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.

Pigs in my Garden

Well, Mr. Preuss and I were sitting on our porch, enjoying a nice cuppa Chelsea tea, straight from Essex. Powdered milk and sugar that sparkles like I’ve never seen. We witnessed 4 dogs chasing a massive pig into the bush. It was my first encounter with the pig. Joe says that sometimes when he is peeing outside next to the palm tree he then hears a grunt, only to find this pig right next to him. Not much privacy here in Praso. As for the pissing outside bit, well that’s normal here; which I suppose makes sense. We are in fact in the jungle, not only surrounded by bush, but in it.

The fireflies, there are dozens. I have never seen the dark grass sparkle under such a starry sky in my life. It really makes me feel special to witness such a sight. There are crickets and frogs making their usual noise, but only on a much larger scale. And as I was cleaning our new home today I heard singing. There was a group of people sitting outside, singing the most beautiful choir music. They are church goers. The people here have such a strong sense of faith. I feel strange hearing people say “God bless you” to me, and blaming things on the lord. It’s just not like that at home anymore, I feel like I’ve walked into the past.

Our home, my first impression wasn’t the best I must admit. It doesn’t look like much from the outside. It’s rectangle and painted in a faded pink, surrounded by overgrown grass. We have chickens, goats and dogs roaming around freely, as does the rest of the entire town. Inside was better, but still a bit shocking. My first site was our big square empty living room that had clothes hang drying and a cement floor that is paint stained and dirty. It looked like a worksite! I knew we wouldn’t have running water and was prepared for something smallish, but once through the first room I was quite impressed. Joe has painted all the walls (with the help of a few radio friends and the neighborhood kids) in blues and greens. He has found a good carpenter, big Joe (he’s not that big), that has set up a big shelf and a nice tall table in the kitchen. It’s all handmade from a beautiful wood and was cheap as well. The curtains are handmade as well. They are distinctly African, with bright colorful squares and patterns in blue, brown, red, yellow and green. We saw the tailor on the street the other day. He was wearing our curtains, his full outfit; he must have used the scraps. Joe felt ripped off. Our bed is made from the same wood, the same big Joe, and it’s nice. And today we have received the next installment of big Joes work; three new tables and a mirror, made from the same nice wood. So, everything looks well planned and matching.

Lizards, I love lizards. And we have them, lots. Yippee!! The market, the hot hot sun (it shouldn’t be underestimated), cape coast tomorrow, hand washing and I’m really enjoying the simple life already. Yep, they were right; I am missing many first world objects. Like a hot shower, a bath tub, or even a simple ham and cheese sandwich. Oh, my mouth is watering. But, you know what’s funny? I’m kind of appreciating not having them. Well, kind of.

The magic Tro Tro ride

I wanted to write about our Tro Tro experience. The Tro Tro is a large van, usually old, used and imported, and is the main form of transport in Ghana. It’s the cheapest and therefore the most popular way of getting around this country.

Cape Coast is approximately 2 hours south of our home in Twifu Praso. We decided to head south to the beach and had a fantastic day musing around, getting our feet wet, and sipping a beer on the beach. Meeting the Rastafarians was an interesting treat with their way of talking and body language that makes you feel like you should be sneaking out back and puffing a fat doobie, listening to Bob Marley, and relaxing Rasta style. And seeing the old Cape Coast slave trading castle was sad and affected our hearts. And there was Joe, swimming in the ocean with two African boys, throwing them around and being as sexy as can be. Then it was the shopping and bartering of course, and that is always a feat; the people being funny and difficult. But, by far the most interesting experience was us trying to get home.

The markets were all closing, the streets bustling and busy. We had bought a large foam mattress to bring back with us and I had it rolled up and placed on my head. Picture me, white Abronee, trying to balance like the talented Africans, wiggling my way through this manic crowd. We finally found the Tro Tro station; quiet and easy going, it was nice to get out of the crowd. We met two guys heading to Praso and soon realized that we would all have to go down to the street where the Tro Tro’s drive by in order to find one. It was too busy; the transportation wouldn’t make it as far as the station so we were off.

We found the right street corner. There were hundreds of people waiting for their Tro Tro’s to get wherever they were going. On both sides of the street people were yelling and waiting and hoping. The vans drive by and everyone is yelling the names of their towns, “PRASO”!?! Yes, we finally found one and I ran fast and there was a crowd of thirty running to get onto this Tro Tro, but I actually made it, fat mattress and all, and Joe got in behind me.

A man started grabbing my arm through the window, saying the Tro Tro was to be 5, instead of the regular 2 Ghana Cedi’s. “Pfff! No way man! Talk to my husband” and I pointed to Joe, ignoring this man. As an Abronnee you are always on guard. You feel like someone is always trying to make an extra buck off you. But, sometimes you are wrong. The other people in the Tro Tro started getting off, I was told to follow. This man was overcharging us, the people were not going to take it and everyone exited the bus. We were back to square one.

It was getting dark. We were frustrated. And to make matters worse it looked as though the majority of people were waiting for the same Tro Tro as us. The 2 boys we met were waiting in other spots. We kept our eyes on them, trying to see if they would start running. They said it would be hard for us Abronnees to get on. Why did I decide to buy this stupid fat mattress?

Another one came and we started running for it, with a crowd of 40 this time. Joe made it on, just. His backpack was still outside the Tro Tro, another mans head was under his arm, so he was forced to almost headlock him. This man kept on pushing, Joe was all twisted, but the backpack was caught and the man couldn’t push him anymore. The entire bus was laughing and yelling and fighting and screaming. I used my mattress to block others trying to get on but I couldn't make it. Luckily the mattress was able to fit in the trunk. So, I hopped on Joe's lap, squished to the max, but was just happy to be on.

With help we closed the door, all body parts in. A man came up and was yelling for us to get out, that I couldn't sit on joes lap. He opened the door, then others closed it, and he opened it again. Two guys were defending us and he kept on opening and yelling “you go out! You go out”. We wouldn’t budge. There was another guy sitting on a lap anyways. Abronnee or not, I wasn’t moving.

The road to Praso is full of potholes. You can imagine the squished bumpy ride. I counted 20 passengers on the Tro Tro. Legally they should hold about 15 tops. We stopped at one village, and as soon as the doors were open there were about 20 people standing there, trying to get the spots of the 2 passengers that had just left. As the ride went on and more people got off I was able to get about half a bum cheek on the seat and then finally a full spot. Ahh, bliss. When we made it to Praso, the last stop, the money collector tried charging us extra for the mattress. I just laughed and walked away, happy to be home at last.