems with him eating any of my stuff,but, come to think of it, I didn’t have any food in the room. To be on the safe side, I asked Chris to send me some mouse traps and cedar chips. Later, I had a counter built with cupboards and slowly started to fill it with food. Well of course you know what happened. But what I can’t figure out is how that little bugger got into this cabinet. It’s not attached to the wall, there are no holes in it, there is only a little crack less than 1/2 inch at the very bottom. Amazingly, that is what it takes for these little guys to get in. And once they’re in, there is nothing they don’t want to taste. They chew through zip lock bags, aluminum foil, heavy plastic and wood. Most times they don’t want to eat the thing inside, they just want to taste it. The problem with that is that once the hole is there, that is a gateway for the gazbillions of ants I have. (Look for upcoming blog on ants. Wahoo bet you can’t wait!!!)
I would buy some crackers or noodles and the next day there would be a corner of the package chewed open and just a small bite taken out of the food. I opened up one closet where I keep all my books and paperwork and paper was shredded all around. I opened up another closet where I keep my bags and utensils, and they have eaten through my roll of plastic wrap. Plastic wrap!!! The whole role shredded into tiny pieces. What the heck? I was getting worried because I was expecting some packages from home and I definitely did NOT want them getting into my US food!!! I needed to take some action. I need to put on my Elmer Fudd hunting cap, and think like the mighty hunter himself! The heck with wabbits, I want to find me some mice.
Plan A: I thought I remembered hearing that mice don’t like the smell of cedar; like moths, and if you spread around cedar chips, it will keep the mice away. So I spread the chips through out my closets and cupboards. A couple of days later I noticed that there where now piles of cedar in the corners. Then I remember when my kids had hamsters they used cedar chips as a covering for the bottom cage. Great! I just gave my little mice a nice comfy home in my cupboard!!! Ugh, they are probably scurrying off to tell their buddies what a cool landlord I am!
Plan B: Mouse traps. In the states the bait I used was peanut butter. It always worked. You spread a little on the trap and it would do wonders. I took 3 traps, lathered them up with ground nut paste (Ghanian peanut butter), set them under my table, counter and in my closet shut out the lights and went to bed. I knew in a matter of minutes my mighty traps would do their magic...Nothing...As I drifted off to sleep I thought for sure I would be awakened in the middle of the night to the sound of the trap going off. I woke in the morning having slept with no interruptions. Bewildered, I got up and checked the traps. They were all there with no mice! Apparently Ghanian mice don’t like ground nut paste. But, ants LOVE ground nut paste!!! I just increased my ant population by 50 times! Great!!
Pan C: Bread. What mouse can refuse tasty bread? See, being the Mighty Mouser that I am, I know all the secrets. That is what puts me in the same league as Fudd and Murray. The next evening, I break off pieces of bread and get ready to make my death trap. However, using bread is much different than peanut butter. With peanut butter you just spread it on and it sticks. How do you put bread on? It just falls off the trap. But, no worries us hunters are verwy twicky. I found a rubber band and, after several attempts, managed to attach the bread to the trap. Now, mice, it’s time to say goodbye!! The Great Hunter has you in his sights!!! Watch out you Wascals!!!
Do you know that time of night where you are just drifting off; the conscious world is fuzzy, as the floaty dream world takes over? Well, that is when the mice come. I hear this scratching/chewing sound that pulls me from my slumber and forces me back to reality. I lie awake, trying to figure out where the invader is- my cupboard, table or closet? Groggy, I try to sneak out of my bed and get tangled up in my bug net that I have around my bed. Yes, a bug net. I am sure you’ve seen them in the movies. They work quite well actually. It’s a net you drape around the bed to protect you from all the creepy crawly things that want to suck your blood; and trust me there are a lot of those creepy crawly things here. At least the mice are just trying to eat my food and not me!
I finally get untangled and sneak to the cupboard and open the door. There is the trap not sprung, but, the bread is gone! I check all the others and find all the bread is gone in them as well. Hmmmm..... these are very smart mice. Not only smart, but well rested in their cedar beds and sleeping soundly with a full stomach; probably dreaming of what nice food they will be treated to next.
Well, one thing you don’t want to do is piss off a mighty hunter. Bill Murray never gave up hunting that groundhog, nor Elmer in his efforts to get Bugs Bunny. I am not easily discouraged! Unfortunately, what I shouldn’t have done is try to rebait the traps in the middle of the night when I am half asleep and pissed. But, I did. And yes, the traps work. Quite well actually. I have bruises on my fingers to prove it. Man that smarts!
Plan D: Crackers. Crackers are bound to work. Right??? After all, I know they like them, cuz the ate most of them already!! So last night, I set them. In the dark of dawn I awakened to a CRACK!!! Ha, I say to myself! Who is the Master now??? Teaches them for messing with somebody with mighty hunter instincts like myself. I force myself back to sleep, not bothering to check the trap; I’ll wait for the morning to see my bounty.
I bounce out of bed in the morning with a spring in my step. I think to myself, this is what Elmer must of felt when finally got Bugs Bunny. I pause, wondering DID E.F. ever get B.B.??? Of course he does.... I just missed that show. I shrug it off, and think about breakfast. I am famished! This hunting is hard work!! After I clean up the breakfast dishes, I decide it’s time to claim my bounty. I open my closet and the trap has been moved. It is under some dirty clothes. No cracker... No mouse. WHAT’S HAPPENING????? Maybe these mice are smarter than me? No...A hunter like me can’t loose to a stupid varmint! After all, Bill Murray won his battle against that evil groundhog, didn’t he?? Gulp. Well, if this is the last blog you get from me, you will know who won.
Thursday, October 8, 2009
It's Spoiled
Well, I just completed a whirlwind trip of the Wenchi Cashew Farmers Association zones. The Assoc. is made up of 7 Zones; farmers that live in villages around Wenchi. The zones have anywhere from 100-1,000 farmers. Though as a crow flies, the zones are not too far away, it can take up to 2 hours to get to these places. “Wayne”, you say, “what is the big deal? Two hours is nothing, heck we travel two hours to the Fryeburg Fair! Don’t be such a wimp.” True, two hours is not that big of deal if you are driving on paved roads, in a comfy car drinking your damn Starbucks and listening to Take it Easy on your Ipod while the cool breeze from your #@%* air conditioner gently caresses your body. Well, my friends, Ghana travel is NOT like that, “Attall”. (Attall, pronounced at all, but said together with a really long L at the end; it’s a Ghanian phrase.)
The “roads” to get to some of these villages are more like one lane bike paths. Most are washed out with deep channels in the middle. They are very windy (not windy as in blowing, but windy as in curvy. Not curvy like Marilyn Monroe, but curvy like the Kancumangus Highway) and the vegetation on each side is higher than the top of the truck, so you never know if there is anyone coming from the other direction. As a safety precaution, the driver will honk his horn, hoping that if there is any oncoming traffic, they will hear the horn and pull over. Of course we would never pull over, we just keep barreling through the jungle, so I don’t know why they would think the other vehicle would yield. You learn how to pray in earnest, as you are being tossed to and fro, like a carnival ride at the Fryeburg Fair, hoping that the Lord will hear and keep you safe. The other reason they blow their horn is to alert the pedestrians that are walking home. Most people don’t own vehicles, so they walk to the market, or to fetch water or to gather fire wood. So, as we round the corner, we see people scattering in all directions trying to get out of the path of this metal bucking, broncing bull heading towards them. I feel bad for these folks, most of the time they are carrying a heavy load on their heads. They have gigantic metal mixing bowls, that can easily hold 5 gallons of water, on their heads, walking back from the stream, or, if they are under 10 years old, they might only have a 3 gallon bucket on their head. Or, they might have a bundle of fire wood on their heads. I used to think it was quite impressive of me to carry a big arm load of cut and split wood, but I am put to shame with what they can carry. Some of the branches are a foot in diameter, and over 10 feet long. They could have up to 10 branches in a bundle strapped together with vines. Of course there is no breakdown lane or anything for them to escape to. They huddle against the vegetation as we speed by. Unfortunately there are times where there is a big puddle of water next to them, and as we splash through they shriek in anger and frustration at us; the driver yells out his window “Sorry-O!!” and waves as we roll on.
So late on Sunday night I get a call from the chairman of the assoc. saying that the folks from Fair Trade are in town and are planning to do some training on farming issues and want me to come along. Sure, I say, I can introduce myself to all the zones and talk about the importance of being a unified group. Plus it was a free ride in a Land Rover, rather than taking tro’s like I was originally planning on doing. We planned to meet at the office at 8:30 and would organize the trip. I admit, I was late when I arrived at the office on Monday, I got there at 8:33. At 9:15, they pulled in. We got the week planned, called all the leaders of the zones to let them know when we where coming, and to make sure the farmers would be there. Our schedule for Monday was to meet with some farmers in Wenchi at 11:00, then have lunch at 1:00 with another meeting in Wenchi at 3:00. I was excited for this was my first busy week, meetings everyday, and actually having a schedule of sorts.
We needed to stop by an office supply store to print off some documents for the farmers. So, we headed out to to store at 11:10 ( yes, our first meeting was at 11:00; get used to it). We walked into the store and asked if we could get a document from our flash drive so that we could make a bunch of copies. “No,” they say, “the computer is spoiled.” Spoiled in Ghana means that it no longer works, and sometimes they don’t know how to fix it so it can remain spoiled for some time. Cars can be spoiled, a camera, and the internet is almost always spoiled. They say the nearest place to get access to the documents on the flash drive is in Techiman. So, instead of thinking of another place in town, we hop in the Land Rover and make the 45 minute trek to Techiman. We walked into the store to find, yes, you guessed it, that their machine is spoiled as well. By now, I am not surprised at this... ATTALLL!!! I suggest that we go to the internet cafe that I use to see if we can use one of their machines. To my amazement, they are in fact open and, the machines are not spoiled! The catch, (there is always a catch) is that there is a line of 10 people in front of us. We leave one person behind to wait in line, while we go sit in the vehicle. It’s high noon, the 90 plus heat of the day bakes us into sweaty hot lumps. Two hours later, he comes out with the copy of the document needed to be copied. We go back to to Wenchi, eat lunch and arrive to the 3:00 meeting on time. Well, we are on time, but the farmers start strolling in around 4:00 and we finally get the meeting started by 4:30. It’s Ghana time, I sloooowly getting used to it.
During the meeting there is a fierce rain shower that brings in cool clean air. I love the rainy season. What I don’t like about the rainy season is the walking conditions afterwards. In town, the ground is a very hard packed red almost clay like dirt. On the top of that is a fine layer of powdery dirt. When it rains, ground is like walking in a frying pan full of bacon grease. Slippery does not even describe it. On top of it being slick, you have to navigate up and down uneven terrain, trying not to step in the newly created puddles of greenish yellow slime. Well I am sure you can guess what happens next. I almost made it. Yes, I was sliding, but I could see the Land Rover, and I was so focused at reaching my goal. But, before I knew it, I was looking at my feet above me. I put my hands down to break my fall, and they sink into the wet red muck. Quickly I get up, wipe myself off, and take a look around to see if anyone has noticed me. But I have the same amount of luck with that as a giraffe would have trying to hide in a heard of buffalos. It starts with the kids, a high pitched shrill of a laugh, and spreads to the adults until everyone is pointing and laughing. It’s like they’ve never seen a white person fall in mud before; come to think of it they probably haven’t! I really can’t gather any sense of pride or dignity at point. I start to try to brush the mud off my clothes, only to succeed in just smearing it all over. I give up, smile and wave to my audience and humbly walk off. So ends day one of my week long trip.
We plan on picking me up at 5:30 on Tuesday morning and head to Nchiraa and Wurumpo. The morning comes early, and I greet the dark dawn bleary eyed as I drink some coffee trying to clear the cobwebs from my head. I go outside to wait for my traveling buddies and the cool morning air is very refreshing. I say cool; it’s in the 70’s, but in Ghana that is freezing! People walk by bundled up in down vests, heavy winter jackets. Honest. Sweaters, hats, and fleece socks have been pulled out and put on. When the temperature reaches in the 80’s they start to put their clothes away.
I am picked up at 6:10 and we head to Nchiraa. It’s a small village with less than a thousand people in it. The dirt road that serves as main street is crowded with people going to farm, and women are busy making cocoa porridge that they sell by the side of the road. The older kids play soccer with an old coconut shell, while the younger kids pull an old tin can tied to a rope behind them. (It’s their idea of a car. Some of them will even put wooden dowels on the bottom for wheels. I will have to get a picture of this, it is precious). No video games, no TV. Sounds peaceful doesn’t it? Well it would be except for the loudspeaker attached to a telephone pole, BLASTING out the local radio station. It’s talk radio, in Twi, and even at times when they might play an occasional song, the DJ talks over the music. I was trying to have a conversation with someone standing next to me, but I gave up; I got tired of yelling. Luckily, the place we are meeting is down the street, away from the loud speaker; it right next to a spot (bar) named “The Nowhere Place”. Is that a cool name or what?? I think the owner might have an inferiority complex or something, but it is a great name for a spot. I can see it now; a guy walks out of the house and his wife asks, “Where are you going honey?” “Oh, Nowhere, I’ll be back soon.” Oh, I am killing myself here!!!! You can’t make this stuff up!!! Anyways, the meeting is supposed to start at 6:00, I think it got going around 8:30 or so.
In the afternoon, we go visit some farms. Fair Trade is wanting to have an organic market for cashews, and needs to check out some farms to see if it is possible. The soil and the climate here is great for agriculture. Because of the climate, they can get 3 harvests a year. Wenchi produces maze, cassava, yams, pineapple, coconut, palm nut, cola nuts, cashews, beans, tomatoes and cocoa all in tremendous quantities. Every market day trucks from Accra come in and load up the goods to supply the city.
All they need to do is plant the seeds and it grows. Even I could grow something, it is that simple. Simple, not necessary easy. There is a tremendous weeding to do, but they really don’t need any fertilizers. There are few diseases or insects that effect the trees so it won’t take much for them to go organic. One of the issues is weeding. Cashew farmers need to weed the area under the trees three times a year. The reason for this is because how the nut is harvested. The tree produces a flower, then a fruit. Attached to the fruit on the outside is the nut. Sounds backwards I know, but that is the way it is. They want to make sure that the nut is completely ripe before harvest, so they wait until the fruit with the nut attached, falls to the ground. Then they go around and pick up the fruit, cut off the nut and discard the fruit. It seems like a waste to throw the fruit away, but that is what they do. I am working with a gentleman that uses the fruit to make an energy drink and jams with the fruit, but he is just starting up and it will take time before that business is ready. Anyways, they need to keep the ground under the trees free of weeds so they can gather the nut. Most farmers have anywhere from 2-18 acres of land which they farm cashew trees. Until the trees become adult trees, there is a tremendous amount of weeding to do. So, this is where they use chemicals; to keep down the weeds. And, here is where Fair Trade has it’s problem. There can be no use of chemicals on an organic farm.
Educating farmers is a huge undertaking. You have to keep in mind that most of these farmers are illiterate and have very little education. I was amazed at their lack of understanding and critical thinking. Here are some examples of what I mean. They might need some chemicals for killing weeds, so they go to the agro chemical store and get chemicals. Because they can’t read, they just spray it all on, not really knowing the proper procedure for application. Then, and this is the horrible part, they will take the empty container of weed killer and use it as a container for drinking water! Ugh!!! Here is another example. In each region there is an office for the Department of Agriculture. You can bring a soil sample in and they will tell you what produce is best for your soil. And, they will tell you the best farming practices. For example, to get the most yield for cashews, you should have no more than 50 trees per acre. This will produce about 25 bags of nuts on average. This allows the trees to have ample room to grow without competing against each other. Unfortunately most farmers can’t understand this concept. Instead of planting 50 trees, they will plant 100 trees, thinking this will give the more yield. But instead of 25 bags, they only get 7 bags of nuts. When this is pointed out to them, and you suggest that they cut down some trees, they look at you like you have two heads. I could go on, but I think you have the basic idea.
So, the week is basically the same each day. My day started at 5:30 and I got home around 7:00. Lots of delays, late meetings, we even get lost once. It was a long week but gave me a good understanding of what I am up against here, and what I need to be working on. Step by step, day by day, hopefully in some small way I can help make a difference.
The “roads” to get to some of these villages are more like one lane bike paths. Most are washed out with deep channels in the middle. They are very windy (not windy as in blowing, but windy as in curvy. Not curvy like Marilyn Monroe, but curvy like the Kancumangus Highway) and the vegetation on each side is higher than the top of the truck, so you never know if there is anyone coming from the other direction. As a safety precaution, the driver will honk his horn, hoping that if there is any oncoming traffic, they will hear the horn and pull over. Of course we would never pull over, we just keep barreling through the jungle, so I don’t know why they would think the other vehicle would yield. You learn how to pray in earnest, as you are being tossed to and fro, like a carnival ride at the Fryeburg Fair, hoping that the Lord will hear and keep you safe. The other reason they blow their horn is to alert the pedestrians that are walking home. Most people don’t own vehicles, so they walk to the market, or to fetch water or to gather fire wood. So, as we round the corner, we see people scattering in all directions trying to get out of the path of this metal bucking, broncing bull heading towards them. I feel bad for these folks, most of the time they are carrying a heavy load on their heads. They have gigantic metal mixing bowls, that can easily hold 5 gallons of water, on their heads, walking back from the stream, or, if they are under 10 years old, they might only have a 3 gallon bucket on their head. Or, they might have a bundle of fire wood on their heads. I used to think it was quite impressive of me to carry a big arm load of cut and split wood, but I am put to shame with what they can carry. Some of the branches are a foot in diameter, and over 10 feet long. They could have up to 10 branches in a bundle strapped together with vines. Of course there is no breakdown lane or anything for them to escape to. They huddle against the vegetation as we speed by. Unfortunately there are times where there is a big puddle of water next to them, and as we splash through they shriek in anger and frustration at us; the driver yells out his window “Sorry-O!!” and waves as we roll on.
So late on Sunday night I get a call from the chairman of the assoc. saying that the folks from Fair Trade are in town and are planning to do some training on farming issues and want me to come along. Sure, I say, I can introduce myself to all the zones and talk about the importance of being a unified group. Plus it was a free ride in a Land Rover, rather than taking tro’s like I was originally planning on doing. We planned to meet at the office at 8:30 and would organize the trip. I admit, I was late when I arrived at the office on Monday, I got there at 8:33. At 9:15, they pulled in. We got the week planned, called all the leaders of the zones to let them know when we where coming, and to make sure the farmers would be there. Our schedule for Monday was to meet with some farmers in Wenchi at 11:00, then have lunch at 1:00 with another meeting in Wenchi at 3:00. I was excited for this was my first busy week, meetings everyday, and actually having a schedule of sorts.
We needed to stop by an office supply store to print off some documents for the farmers. So, we headed out to to store at 11:10 ( yes, our first meeting was at 11:00; get used to it). We walked into the store and asked if we could get a document from our flash drive so that we could make a bunch of copies. “No,” they say, “the computer is spoiled.” Spoiled in Ghana means that it no longer works, and sometimes they don’t know how to fix it so it can remain spoiled for some time. Cars can be spoiled, a camera, and the internet is almost always spoiled. They say the nearest place to get access to the documents on the flash drive is in Techiman. So, instead of thinking of another place in town, we hop in the Land Rover and make the 45 minute trek to Techiman. We walked into the store to find, yes, you guessed it, that their machine is spoiled as well. By now, I am not surprised at this... ATTALLL!!! I suggest that we go to the internet cafe that I use to see if we can use one of their machines. To my amazement, they are in fact open and, the machines are not spoiled! The catch, (there is always a catch) is that there is a line of 10 people in front of us. We leave one person behind to wait in line, while we go sit in the vehicle. It’s high noon, the 90 plus heat of the day bakes us into sweaty hot lumps. Two hours later, he comes out with the copy of the document needed to be copied. We go back to to Wenchi, eat lunch and arrive to the 3:00 meeting on time. Well, we are on time, but the farmers start strolling in around 4:00 and we finally get the meeting started by 4:30. It’s Ghana time, I sloooowly getting used to it.
During the meeting there is a fierce rain shower that brings in cool clean air. I love the rainy season. What I don’t like about the rainy season is the walking conditions afterwards. In town, the ground is a very hard packed red almost clay like dirt. On the top of that is a fine layer of powdery dirt. When it rains, ground is like walking in a frying pan full of bacon grease. Slippery does not even describe it. On top of it being slick, you have to navigate up and down uneven terrain, trying not to step in the newly created puddles of greenish yellow slime. Well I am sure you can guess what happens next. I almost made it. Yes, I was sliding, but I could see the Land Rover, and I was so focused at reaching my goal. But, before I knew it, I was looking at my feet above me. I put my hands down to break my fall, and they sink into the wet red muck. Quickly I get up, wipe myself off, and take a look around to see if anyone has noticed me. But I have the same amount of luck with that as a giraffe would have trying to hide in a heard of buffalos. It starts with the kids, a high pitched shrill of a laugh, and spreads to the adults until everyone is pointing and laughing. It’s like they’ve never seen a white person fall in mud before; come to think of it they probably haven’t! I really can’t gather any sense of pride or dignity at point. I start to try to brush the mud off my clothes, only to succeed in just smearing it all over. I give up, smile and wave to my audience and humbly walk off. So ends day one of my week long trip.
We plan on picking me up at 5:30 on Tuesday morning and head to Nchiraa and Wurumpo. The morning comes early, and I greet the dark dawn bleary eyed as I drink some coffee trying to clear the cobwebs from my head. I go outside to wait for my traveling buddies and the cool morning air is very refreshing. I say cool; it’s in the 70’s, but in Ghana that is freezing! People walk by bundled up in down vests, heavy winter jackets. Honest. Sweaters, hats, and fleece socks have been pulled out and put on. When the temperature reaches in the 80’s they start to put their clothes away.
I am picked up at 6:10 and we head to Nchiraa. It’s a small village with less than a thousand people in it. The dirt road that serves as main street is crowded with people going to farm, and women are busy making cocoa porridge that they sell by the side of the road. The older kids play soccer with an old coconut shell, while the younger kids pull an old tin can tied to a rope behind them. (It’s their idea of a car. Some of them will even put wooden dowels on the bottom for wheels. I will have to get a picture of this, it is precious). No video games, no TV. Sounds peaceful doesn’t it? Well it would be except for the loudspeaker attached to a telephone pole, BLASTING out the local radio station. It’s talk radio, in Twi, and even at times when they might play an occasional song, the DJ talks over the music. I was trying to have a conversation with someone standing next to me, but I gave up; I got tired of yelling. Luckily, the place we are meeting is down the street, away from the loud speaker; it right next to a spot (bar) named “The Nowhere Place”. Is that a cool name or what?? I think the owner might have an inferiority complex or something, but it is a great name for a spot. I can see it now; a guy walks out of the house and his wife asks, “Where are you going honey?” “Oh, Nowhere, I’ll be back soon.” Oh, I am killing myself here!!!! You can’t make this stuff up!!! Anyways, the meeting is supposed to start at 6:00, I think it got going around 8:30 or so.
In the afternoon, we go visit some farms. Fair Trade is wanting to have an organic market for cashews, and needs to check out some farms to see if it is possible. The soil and the climate here is great for agriculture. Because of the climate, they can get 3 harvests a year. Wenchi produces maze, cassava, yams, pineapple, coconut, palm nut, cola nuts, cashews, beans, tomatoes and cocoa all in tremendous quantities. Every market day trucks from Accra come in and load up the goods to supply the city.
All they need to do is plant the seeds and it grows. Even I could grow something, it is that simple. Simple, not necessary easy. There is a tremendous weeding to do, but they really don’t need any fertilizers. There are few diseases or insects that effect the trees so it won’t take much for them to go organic. One of the issues is weeding. Cashew farmers need to weed the area under the trees three times a year. The reason for this is because how the nut is harvested. The tree produces a flower, then a fruit. Attached to the fruit on the outside is the nut. Sounds backwards I know, but that is the way it is. They want to make sure that the nut is completely ripe before harvest, so they wait until the fruit with the nut attached, falls to the ground. Then they go around and pick up the fruit, cut off the nut and discard the fruit. It seems like a waste to throw the fruit away, but that is what they do. I am working with a gentleman that uses the fruit to make an energy drink and jams with the fruit, but he is just starting up and it will take time before that business is ready. Anyways, they need to keep the ground under the trees free of weeds so they can gather the nut. Most farmers have anywhere from 2-18 acres of land which they farm cashew trees. Until the trees become adult trees, there is a tremendous amount of weeding to do. So, this is where they use chemicals; to keep down the weeds. And, here is where Fair Trade has it’s problem. There can be no use of chemicals on an organic farm.
Educating farmers is a huge undertaking. You have to keep in mind that most of these farmers are illiterate and have very little education. I was amazed at their lack of understanding and critical thinking. Here are some examples of what I mean. They might need some chemicals for killing weeds, so they go to the agro chemical store and get chemicals. Because they can’t read, they just spray it all on, not really knowing the proper procedure for application. Then, and this is the horrible part, they will take the empty container of weed killer and use it as a container for drinking water! Ugh!!! Here is another example. In each region there is an office for the Department of Agriculture. You can bring a soil sample in and they will tell you what produce is best for your soil. And, they will tell you the best farming practices. For example, to get the most yield for cashews, you should have no more than 50 trees per acre. This will produce about 25 bags of nuts on average. This allows the trees to have ample room to grow without competing against each other. Unfortunately most farmers can’t understand this concept. Instead of planting 50 trees, they will plant 100 trees, thinking this will give the more yield. But instead of 25 bags, they only get 7 bags of nuts. When this is pointed out to them, and you suggest that they cut down some trees, they look at you like you have two heads. I could go on, but I think you have the basic idea.
So, the week is basically the same each day. My day started at 5:30 and I got home around 7:00. Lots of delays, late meetings, we even get lost once. It was a long week but gave me a good understanding of what I am up against here, and what I need to be working on. Step by step, day by day, hopefully in some small way I can help make a difference.
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