In the Big City

Accra is nuts. It is a big city, chocker block full of people, trying to get in and out. The rat race is as big here as anywhere else. We are so untouched in our little town that I had forgotten the taste of the big city, the rush to make the next buck, the stragglers left begging on the side of the road, and the offering of anything you could wish for. (Burgers, I had a burger!).

The biggest thing that defines this city is sadly its traffic; it is horrendous! I have never seen anything like it, and that goes to say a lot. There is no metro, no subway to save the day, and you don’t see people riding around on bikes. I think this is due to the simple fact that you would be INSANE to ride a bike in Accra on the main streets. The drivers are mad! Swerving in and out, driving on the wrong side of the road to get ahead a few cars. I send my utmost respect to the taxi drivers for their never ending patience; how do they do it?

Here is where I and most travelers first encounter the strangest form of shopping ever. I’m not sure what to call it; Tro Tro shopping, Street Venders, Retail Car trade? Basically, there are thousands of people selling from the baskets on their heads. They do this whilst juggling in between the lanes and lanes of cars that are fighting to get through Accra’s streets. And it’s not safe either. Can you imagine dodging in and out of cars, trying to get your money as the light turns green, and the Tro Tro starts driving away? Joe had to throw his change at a young lady the other day. If she found it she got a tip. You can buy bananas, water, fried plantain, frozen yoghurt, peanuts, toothpaste, rat poison*, toilet paper, colouring books, the bible, headphones, car cleaner, DVD’s, Bags, fabric, super glue, the list goes on. And if there is one thing you should remember: if you don’t want it don’t look, stare straight ahead, don’t glance over, don’t even blink, and when the light turns green, DRIVE!

Other than the traffic I had a good time in Accra. Joe had his work meetings everyday and I ventured out on my own and even learned a little about navigating my way through the city with tro tro’s. I went to embassies, shopped (finally!), got stuck in traffic jams, walked around the crazy Osu district, went to Labadi beach for a Rasta outdoor music party, and met some very interesting people. I found air conditioned restaurants with European food, a tailor to make my dress for Ang’s wedding (Bog- you have no idea what I went through!), and even had a hot shower! So, Accra felt a little like luxury, and it was nice to experience it. I felt like I had done well, and was impressed with myself and my courage at going at it alone, but after a week I was ready to go.


*My first time in Accra I witnessed a man carrying four dead rats by the tails, whilst selling his poison. Interesting marketing strategy to say the least. And it’s caught on; I’ve even seen it here, in Praso, on Market day.

Journey to Accra

Joe and I have been on a trip. It has been a very interesting experience and I’ve got so much to tell. Too much for one entry, so I will start from the first journey and hope to get it all down eventually.

We started out in Accra, the capital of Ghana, as Joe had a one week work engagement there. He left on Sunday, and I the next day. First it was the tro tro to Cape coast where I picked up my passport with my brand new Ghana extension stamp. I tried to do some haggling for a pair of used Nike’s but soon gave up. He wanted 30 Ghana Cedi’s, I laughed and did the old walk away, hoping he would follow. No luck, no shoes, too bad. I headed for the beach next, a place called Anamabo; I had heard that it was nice. The tro tro drops me off on the side of the highway and I follow a sign leading me down a dirt road. A little worried. Two Abronnees drive by, so I know I'm on the right path. I see that there is a big arch over the entrance. Oh no, this must be an expensive place. And I was hungry. They let me in for free after I imply that I am planning on spending some money. I sprawl out in the sun, armed with sunscreen, an overpriced beer and cigarettes. Palm trees, the rough ocean, white sand, what more do I need?

On my way out I asked if it was possible to walk down the beach to the village and get to the highway from there. They thought I was crazy, “Why would an abronee want to do that?” I went ahead anyways and met a girl I’d spoken with earlier. She was getting harassed by the village kids on the beach. I gave them a little back, spoke a few words in their language, and they buggered off. Well done Chels! Through the village, mud huts, tiny paths, strange smells, garbage littering the odd spot here and there, women cooking outdoors, smashing their fufu pots, it was all there. I asked a lady for directions and instead she sent for her son. He escorted me the entire way. This town must have been something back in the colonial times. The main street was wide, running perpendicular from the ocean’s edge, lined with old colonial pillared buildings. There was a large hill with a fortress overlooking us coming nearer as we walked. People were yelling at me, men proclaiming their love, shouting marriage vows, children pointing and yelling “abronee! abronee!”, some asking for money, some running scared. This was the first time I did this alone, without Joe. He has been a sort of protection for me, my sidekick, yelling answers back, helping me make jokes. We work well together. So, I was a little nervous, but in doing this I really gained some strength and confidence. It was nice. And my little chaperone was quite cool too.

The tro tro came and I was off to Accra. It was getting dark when we arrived and I knew it was going to be a little tough going. We were dropped off at Kaneshie station, the largest in the city. I was scared and overwhelmed, but didn’t show it. This place was massive, like being in West Edmonton Mall* on Boxing Day, times a hundred. A man from the tro tro showed me the way. We finally made it to where I would need to wait and there was a considerable line up, say 50 people deep. Oh dear, it was getting dark. I think he saw the worry on my face. Instead he suggested a taxi. I said that it would be expensive and he replied that we could share, that he was going in my direction anyways. Alright, let’s go. I could tell this man was somewhat well off and he was very respectable. Then he asked me on a date! Oh crap! I lied and said I had dinner plans. He asked for my number. I lied again and said I didn’t have a phone, but I had a pen! (I say this quite often here.) Then Joe called. He heard the phone, I couldn’t ignore it. It was so awkward. Once again I lied and said that it wasn’t my phone. UGH! Why didn’t I just tell the truth in the first place? Well, I suppose some lessons are learned the hard way. Safe at last I was happy to be back in Joe’s company.


*West Edmonton Mall is a trade mark of my home town. It was once the largest indoor shopping mall in the world, a title we Edmontonians have been very proud of. The Japanese have now built two larger ones.

First Film Weekend

Last weekend we started filming a short film project that has been in the works for some time. The film will be under 12 minutes long and is based on an old story from here that is set in both a modern and a traditional typical Ghanaian type village. We have been collaborating with two Rasta’s we met, Kweku and Stephen. They are great and really have their heads on straight, which, sadly, is sometimes quite hard to find here. We set them the task of finding the location and they did an exceptional job.

Saturday was an early start. We took the Tro Tro to a neighbouring town, 20 minutes away. From there we waited, which is the norm; you really have to go on African time here. Kweku arrived with a few friends and a small Toyota car. We piled in, 4 in the back, Joe and I in the front. This packing the people in cars, trucks and anything imaginable is also quite normal here.

Down the main road and we turn off onto a dirt road in a small village. The road is bumpy and we are surrounded with families working the palm oil. Big baskets the size of the car, over spilling with palm nuts, children yelling and pointing, “Abronee, Abronee!!” all make up the scenery. I picture them saying “Look mom” in their local language, and being so astonished, eyes wide, stunned. I don’t know how else to explain this legendary way we are always treated, wherever we go. The more rural we go, the more attention we draw.

The village dispersed the farther we drove, dotted by a few settlements, and we only passed a few sets of people carrying baskets on their heads up this long road into the jungle. The road only got worse. I can’t imagine anyone back home that would dream of driving a car this size up this road. There were many times when we all had to get out and let the car drive over bumps or massive holes in the ground, sometimes having to push it.

When we made it to the village it was all well worth it. Our main scene requires an old man sitting at the bottom of a tree, surrounded by children. The tree was perfect with its big roots and big branches that reach like giant, sheltering arms into the sky. Large leafs, spiders throughout, it couldn’t have been better. It is also a centre piece of the village and everyone surrounded us with curiousity. The background was jungle and mud huts, ladies cooking outdoors in big metal pots, carrying babies on their backs, yelling at the kids to fetch something or other, palm nuts drying in the sun, birds and roosters yelling and the hot sun, striking us whenever it could.

The chief was waiting for us with his little crew. We had to do the usual introductions with the passing around of local gin, and finally were able to start filming. Our main character, the Old man, didn’t show up and the guy we had instead just didn’t feel right for the part. So, the chief stepped in. He was such a good sport and a good actor as well. We had about 30 children, all dressed in traditional kente cloth and I would like to tell you more, but I won’t spoil the film. … You have to see it for yourself.

The ride home was something else. The boys had hired out a tractor with a big wagon hooked onto the back. Everyone piled in, Joe and I with our VIP seats on one side of the tractor, and away we were off. Uphill was a bit of a battle, with me trying not to slide into Joe too much and push him off. Downhill was worse, I held on for dear life. Dangerous? Well, let’s just say that health and safety would not be too impressed back home. But the view of the jungle, clustered with thick palm trees, sprinkled with those tall thin African trees that dot the skyline, bugs and birds singing, and the children yelling at us from the back all made it worth it. Yes, I would do it again in a heartbeat. We even hit the highway (if I can even call it that), tractor and all, with people yelling and pointing, surprised to see two abronees riding this way.

The next day was the same, other than that we got to take the tractor up this time. It was hot and tiring, but felt great to film what we did. We were even treated to a traditional meal of boiled plantain and a spicy fish sauce to dip in. They taught us the proper way to break open the plantain, and we said a prayer before we ate. The Rasta’s even did some good old free styling and singing for us in the end. It was classic and we filmed it with shout outs to people back home. Sadly, upon arrival back home, we realized that something was wrong with our video recorder and the whole of the day 2 tape did not film!! UGH!!! I was gutted. I couldn’t believe we lost it all. Yesterday we filmed again, got the rest of our scenes, and experienced some more remarkable adventures. But, that will have to wait ‘til next time. Cheers everyone and hello from GHANA!!

Good morning Madam Chisholm!

I have finally started teaching. They have assigned me to teach at the public Junior High level, at a school called Praso Model. There are three classrooms, one for each grade. Otherwise there is an office for the teachers, the head mistresses office and a classroom with a few computers in it. The children eat outside and do physical education outside as well. It’s very simple but it seems to do the trick.

This morning was my third day on the job. I arrived early and found that the children were in rows outside, separated by gender. They started singing a beautiful prayer like song and then went on to sing the Ghanaian national anthem. I went inside after this to review what we would be doing for the following lesson. Curiousity led me back outside a few minutes later and I witnessed the hardest part of this job. A female teacher was there, in front of the entire school, with a list. She was reading the names of certain students and they were coming up to the front of the group. It had started raining but they all continued to stand in their lines. The teacher then began to whip them three times each with a stick. These must have been the naughty kids and they took the whipping with no complaint. It was sad and I chose not to watch the rest of it.

The class went fairly well I imagine. It’s hard to gage if the students really understand me and they are always laughing and saying “Yes, Madame”. When you walk into the room they all stand up and say “Good morning Madame”. I reply with the normal greetings and a “how are you today?” and they all answer in sync. They will not sit down until you tell them. I didn’t realize this at first and they kept standing until the head mistress asked them to sit. I am teaching English Comprehension, so the class consisted of reading a passage and then asking questions and doing group activities. I had them reading different paragraphs out loud and the poor readers were always laughed at. See, the Ghanaians love to laugh, they laugh at absolutely everything. So, it’s hard to keep the class focused. They find it difficult to understand my accent and I think it’s even harder for me to understand theirs. This will come in time. When I am asking the class to be quiet certain children yell at the others to listen to me. Generally they are all quite well behaved. I had a student ask me today if she should go and get the stick. I will never be able to use that stick, so this is my dilemma. I will just have to find another way*.

It is so unorganized at this school. It is really sad to see the state of education here. The teachers have decided that I can teach here or there, whenever. My first class I was just told to go and teach them. “Teach them what? Is there a curriculum, a textbook, something?” I finally got the textbook and took 20 minutes to go through and figure out what I was going to do. I asked where they were at in the books and I was told that they hadn’t even started. The class actually went very well, but there aren’t enough books to go around, they have to share, and the kids aren’t allowed to take the books home. How am I supposed to give homework? The head mistress said she would get more books but somehow I doubt this**.

We have quite a few kids running around our neighbourhood. They are always playing in front of our house and yelling our names for us to come join them. Sadly some of them never go to school. They are either doing physical work or just wandering around. I try and tell them to go but it’s hard to get through. So, I have just made a deal with few of them that they cannot play at the house unless they go to school and that they should come here afterwards and I will go through their work with them. I’m hoping this will work.

*I wrote this some time ago and neglected to post it. I have since resorted to making the students do lines on the chalk board, Bart Simpson style, or threatening to tell the head mistress. Its working okay. Any suggestions would be welcomed with wide arms.
**I stand corrected. The head mistress got me all the required textbooks. My only problem now is that the children don’t all bring them to school. I’m working on this.