Saturday 26 May 2012

"Goal Posts in the Gold Coast"


Having been at the school for a couple of weeks now, I think it's about time to share my experiences - it is after all the reason that I'm actually here. A typical day goes something like this:

05.40: Wake up (60% awake and upwards will do). Shuffle, eyes-closed, into shower. Cold shower/buckets of water to complete the waking up stage.
06.10: Minibus leaves house to drop off boarders at school.
06.25: Minibus starts picking up day pupils from surrounding area. Cue incident and general excitement (see previous post).
08.20: Breakfast at school: after being awake for the best part of three hours, this generates more excitement than you might think.
08.30: School starts (and the hysterical small children screaming and running around stop) Teaching/Marking/Planning/Reading
12.30: Lunch. Huge portions of yams/stew/rice/plantain/banku/kenkey etc
13.10: Teaching/Marking/Planning/Reading
15.00: Home time - and a wander along the dirt tracks waving, greeting and often shaking hands (the really cool Ghanaian handshake where you both click against each other's third finger) with everyone and anyone.

School is great fun. Not only have I gained the prestigious title of "Sir Nick", but some of the students actually salute me. Needless to say that this is an idea that I'll be bringing back to the UK with me and will subsequently be trying to implement. It feels like it's a real novelty for the students to have an obroni  ('white person/foreigner') around them at school - but this plays into your hands when trying to teach a group of thirty restless teenagers during the final period on a Friday. I could have taken a lesson on Methodology in Political Theory and they still would have hung onto every word.

I've taken a number of English classes and Social Studies classes so far and it's been interesting to compare my time working as a teaching assistant in France with my time here in Ghana. During an English comprehension exercise, we were looking at a text on the subject of AIDS. A student put their hand up and, in the class of thirty, explained that they were HIV-positive and asked what could be done to prevent the transmission of the virus to others. So apart from the fact that I'm working in a school, Ghana and France can't really be compared. It's a different world, but it's one that I'm relishing the opportunity to get to know.

Early on, during a standard venture out into the playground, a swarm of small children (after working in secondary schools, you forget just how small some children can be) pounced on me from out of nowhere and before I knew it I had been smothered by dozens of them. It took a good five minutes of shaking hands, high-fiving and the occasional pat on my head before I escaped and tasted sweet freedom once again. I returned to the main school building with the high-pitched calls of 'obruniiiiiiiii' trailing in my wake.

On Saturday morning I was up at 05.00 (no, that's not a typo) to go running and play football with the boarders. In what can only be described as miraculous, there are 21 boarders who, along with me, like to play football . And so, after a warm-up of jogging in rhythm down dirt tracks whilst blaring out African songs for motivation (far better than our standard British warm-up of "twice around the football pitch…"), we started the game. I'd forgotten just how much I enjoy a good old 11-a-side match. Moments of world-class skill, some Sunday League defending and plenty of goals. And the inevitable last quarter of the game (or third in my case) where no-one can muster anything faster than a gentle walk across the pitch. What could be a better way to start the weekend?

As if that weren't enough we finished the day by getting a group of teachers together to go and watch the Champions League Final (sorry pedants, but they don't use an apostrophe) at the nearby hotel. Ghana is a country made up of Chelsea supporters -  due to their Ghanaian player Michael Essien and the fact that it's the only decent Premier League team with a healthy number of African players -  so this match was a big deal. We piled into the bar and the whistle blew for kick-off. Our audience was on the verge of tears when Chelsea were 1-0 down with just eight minutes to go. And then, with only two minutes left on the clock, Drogba (an Ivorian, but Ghanaians don't seem to mind if he scores) equalised. Eruption. Jubilation. Hugging, high-fiving, dozens of handshakes for everyone, shouting and cheering. Which gives you some idea of the reaction when Chelsea eventually won on penalties. I honestly thought my die-hard Chelsea-supporting friends were going to jump fully-clothed into the pool in celebration. The hotel managers, in their shirts, ties and badges, rushed out from wherever they'd been 'working' that evening and started jumping up and down, fist-pumping and hugging us as though we were brothers who had been separated at birth and who were now finally reunited. Anthems rang in our ears for the remainder of the night. Ghana is a country where football really matters. That suits me just fine... 


Ghanaian Vehicle Moment of the Week: Being a passenger in a taxi so low that we were constantly bottoming-out whilst driving irresponsibly close to a tanker carrying a gigantic black cylinder bearing the words: "Atomic Energy Commission"

Wednesday 16 May 2012

"Drive Hard with a Vengeance"


When imagining the five hour journey from Accra to Fumesua, I had all sorts of ideas about what could lie ahead, built up from a little previous experience, accounts from others and, for the most part, stereotypes: would we tip over on every corner? Would it be so hot that we end up discovering the melting point of 'human'? Would the ride render me unable to sit down for months after? The answer was most unexpected.

I ended up on a bus with air conditioning blasting out from every angle, huge reclining seats and a widescreen TV that was showing an oddly gripping and wholly outlandish drama in Twi.  As a result these five hours absolutely flew by (and the two sisters were reunited at the end, both living in luxury, and only one man was left speaking in tongues).  I was met at my stop in Fumesua by Eric - a teacher, my new guide and all-round nice guy - and we travelled to the house where I would be staying for the duration of my time in Ghana.

A very good room was made great by the fact that my pillows (which are actually the right shape, unlike the French ones I've been dealing with this year) are covered with cartoons of penguins, reindeers and snowmen. A token bit of unpacking was followed by some Ghanaian-sized portions of rice and a delicious stew, before I headed to bed for an early night. And that was when the storm hit. The power went out and I lay on my mattress in the pitch black, my room illuminated by flashes of lightning every other second. I just listened. The sound of the rain hitting the roof and the ground outside was biblical. I fell asleep with a huge grin on my face…

Mornings consist of waking up at 05.40 or so and jumping onto the rickety school minibus to do a few rounds around the surrounding villages to pick up the students. These journeys are great fun. Key features of the minibus include: half the casing of a television in the passenger footwell, presumably to cover the exposed wires/gaping hole in the floor; the sliding door that excels in reaching its resonating frequency at dual carriageway speed; and the ability to tilt what I'm sure is well over 45˚ without rolling.

It doesn't take long before you're completely unsurprised by anything during these journeys. Today our school minibus drove along the hard shoulder on the wrong side of a dual carriageway, towards oncoming traffic. It's all about the excitement. Anyone can drive on the correct side of the road. We are also taking strides in finding out how many children can fit into a minibus (I'm afraid a punch-line doesn't follow). We managed a good deal over forty today (five of whom were wedged between the passenger seat and the dashboard - and I was sitting in the passenger seat). This all well and good until you go around a roundabout, your entire bodyweight pressing against the passenger door and you suddenly ask yourself: just how trustworthy is that piece of rope that long ago replaced any semblance of a door handle?

Whilst bouncing along, you suddenly realise that half of your brain is constantly churning out contingency plans and escape routes. One such moment came when we were parked on the hard shoulder of the dual carriageway, rain thrashing against the windows. I was standing up in the passenger seat, facing the rest of the seats in the bus, having had to manoeuvre myself to open the door.  It was at this moment that we heard that urgent and unmistakable sound of a huge lorry's horn, again and again, coming towards us. Or should I say two of them. Looking out of the rear windscreen, two pairs of headlights, side by side, loomed out of the sheets of rain. I felt like Harrison Ford in The Fugitive when the bus is lying on the railway tracks and he looks up to see the light of a train coming straight for them. Two trucks barrelling down the road, one trying to overtake the other. There's that moment where you're acutely aware of everyone tensing and the pulses quickening. You find yourself measuring distances and spotting where the soft landings are…

But this stayed purely theoretical. In a rare moment of sanity one of the huge trucks (and these things are absolute behemoths) seemed to have realised that trying to overtake another oversized vehicle whilst straddling the hard shoulder in the pouring rain was probably not going to do anyone any favours. The trucks passed and so did the moment.

One last thing to add on the topic of driving in Ghana is that if you believe that someone has overtaken your vehicle too recklessly, is travelling too slowly or has a generally disagreeable driving style, you (and more often the not any passengers you are carrying) must take the following action: 1) Catch up/slow down until you are alongside the perpetrator (no matter the impracticality or the downright danger to yourself and other road users).  2) Take your eyes off the road for an inappropriate length of time in order to death-stare at your opponent. 3) If this action elicits little to no response, then you are well within your rights to hurl some abusive phrases in Twi at the offender. 4) Keep on staring. 5) Now take both hands well away from the steering wheel in order to gesticulate wildly at everyone and anyone. 6) Return to normal driving style, but - and this is an important point to note - be sure to complain incessantly and at volume about the idiot in said vehicle to the next person with whom you talk. Note: Hours may pass between the aforementioned incident and the latter conversation - but you won't forget and everyone needs to hear about it because it has pained you so.

Happily, life at the school is rather less manic. A topic for the next post I think...

Wednesday 9 May 2012

"Accra for Help"



I was met at the airport in Accra by Osei, a representative from the school in which I'm working. He informed me that I'd be staying in Accra until Monday, that way I could make the most of my time in the capital and have a good old explore…
Accra has a system of 'tro-tros' - minibuses and vans (70% people, 10% wheels, 10% rope, 5% metal, 5% cardboard and duct tape) that makes up a wonderfully cheap and extensive public transport network. For the uninitiated however, we're warned that without a few weeks of deciphering, these networks are impenetrable to the first-time-in-Ghana rookie. Falling into that category myself, for the most part I stuck to taxis (both shared and 'dropping'). Driving in Ghana is wonderfully chaotic, but it just about works because everyone drives that way. The courageousness of the overtaking manoeuvres is matched only by the dare-devil pedestrians who cross dual carriageways, often carrying all manner of interesting items. And as far as I can tell, horns must be used: 1) to announce your presence on a road 2) to say hello 3) to say goodbye 4) at any other time.
Presuming you have faith in your driver's wish to live, you will find yourself aching for a breeze at every corner you turn. Accra is hot. Sweltering is a better word. In my few days here, it's been solid 32˚C+  heat from 08.00 until 16.00 with no breeze at all. To survive, I highly recommend buying some small 500ml plastic bags of water from the hawkers who descend from all directions to junctions at any hint of a red light. Tear a tiny hole in one corner with your teeth and proceed to squeeze the water into your mouth, in a sibling's eye etc.  It must be purely by fate that I am yet to burst the bag over my trousers or in someone's taxi. It's only a matter of time. 
After getting my bearings, yet another SIM card and general comms sorted out, I ventured into the centre of the capital. The coastal drive into town is certainly atmospheric. The settlements spill out onto the road; some buildings seem stable and others look like a strong breeze would render them uninhabitable in a second. With the window down, you can't help but notice the sweet stench of burning rubbish and rotting food. It's a reminder of how many people still live in poverty in a country that many regard as a great African success story. But this is not by any stretch of the imagination representative of Accra as a whole. The centre of town has its fair share of wide avenues, high-rise buildings and luxury hotels to match those of any other capital city.
Whilst here, I visited the National Museum - a great place to start to learn about the rich cultures in Ghana. Whether your interest is in woodcarvings or musical instruments, kente cloth or dancing, there's plenty here to warrant a couple of hours wandering. Perhaps this could be shortened if the layout were a little more efficient - how anyone can look at all the exhibits without doubling back on themselves any less than half a dozen times is beyond me. Perhaps dehydration and confusion had set in.
After trekking the streets in the midday heat, I shamelessly treated myself to an afternoon at a wonderful swimming pool. Surrounded by perma-tanned Westerners sitting under palm trees, with their cigars in one hand and glasses of wine in the other, I can hardly say that I felt in touch with the everyday-man in Ghana. I tried to offset this guilt by speaking my vastly limited but always appreciated Twi  - the most dominant of the many different languages in the country - to the Ghanaians who worked there. A taxi back to my guesthouse introduced me to the joys of African time (I've heard from some sources that over here GMT stands for Ghanaian Man Time). This means that if taxi driver tells you he will be ten minutes, he will be well over forty minutes. This scale works exponentially.
My next day in Accra was an introduction more to the people than the place. Whilst wandering around the Nkrumah Mausoleum and surrounding area, I found myself sitting on a dusty step chatting in French and English to Camille. Camille had fled from Gao in Mali, since the tuareg rebels took control of the northern region of the country. He had worked there as a tour guide . Since Mali is no longer such a viable destination for tourists (at least those who aren't into running away from burning villages or having chats to members of Al-Qaeda in the Islamic Maghreb), he instead showed me some stunning photos of him and visitors in Timbuktu, Djenné and various places whilst talking me through the history and culture of the country. It was fascinating. Sadly he's been left alone  to wander a new country that he doesn't know, in desperate search of some way to make a living again. Should you be making use of some cut-price hotel deals in Bamako this summer, I can give you his number if you fancy a tour…
Later that afternoon I got talking to a student whilst walking through Ussher Town - the district that probably has the most viable claim to calling itself the centre of Accra (loud, vibrant, colourful and markets in every direction - well worth a visit!). Emmanuel speaks flawless English and has his heart set on starting up his own publishing house. He is 16 years old. We got talking and before I knew it I found myself in James Town - a somewhat dilapidated but incredibly atmospheric district on the coastal area of Accra. It is one of those places where you feel the stares drilling into the back of your head, hear whispers in the shadows and generally feel like you should keep your wits about you. But thanks to the ever-grinning Emmanuel, I felt entirely unthreatened and it was fantastic to wander around the heart of a district that I would think twice about were I alone.
And so my time in Accra, or at least this time, was coming to an end. The next day I'd be travelling out of the sweltering capital and venturing around 250km upcountry to my new base for the near future...
[Acknowledgement: All credit for this title goes to Tom, my 'sometimes-has-sparks-of-genius' brother.] 

Friday 4 May 2012

"Journey Without Naps"


I have always believed that there is as much fun to be had in the journey as there is to be had at the destination. Writing with hindsight, I still stand by this. If you'd asked me on Thursday night however, I probably would have just snored at you with open eyes.
The first leg - from Heathrow to Casablanca - was fairly straightforward. It started off in comic fashion with an old woman wandering half way down the aisle, before she turned and yelled at the steward "WHICH SEAT DO I SIT IN?!". A gentle demonstration with her boarding pass managed to put out the fuse on that powder keg. Oh yes, and there was a guy who I'm fairly sure was vomming as we landed. But apart from that, it was like any other flight.
I had actually paid a whole pound extra to take a longer and remarkably less practical flight with Royal Air Maroc (brace yourself for the tremendously long announcements in Arabic, French and English), as opposed to TAP. Why? Because RAM were planning on touching down in Lomé, Togo, before finishing up at Accra. Who wouldn't want to be part of that!? Sadly this wonderful flight schedule was changed after booking and Lomé was cruelly erased from our plans. But I pulled myself together, and came to the conclusion that a layover in Casablanca would still be more interesting than one in Lisbon…

'Interesting' is the wrong word. 'Worse' is a better one. Do you ever look at the departures board for an evening flight and ever wonder which nutters actually go on that last flight at around 02.00 in the morning? Now you know the answer.

It took an age to wait for the connecting flight to Accra. The airport was dull to put it politely. Apart from entering the terminal to the echoing love theme from 'The Godfather', it was 4+ hours of sitting amongst the greys and the beiges, trying not to lose my much beloved vision from the catastrophically bright lighting.

Eventually we boarded. All I really remember was trying desperately to get some sleep and failing miserably. That said, having a full-blown meal (salad, chicken, potatoes, yoghurt, not to mention the coffee) at 02.50 may have had a part to play. We arrived on time at 05.00 at Kotoka International Airport in Accra. Looking out of the window like an eager child, I was greeted with bright flashes of lightning that lit up the still-dark sky in various shades of purple.

It's one of the great clichés that when you step off the plane into Africa, you're hit by a wall of heat. I shall get around this by saying that  when I stepped off the plane into Africa, I was smacked by a rush of hotness.

And so my time in West Africa begins: tired, hot, rained upon, thirsty (oh why did I have that coffee?), but altogether incredibly excited for what lies in store…