The world according to me

Meet a dictator: Talking to J.J. Rawlings

2007-10-03T15:30:00.000Z

While being in Ghana I had the chance to meet up with Jerry J. Rawlings former president and military leader of Ghana. I was curious and had lots of questions. I wrote about it, but the text got pretty long, so I will publish it in three parts. Enjoy part I:

Last stop Boom Junction (Part I)

How do you address a former president? It is none of my every day problems. I was at a loss. ‘Good Morning, Mr. Rawlings’, would that do? Or would that be too informal? If I remembered it correctly, protocol demands that you call him Mr. President even if he is just the ex-president. But ‘Good Morning, Mr. President’ would sound somewhat subservient. Choosing a greeting, it seemed, would have some importance, because it kind of set the stage for the conversation that was to follow.

People had told me about Boom’s hypnotic power and I didn’t want to be blinded by nice words. I wanted to be hard and piercing. Popular or not that man was responsible for a good amount of hardship and, at least morally, for the deaths of a number of dissidents and former military leaders. They call him Boom for he had been a fighter pilot and was famous for his hyperactive no-nonsense way of solving what he perceived as problems.

I had plenty of time to mull over the question. I had already spent half an hour drinking coffee that Rawling’s boy had served. I was faithfully waiting for the big man sitting in his study in his colonial style residence in Accra trying not to drown in his big brown leather couch. Feigning activity, I started taking notes about the interior of his study; the frightening gang of Mastinos, Great Danes, and Dobermann patrolling around the huge garden; the flight simulator software sitting on a shelf next to miniature aircrafts models and other petty facts that promised to hold some sort of explanatory value. When I ran out of details, I fell into some sort of vegetable coma. The air condition was going at full blast, slowing me down to the speed of a snail on a cold autumn morning.

His hands were trembling

He came without making a fuss. I don’t know what I had expected, but he wasn’t all that impressive. He was a big man alright. The lean figure I had seen on black and white army photos was no more. He was about 1.85 meters tall and weighed maybe 100 kilo. Instead of the tight olive army pants I had seen in the books, he was wearing a cream colored traditional shirt with some stains on it and grey pants. His full beard and his hair had turned salt and pepper. He had Ghanaian traits, but a lighter complexion inherited from his Scottish father.

The most striking feature, though, was his failing physical strength. He seemed hung over and he excused himself for being late by saying that he had slept in. His hands were trembling like you see it with people suffering from an early stage of Parkinson. He didn’t say much in these first minutes and kept massaging his temples. He wanted to know about me, why I came. But my answers didn’t really seem to get through to him. He left after a short while, saying he had to swallow his pills.

He seemed to have regained some vigor, when he came back some 15 minutes later. It kind of reminded me of Kurtz in the Heart of Darkness, who’s most remarkable feature is his voice, a booming organ that summons the ghosts of the past. Same here; once locked up in one of his monologues, Rawlings was back to his old energetic self. Still, I never lost the impression of facing somebody who was spending more energy than he had left.

Drowned in memories

I had prepared a two page list of questions separated into different topics like economics, politics, revolution and personal history. I had changed their order several times to create a flow, something close to a real conversation. I finally decided to start with his personal background, make him talk about things that should be comforting him. Than, gradually, I wanted to switch to more delicate questions finishing off with full-on accusations.

It didn’t work out at all. We were talking for about three hours and he answered maybe a third of all my questions. Still, I enjoyed it, because he wasn’t evading my questions in that gruesome style practiced by politicians and the like; he was answering straight away. It was more the crazy amount of stories stored in his memory and his volition to tell them all that put me off the tracks. I asked him about how to organize a coup and he ended up telling me stories about how he and his men had cultivated cassava on the fields surrounding the army barracks and that, when the plants were ripe, leading officers had come in, filling the boots of their cars without even asking.

It was all very interesting, but rather like a walk through a maze than a clearly structured interview. He had this annoying habit of never finishing a sentence, of constantly rephrasing what he was saying and always trying to put as much content in a sentence as possible. It works while you are there. His tumbling prose combined with his deep authoritarian voice creates a sense of urgency, of someone who really has a message. But if you listen to the tape later on, you are left with a lot of useless fragments, allusions, and overtones - and very little meaning.

I had read about most of the stuff he told me. I liked some of his anecdotes, things you don’t get in the books. Unfortunately, he also gave me quite a number of political propaganda about the current government and its president, J. A. Kufour, who had won the elections in 2000. Rawlings accused him of being corrupt, which he probably was, because corruption is woven into the very fabric of this society. He also accused him of having led the country onto the brink of a tribal war and of ruling with fear and the suppression of fundamental rights.

(to be continued)

Is there any sense in all of this?

2007-10-03T14:43:00.000Z

Now that I started posting about Ernest and Michael again, I remembered a comment I got from someone who is much more interested and involved in development education adn coporation than me. I actually don't remember his name. We had just met at the airport on our way to a meeting of GLEN, the Global Education Network of Young Europeans. He had been to Burkina Faso and so we been chatting about West Africa. When I finally told him about Michael and that we were paying his school fees, he look me up and down and told me off.

His argument was quite elaborate, but basically went like this: By giving money to a boy like Michael, we were creating a feeling of apathy in the ones who receive the money, because they kind of owe their well-being to some rich white guys. Plus, we make it harder for development workers like him, because we were creating some sort of expectation. Like when you feed animals and they get used to it and demand it over and over again.

I have to admit that his way of talking, his irony and his cold blooded attitude did unsettle me somehow. But he made a point and though, intuitevly, I decided not to give in, his argument has left me with quite some doubt about what we do, be it as insignificant as possible.

News from Jake - our man in Ghana

2007-10-03T11:44:00.000Z

Here is what my mate Jake wrote about Ernest and why we help him. Jake has been in Accra since about a year and will stay some longer. He works there for a microfinance organisation preparing a study and doing some research for his PhD if I am not mistaken. Cool guy.

Ernest Owusu - A boy's life in Ghana

I first met Ernest Owusu in April, when he accompanied his friend Michael Kwakye on a visit to my house to pick up money for school fees. While Michael was preparing to pay his tuition for the third term of his year of Senior Secondary School (SSS), Ernest was considering his options. He was also in need of school fees. Since students can only attend once the term has been paid for in full, Ernest missed about half the term while his parents worked to put together his tuition.

When he returned from the third term for his summer vacation, he learned that his mother had fallen ill and had been moved back to Ernest’s hometown, the village of Oda in the Eastern Region. Normally she is a petty trader, selling kontomire (a leafy green vegetable). She is currently unable to work due to her sickness. For a number of years she has endured periods extended illness fairly regularly. When she gets sick she is normally treated at the hospital. Since the family is uninsured, her bouts of illness are a double-edged sword: rather than generating income, she brings home hospital bills.

Meanwhile, Ernest has been living at his family’s home in Madina, a suburb of Accra. He normally lives there with his parents and his older brother in a rented single room of a compound house. The compound has had neither power nor running water for over a year. The family’s room has no kitchen facilities, and they do their cooking outside. For bathroom facilities they walk to the nearest public toilet.

Ernest’s brother is 19 and was fortunate to have both parents available to support his education. He attended SSS all the way up to final examinations. Unfortunately, his family was unable to come up with the examination fees, so he could not sit for the tests to earn his diploma. He now sells car batteries in Madina.

In addition to the income earned by his brother, Ernest’s father supports the family by working at the airport in Accra. He had held a good job there as a baggage porter; but midway through his employment the airport hired more porters. Some of these turned out to be crooks who knowingly allowed the contents of passengers’ luggage to be stolen. When the criminal activity was uncovered by airport management, all the porters were fired. Now Ernest’s father spends his days at the airport working as a freelance travel agent, offering to arrange tickets for domestic travelers who arrive without reservations. The work is not very steady.

Ernest remains upbeat. His friends know him to be a keen debater and an argumentative sort; Ernest would like to be a lawyer. For now he is in the General Studies track at SSS—each term he takes eight courses: four core required courses, plus geography, economics, government, and Christian religious studies. Of these, government is his favorite. He hopes to join the school’s Debate Team. At the moment, though, it appears that the tuition money simply will not be available.

About 120euro would pay for the coming term, including tuition, boarding, books, and all other fees.

Jacob Appel

Back again

2007-10-03T11:12:00.000Z

Its been quite a while since I wrote anything. Came back to Germany, had another nasty stay in hospital and got a job writing for a website on climate change, microfinance and demographic change. Life is back to normal, more or less. The contact to Ghana, however, never broke.

Michael ist still in school. The cool thing, I got in contact with people from a small NGO here in Munich, Internationales Komitee Journalisten Helfen (Journalists help; website in German only), these people all have regular jobs and all, but they have been ative for quite a while helping people in Bosnia, Ukraine, Argentina. They liked Michael's story and gav us some money to help him and another guy called Ernest. Sweet.

Being different

2007-08-03T15:12:00.000Z

For all the people who take the effort of reading all this: I thought it might be interesting to see it from Michael's perspective. Some months ago he sent me an email which had quite some impact on me. It is about being in school and being somehow different, because the other kids know that you have someone paying school fees for you and that your parents wouldn't be able to pay them Well, read for yourselves. I added a recent picture of Michael so that you remember who's talking, a boy of 17 years (The picture is shit though. Jake took them, when he was trying to find out whether Ernest was seriously needing school money or not. From the looks of it, I say they were quite impressed by his questions. Looks a bit like taking pics of delinquents. Poor boys.)

Michael's letter:

Dear Thilo,

How is the family and you. hope you are all doing great.
Well thilo as i told you i arranged a meeting between jake and my friends including i. Let me try and sumarise all in two or three sentences to you.

it all started with an introduction followed with some interrogations. EACH OF US HAD TO make his aspirations background, age, difficulties he or she was encountering and that kind of stuff. Hope you understand what i am putting across. After this he also made his intensions and suggestions known to us.

Thilo i must say that i was actually impressed with whatever jake said except a suggestion he made.That is he suggested that my friends do exactly what i did. that is write a letter to district assembly, appeal to media entities for their problems to be published etc.

Thilo with writing letters to the district assembly i deem it a good idea but it all requires money and time. this is so because one has to put pressure on them by being to the offices almost everyday and this involves transportation.

with appealing to the media entities thilo i must say i will NEVER advice anyone to allow his problem to be published in the news papers. why because i have regretted doing that even though it is through that i am being able to further my studies.

Thilo the truth is that most of my mates knows that i am from a poor home hence despises me . that is they consider me to be inferior hence my inability to make freinds there. it had an impact in my performance acadamically but thank God i have been able to overcome it.

Thilo i am pleading with you to help my friends to further their studies. especially Abigail since she had not started and will have to be in school for four years.

now about the extra tution i have discussed it with jake but latest by tomorrow. i will test the head of the science department of the school's number to you on your phone so that you can contact him for any infomation.

Bye for now and take care. Regards to your family

New home Okuapemman

2006-11-14T21:27:00.000Z

I couldn’t believe it; the damn thing had just swallowed my credit card. Here I was all set up with brown leather shoes, plaited shirt and my good trousers. Everyone was waiting for me, the white guy brining in the monies from abroad. And this damn thing just breaks down on me and leaves me stranded without cash.

Time was running out, the sun was rising. I could feel the first driblets of sweat running down my neck. I hit a few buttons, but the screen stayed blank. No use waiting. There must have been one of the ubiquitous power cuts. Electricity wouldn’t be back until dawn. What a stupid coincidence. If the ATM had been offline five minutes earlier, I could have walked away to another part of town cashing there. A few minutes later and I would have been on my way, meeting Michael at the Daily Guide office to go and pay the fees for his future school.

Without my credit card, I was lost. Life can be so easy in Accra when you have money. You can get everything. I mean EVERYTHING and I leave it up to your imagination to define that all-comprising variable. But than some faceless machines swallows your plastic card and all that superiority and power just fades away. For a second, I felt lost, like waking up from a comfortable dream and not knowing where I you are. The ATM’s money slot seemed to stretch to the size of a big black gap.

I really have to get more sleep, I thought. But I had a mission and I was already late. No time for paranoia and doubts. It took me a while to get to the bank’s headquarters in the early morning rush-hour and to find a service employee with the authority to go and crack ATM’s. But I finally got the money. Two Million Cedis, donated by friends and strangers, people who for one reason or another had decided to help a young guy they didn’t even know. How cool is that. The thought high jacked my early morning grumpiness and the fatigue gave way to coffee and the blazing sunlight.

When I got to the office, Michael was already there. He had sunken back into the couch waiting patiently. He had been there since seven. He had to otherwise he would have spent hours in Accra’s suburban traffic hell. I sat next to him and we waited for Avickson, a journalist from the Daily Guide who had written the initial story on Michael.

On our way out, Michael collected the foam mattress he had left with the security guards. He also produced a black metal box covered with red half moons. It contained all his personal belongings. Thus equipped we boarded a taxi that took us to the lorry station. Lorries are actually large mini buses if something like a large mini bus exists. They were plenty (another Ghanaism) at the station, still we waited out of respect for Avickson. He was too scared to board one of the many Mercedes buses saying that they were driving too fast. He was probably right, so I settle back into my newly acquired plant like patience and bought ice cream for all of us. I kind of liked his point. Dying on a humanitarian mission would just be too pathetic.

We got to Akropong around twelve o’clock. The town had been built on the ridge of a small mountain range. Rain clouds from the Atlantic would pass over Accra without even shedding a drop of rain. They would drift north over the vast and dry Accra plains and get stuck at the Akropong range. On these days the town would be cloaked in mist and drenched in pouring rain. I had once seen a traditional procession of chiefs, queen mothers and drummers virtually swept away by the downpour.

Today was different. The sun came blazing down and we could see far down on to the rolling plains. Still it was cooler and less dusty than in Accra. Lush green vegetation lined the winding road. The palm trees that dominated the coast line had made way for Banana and Papaya forests, huge Mahogany trees were towering above the thick undergrowth.

The school itself was surprisingly big. Rather like a huge campus covering an entire hill. The gates were at its base, the school buildings right on top. When we passed the gates, we saw girls in school uniform fetching water from a mechanic pump nearby. They had to walk up the steep street to their dorms. No boys were around to help them. The lazy bastards were playing football. We stopped at a long one-storey building, the boys’ dorms, to drop of Michael’s belongings and the mattress. The place wasn’t full, but you could see that a huge number of students were sleeping in there. The room looked rather like a long hall, about thirty meters long and ten meters wide. I counted 30 double beds, so some 60 people were living in here. I didn’t know what to say. Things are just different in Ghana.

We walked on and passed something which resembled a church; that is a huge roof spanning over some kind of congregation hall. Two people were sitting in front of it hiding behind a wooden table covered by a huge pile of papers. They were both Vize-Headmasters watching over students’ inscriptions. They were there to greet new students and see to it that they were placed and being registered. The job seemed quite relaxed.

Michael had been here before and produced a huge yellow folder, a smaller pink booklet and a tiny blue paper card all bearing the school’s insignia. What ensued was a complicated and seemingly bureaucratic procedure that saw as passing through a number of offices collecting stamps, signatures and good advises.

It finally turned out that we couldn’t pay in cash. We had to leave the premises and go into town to deposit the money at the Ghana Commercial Bank. The place was packed. Apparently we were not the only ones paying school fees. Another form was filled and signed. But with Michael being under 18 years he needed the approval of a parent or guardian the form read. I can’t even guard myself, I thought, but Michael and Avickson left me no chance. I sighed and signed.

Michael had opted for the General Science section. That meant he would study eight subjects comprising Math, Chemistry, Physics, Biology, Geography, English, Social Sciences and Integrated Sciences (I didn’t really get the meaning of that one). He had gotten rid of the French lessons that had troubled him in Junior Secondary School.

Back at the school, I could speak to Comfort Ofosu, the Assistant Headmaster, we had met earlier. First thing she did was ask me for some money to fly to Kenya for a conference on how to teach blind kids. I told here politely that I had seen too many conferences to sink the little money I had brought into something similar efficient.

She didn’t seem to mind and told me more about the school. The place had been built in 1957, one year before independence. The pupils had to wear a school uniform of white shirts and brown trousers. White stands for purity and brown for “mother earth that liberally gives of her bounty”. About 1400 students were on campus and the girls were easily outweighing the boys. A small portion of the students were blind. I saw some walking around campus led by little ones.

Comfort told me that Michael’s case was by no means an exemption. There were kids coming in from villages around who had to work for their fees. Quite often they would only come in for two days a week. They would spend the rest of the time working on their parents’ fields or selling petty things at the market. Many of them would drop out after some time, because they couldn’t follow the class anymore and were receiving bad marks. She had no clue about figures or percentages of children that were blocked from higher education due to financial problems. But she said that it was the vast majority.

As I had written before, the money I had brought was enough to cover school fees until September 2007. Michael was quite optimistic to get more money on his own. Nevertheless we decided to stay in contact. I also asked him to let me know about other kids that were suffering from similar problems. I have been talking about helping them with a number of people. Still, Ghana is a highly corrupt country. The last thing one should do is send money just like this. But there are some good people down here and I think we could build on this.

When all was settled, we went to the school’s cantina. All that was left was Macaroni and stew. I had plenty while Michael didn’t eat much. I guess he must have been quite nervous. He was about to spend his first night in the place that would be his home for the coming years. I wished him all the best and walked down the hill towards the school gates. Avickson was once again complaining about the big Benz cars, but I was just tired and there was no other car passing by. We took the first bus that passed and I slept all the way back home. I woke up when we entered Accra. I played my favorite game and let the images gathered throughout the last days pass by my inner eye once again. It had just been some money, I told myself. Still, I couldn’t help feeling good.

Party on (Update to One Night out)

2006-11-14T09:55:00.000Z

I have to apologize for a stupid mistake: I mixed up school terms and school years not knowing that a school year is made up of three terms. So when I went to Okuapemman Senior Secondary School in Akropong, about two hours north of Accra, I could only pay Michael’s school fees for term two and three, not the second and third year in school as I had told you before. I had gone there with two Million Cedis, that is 182 Euros, and deposited the money with the treasurer, all with stamps and signature and important glances from the man behind the desk. Michael was silent and nervous first, than happy and relieved once we had the stamps and signed all the admission forms. I have to admit that I was quite naïve believing that 100 Euros could pay for an entire year of schooling, boarding and food. Ghana is cheap, but that would have been a joke. As it turned out, one term is about one million Cedis, about 90 Euros. A year, thus, comes in about 300 Euros.

With fees being paid for year one, Michael’s problem will arise again in September when he has to come up with money for year two.He is confident that once having been admitted it will be easier for him to get funding for the subsequent years. I told him I would try to raise more money, too. And I told him to keep in touch. If he would come on other kids with his problems, he should let me know and we will see what could be done.

PS: I took some shots of the school bill so that you have an idea what that money will be spent on.

Party on (Update to One night out)

2006-11-08T17:48:00.000Z

It is done. You were incredible. I'm impressed. We got at least 1.7 Mio. Cedis. Add the 900,000 Cedis already deposited at the Daily Guide and we would have enough to pay for Michael's first year of school. But Michael himself wasn't lazy and rallied some of the MPs from his region and they gathered the 2.85 Mio. Cedis necessary for the first year. I just got the call from the Daily Guide. They paid the school fees yesterday.

Friday will be Michael's first day in Senior Secondary School and I will join him to deposit the money donated with the school's headmaster. I don't remember the exact figure, but fees for the second and third term amounted to roughly two Mio. Cedis. More or less the amount of cash you have pledged so far. This way Michael's complete school fees for the three years at SSS are taken care of. The 900,000 Cedis I mentioned above will be used to buy a foam mattress for his dorm and other things like books and note pads. Everything that I will receive from now on will go into a fund managed by Auntie Rose. She is a very committed and selfless elderly lady working at the Daily Guide. Michael will always need little sums for Internet fees, new clothes etc. If one of these occasions arises, he can address her.

Pictures from the school and some words about the atmosphere there should be online by Friday afternoon. I will now go out for a beer. Cheers to you.

One night out - Update

2006-11-07T14:00:00.000Z

If you haven't yet read the story below the following won't make much sense to you. This is meant as an up-date to the story about Michael and his pledge to support his education. After posting this entry, some people addressed me with comments and questions which I want to answer subsequently.

First of all, some technical details. Thanks to all my friends who, in turn, started harrassing their friends with emails asking for help. While I'm really happy about this it has made things a bit more complicated, because we are talking about transferring money now. I wasn't prepared for anything like that, so there is no special account. You have to send the money to my personal account, sorry. But I'm somehow reluctant to post my account number. Just send me an email and I will reply.

Korbi wrote that it would be a nice thing to pay for the school, but we should also make sure that the boy would have a place to stay after school and money to buy food. The good thing is accommodation and food are covered by the school fee that we try to collect. Once we get the 2.85 Million Cedis, Michael is allowed to go to school and stay in the campus dorms. Mind you, none of you would live under the conditions these pupils have to cope with. They share tiny rooms, four to eight people living on less than 20 square meters. But it is a home and he has put up with worse.

What do we do if this initiative raises more than the 2.85 Mio, needed? First of all, we will also pay for year two and three of Senior Secondary School (SSS), each term amounting up to roughly 800.000 Cedis. If anything else would be left, we could create a small fund for Michael's school books.

What happens once Michael graduates from SSS in 2009? He wants to study, he told me. He wants to become a doctor. While he would face the same problem again, that is having to pay university fees, he is quite optimistic that he could work to earn the cash needed. Given that you have decent grades, you can find a job after SSS, which is nearly impossible after Junior Secondary School, his current position.

Last but not least, I would like to pass on the email addresses of all those who have helped to Michael so he can tell you about how things are going (given that you accept). This way you could stay in contact with him and see if your engagement amounted to something.

Now to the ethical dimension: You are right when you think that this initiative is totally arbitrary. Ghana is a poor country, the further north you go the poorer it gets. There are many places in this country where you can still die because you can't pay the medication prescribed by a doctor. And I 'm quite sure that it would be possible to find 1000 kids who might need the money more urgently than Michael. But when I think like that I get frustrated, dragged down by a feeling of helplessness. In these moments, I just want to go home and forget about it all. In the end, these things are not my problem. There are others who have more money and knowledge; I'm just an average guy. And isn't it the duty of a government to take care of its people?

Such are my thoughts and I'm sick of it. The thing is, I can relate to this boy and his story. Somehow, I understand his wish to go on, learn more, live a better life. Giving him money won't solve the problems of this country. But maybe helping him is one tiny step on the way to solve these problems. It just takes much longer than anybody with a normal sense of compassion would like to acknowledge.

I also got some criticism for this initiative and the objections are not without merit. Some of my expat friends in Accra have accused me of selfishness. Instead of giving the money to an NGO that is specialized in the field, I tried to set up my own informal 'NGO', presumably to ease my mind and be praised by the Ghanaians that will profit from it.

True, it is a nice feeling to hand over some money and see a kid that is overwhelmed by joy and relieve. But I like to believe that this pleasure is not my driving force. As I said, I can relate to the boy. His words trigger something in me and many of the big development schemes in the country don't.

Development is a huge business in this country. It has been so for quite a while and it is fairly impossible to say how things would be today without the help granted. There are many inspired people working in this area and a lot of good work is done. There are people running orphanages for the street children of Accra. There are hospitals, schools, vocational training centers financed by organizations from all over the world. For sure, a number of initiatives I have seen are questionable, but such is life.

The point is I didn't come here to help. I came to learn, to write and to see new things. Quite selfish, true. But this is me and I don't want to make-believe. I respect people who volunteer to care for HIV-patients or who dedicate their lives to protect orphans. But I couldn't do that. I want to got back home, find a job that makes sense to me, see something of the world.

So giving money to an orphanage would seem to me like buying an easy way out. But there is no easy way out of the basic dilemma that I am rich and so many others are poor. Giving money to Michael for his school won't settle this imbalance; it is only some random thing we can do. It is a chance for one single individual. He might fail anyway, but that is up to him. At least he has the chance to fail.

One night out

2006-10-29T15:49:00.001Z

I wonder how many people actually read this blog. Well, we’ll see. I’m curious how you will react to the following story.

It was a relaxed day, my assignment had been canceled and I was fleeing the Ghanaian Times compound going to one of the street vendors on Ring Road to get some coffee and read today’s papers. Just before dozing of on my little plastic chair, I came upon this article about Michael. It wasn’t really an article. Next to the picture of a boy in his teens was a reprint of a graduation certificate. The accompanying story said that Michael Kwakye had come to the office of the Daily Guide to ask for help. He had graduated from basic school as second among 105 pupils. Due to his performance he had been admitted to a middle class secondary school, but was in no position to pay the admission fee. The reporters were touched by the boy’s determination and ran the story.

They had published the piece twice but only one person, a wealthy lawyer from Accra, had donated 400.000 Cedis. All in all, Michael would need 2.850.000 Cedis for the first term, about 260 Euro. Time was running out. Schooling had already started. If the teachers wouldn’t have gone on strike weeks ago, Michael would already have had to wait another year before being able to apply again.

I must have read the reprint of the story. By the time I called the office, no one was really expecting any response anymore. I told them, I was thinking about donating something, but I would like to meet the boy before making a decision. In any case, I wouldn’t be able to pay the whole fee. They invited me over.

The Daily Guide is the best selling private paper in Ghana. Most of Accra’s newspapers seem to be in a contest about who’s more boring. The Guide stands out with frantic reports and exaggerated overstrung headlines. Been a populist kind of paper, they see themselves as defenders of the poor and oppressed and from time to time run human interest stories soliciting funds. Auntie Rose, the general manager, told me they had been quite successful.

I remember reading about a little girl with a heart failure. After the Guide had pitched the story, money had poured in, Ghanaian money, Auntie Rose said. But education was another thing. Michael wouldn’t die if he was not to attend secondary school. He could find work on a farm or maybe do some low qualification jobs. In any case, you don’t die of hunger in Ghana. But higher education is a luxury not many people can afford. So why should they pay for someone else, when there is always some kid in the extended family who might not have the money to attend university? White people, on the other hand, tend to value education very high. My call, therefore, must have seemed to them like one huge silver lining on the horizon.

The Daily Guide office is located in a dodgy little back alley, a cul-de-sac. I got there at about half past six at night. The house, rather a big villa, is surrounded by a nice garden, neatly trimmed lawn and all. Michael was sitting on a bench next to the entrance. They later told me he had been waiting around the office since ten in the morning. He was too anxious he might miss me. We had had an appointment the week before, but I fell sick and canceled it.

I didn’t really see him when I entered the gate. Just another one of those young men you see hanging around everywhere in town. They survive with small jobs, not being able to find something real. They might push a cart in one of the markets, find a job as a night guard or work for a few weeks selling medicaments, chocolate or t-shirts in the streets. Small, small we survive, that’s how they say.

At first Michael said nothing, the others spoke for him. For a Ghanaian kid to speak out in front of adults is considered to be highly disrespectful. Plus he seemed fairly nervous. He was holding on to his graduation certificate like it was his only ally in an alien world. Too afraid the white guy could change its mind, I guess. So Auntie Rose was telling his story. I was listening for a while, but got bored and interrupted her. I wanted the boy to step out of his snail house.

When he finally spoke, his words came reluctantly and with a high and slightly nasal intonation, a typical Ghanaian trait. He sounded like an adolescent who’s voice was about to break; quite surprising for a 17 year old. His face was rather round and boyish, his complexion very dark. He didn’t look his age. He must have been older than most other students in his class, but you couldn’t have told by the looks. I wonder if other children had teased him in his natal village.

He hailed from a place in the Central Region. His parents were peasant farmers. They were struggling to feed themselves and their seven children. You could call them the African kind of working poor. They were producing enough to get by, but they had no real income, no machines and not much land. And they definitely didn’t have the money to send the second eldest to Senior Secondary School.

Before I go on, let me give you a short insight in the Ghanaian education system. The first six years of Primary School and the following three years of Junior Secondary School are for free. You pay for the school uniform and the books, but there are no fees, at least not for the public schools. The good private ones are for the lucky few. Michael was none of them. In his school one teacher had a class of over 50 pupils.

Despite the circumstances, Michael had done well in school. He liked reading, a rare trait in Ghana, and he had soon realized that he wouldn’t like to live the life of his parents. A teacher once told him that his only chance to get out of there was to study hard. That’s what he did. It sounds pathetic to write it down like this, but when he said it, I was moved.

His parents realized that the boy had talent. But even if you are bright you won’t shine much if you are stuck in some back water shit hole. Michael had to go to Accra, his parents decided. He was to stay with an uncle, help him in the house and go to one of the bigger primary schools in the capital.

The deal seemed okay for everyone including Michael. But after a year the fortunes changed and the uncle’s business went down the hill. He couldn’t take care of the boy anymore and struck a deal with a lady he knew. She would put up the boy and feed him, but no more school. He would have to earn his living and work in the household. Michael was about eleven back than. Going back to the village was no option.

After a year out of school, his new provider gave in to his pleas. The boy had been annoying her for months insisting to go back to school. She agreed but drew up a tough schedule. He had to get up around five o’clock in the morning, prepare food and give the house a sweep. Then he went to school until three o’clock in the afternoon. Back home he had to work again. Buy food, cook, clean - whatever the lady wanted. His duty ended around nine o’clock in the evening. That’s when he started learning for school, doing his homework. Around eleven he fell asleep.

Things went on like that for a few years. Then, early this year, everyone in school started revising for the finals exams. Michael needed more time with the books, but his master wouldn’t want to hear about more time for school. Exams or not, he had to earn his living. Finally, he left. The parents of a good friend of his agreed to put him up until the end of the exams.

The move paid of and he got eight times 1, the best grade, one 2 and once a 4, in French. The system runs from 1 to 10, so his results were pretty good. The shock came when he was admitted to a Public Senior Secondary School in the vicinity of Accra. There was no way he could pay nearly three million Cedis. He had hoped it would be half that much.

I asked him what would have been the difference given that he wouldn’t have had 1.5 Million either. He said he had hoped to go back and talk his mother into borrowing the money somewhere. But three million, she wouldn’t even listen to him when he asked for three million, he said. One day a friend had told him about a radio station that might be able to help him. The watchman wouldn’t hear of it and send him away. He had been to a few other media houses. Everyone said that they couldn’t help. Finally he ended up at the Daily Guide.

There are more details to it, but this basically is what Michael told me. We had been talking for an hour. He had shown me his grades and the bill for the School. This wasn’t a fraudster, the boy was genuine. I went to the bank to cash 500.000 Cedis. Back home that would be a good night out. Here it was maybe a chance for someone I would never meet again. The point is, I don’t believe in fate. I think it is up to having opportunities and the urge and energy to use them. Michael had both, urge and energy. What he was lacking was an opportunity. So, I decided to trade one night out for a piece of opportunity. Still, he is short of a bit less than two million Cedis.

If you think, you can do without one night out and the subsequent hang over than send me an email (thilo.kunzemann@gmx.de) saying how much you would have spent on booze. I will hand the sum over to Michael and accompagnate him to his director to see things go smooth. If you don't mind, I will give Michael your email address so he can tell you about how things are. You can give me the money when we meet back home or wherever I see each one of you again. As I said, I’m curious how many people actually read this blog.

Defining Tolerance

2006-10-28T11:00:00.000Z

There is one thing I hear again and again in all situations of daily life: “This is a free country.” “Feel free.” “You are free, my brother.” “In Ghana, you are free.” “I am free.” There are more variations to this theme, but Ghanaians are usually very proud of their tolerant and open society.

Quite often being free means being free to do whatever you want given that you can afford the bribes. You can litter, build a house without a permit, and drive cars that would be sent to the dump in every other corner of the world. You are free.

Maybe this seems like a cynical summary, but than I’m not Ghanaian. So what do you expect? My negative preconceptions were seemingly affirmed when Ghanaian government banned an International Conference on Gay and Lesbian Rights that was to be held in Accra in September. The official declaration by the Information Minister Kwamena Bartels was straight forward. He said homosexual practices were illegal in Ghana and would “violently offend the culture, morality and heritage of the entire people of Ghana”. I read the press statement when I went for a chat with someone in the German embassy. The lady said, they had sent the press release to the headquarters in Berlin without any comment. What could you probably add to phrases like, "Unnatural carnal knowledge is illegal under our criminal code. Homosexuality, lesbianism and bestiality are therefore offences under the laws of Ghana.".

The clamp down made the conference a headline and people were debating homosexuality and gay rights 24/7 on TV, in radio shows and on the streets. Here is one example out of many articles published during the time: Our culture will not be sold out for gay lifestyles. Mind you, this is a moderate one. Basically, people said, if they want to do it, they should go outside the country. Most people were arguing from a religious or traditional perspective saying things like ‘Ghanaian men don’t sleep with other men’ or ‘God created Adam and Eve for a reason’. The more elaborate among the commentators highlighted Ghana’s AIDS problem saying that gay men are the most vulnerable and that Ghana was becoming a destination for gay sex tourism.

That is the background, now comes the catch. Everyone I spoke to condemns homosexuality, still Accra has quite a number of gay bars and they are not hiding. Jones, a Ghanaian, took me out to Henri’s Palace. I had met him weeks ago at a party on Oxford Street in Osu, the nightlife area of Accra. Weeks later I saw him again, this time with his girlfriend. She was called Beauty, which wasn’t all that wrong. That night the girl was drinking like a fish and hitting on every guy around. Jones didn’t seem to care. They broke up later. My guess is that she was just a cover up.

Anyway, back to Henri’s Palace. We were sitting on the street, drinking and talking. Some details seemed odd, but I didn’t get the picture straight away. There were no women, but it was around 9 pm and most drinking spots are crowded by men anyway. One guy was dancing in a very sexy, female kind of style. But Ghanaians love to dance and some of their movements look like pure sex. There was this one Arabic looking guy with a tiny, tiny shirt that barely covered his breast. But it wasn’t until, I stepped inside the club that the picture became clear. Just men, for sure, and they were smoking, very rare in Ghana. Some of them were slim, wearing tight fitting jeans and fancy T-Shirts. Others looked like well established businessmen who came to flee reality, a wife, and three kids. On the walls were black and white shots of Hollywood stars and an Audrey Hepburn poster. A sign was saying ‘Poppers available here 80.000 Cedis”. I felt like being somewhere in Berlin or London.

That’s Ghana for you - another Ghanaian saying whenever things turn out to be slightly different from what you had expected. And I think this is very telling of how Ghanaians go about their business. Maintain a high profile in public, do what pleases you in private. My friend Jones is a perfect example. Somehow he is living a gay life and somehow he is still holding on to the idea of marrying and having a family. Must be difficult to be torn apart like this. But this is Accra for you, a strange mixture of modern globalized life and old rites and believes.

Too lazy to write

2006-10-24T11:27:00.000Z

Some times it is just too hot.

But sometimes you shouldn't bet on staying dry. Dead or alive.

Kumasi Central Station. No one is waiting for a train.

One of the things I miss is autumn.

I just love this picture.

Being sick

2006-10-21T15:02:00.000Z

I just spent an entire week at home. Some sort of flue, I guess. I went to the hospital, one of the best in town, but doctors here don’t usually tell you what you have, less you insist. I had been waiting for over an hour, my head felt like a water melon (ripe). I was just happy to see the man in white. I didn’t insist.

Consultation came in for about 150.000 Cedis, that is approximately 18 Dollars, maybe 13 Euros. The drugs were about the same amount. Last time, when I came down with Malaria, I had to spend about 1.5 Million Cedis. 130 Euros for three days in hospital, food, drugs and 24-7 care.

While all this seems like petty amounts of money, it is quite a lot when you compare it to average Ghanaian wages. A teacher might earn two to four million a month, a journalist a bit less. Falling sick is a very costly thing for them. A carrier boy working in the markets in town makes about 30.000 Cedis a day, barely four dollars. If he falls sick, he either has to rely on family, get through without any help or die.

There is of course free treatment for the needy in some hospitals, even in the country side. But the drugs, you have to pay for. When you get a disease like Malaria that means you are in for a hard time. The test is simple and inexpensive; it is whether or not you take the medication prescribed that makes the difference. Or let’s say it like this, whether you can afford to take it.

True, a number of Ghanaians have developed a partial resistance to the parasite. They still get it, but it is like a severe flue. They vomit, they have fever and all, but they don’t succumb to it.

Still, Malaria is the number one killer in Africa. More than a million people a year perish; it is more deadly than AIDS if you wish. The ones that die are the new born, the sick, the malnourished – all those that don’t have enough resilience to fight the disease. They die. Just like this.

Since I had Malaria, I can more easily detect if someone suffers from it. With Malaria comes a very special sort of apathy, a feeling of freezing to death even in the blazing midday sun, dazzling headaches.

Being aware of this is like going through town and seeing things you are used to but all of sudden they have a new meaning. Why is this beggar not begging anymore, just hanging around staring into the void? Why would some sleep in the full tropical sun wearing thick woolen clothes? Than you get paranoid. You see it everywhere. How can these people live with such a thread? But you get used to it. That is the way of the world, just another plague to be dealt with.

In a book I read something that was maybe meant as a tranquillizer, but it didn’t make me feel too comfortable. The author said that as long as HIV, the AIDS-Virus, does not survive inside a mosquito, things aren’t that bad for Africa.

Meet a dictator

2006-10-21T12:37:00.000Z

I’m going to see Rawlings, J.J.Rawlings. I guess the name doesn’t mean much to most of you, but than most of you never lived under a military regime unchecked by any legal or civil restrains. Ghana did, a few times, and longest under Rawlings.

Still, his story is different from that of most other African dictators. First of all, most people here would probably not call him a dictator, even if enough atrocities had been committed during his reign. But most significantly, he was one of the few dictators who more or less voluntarily handed over power.

Well, that sounds a bit too positive. Let me set it straight. After about nine years in office as military commander, he managed to win general elections, not without some cheating though. I don’t know if his popularity and the power of his party might have even been enough to win him the Presidency on fair grounds. Some say yes, others deny it. But he won and he was reelected after a four years term.

According to the Ghanaian constitution, inaugurated under his chairmanship, there are just two terms in office for a Ghanaian President. So he did the surprising thing and stepped back. His successors never enjoyed his popularity and the opposition leader won the race.

So, now I’m going to interview him and I have no clue where to start. I mean, how do you interview an ex-dictator turned good-guy without complacency, but still polite enough to make him answer your questions? And what do I ask? Why the atrocities, the killing and the lawless period after taking power?

Does it even make sense to talk with him? Maybe he would just keep on propagating his point of view and I get all messed up. Plus, I can’t get the other guy on the phone, Kwame Pianim, now a successful business man, but under Rawlings a long term prison inmate.

People told me, Pianim might have won against Rawlings during the first elections in 1992, even under unfair conditions. He was some kind of martyr for many, a political prisoner so charismatic that he kept on rallying people around him, even in jail. But the Supreme Court declared him ineligible, because of his prison time. Very cheesy.

Hemingway is dead

2006-10-16T22:15:00.000Z

Another article I did for The Ghanaian Times. It is this cool kind of big-game-adventure-hero article, kind of Hemingway style. Okay, I did it it from a rather safe place and the crocodile was stuffed with chickens anyway. But I mean Hemingway shot himself, so I might just take it a bit easier.

The Ghanaian Times' people would probably have chose an exciting headline such as

Conservation project for new Crocodile Species

so I have to pick something a bit more sexy like

Meet the Reptile Redeemer or A day with the Alligator Angel

The crocodile was about two and a half meters long, and even though the man wasn’t of small built it easily outstripped him. By the time he had sneaked up from behind, we had all stepped back from the scene.

The massive reptile was kept from plunging back into the muddy pool by an iron wire slung around its broad neck. It had been fighting hard, but seemed exhausted by now. A young local was holding on to the cable looking half scared, half proud of his bravery. His force kept the reptile from escaping, but if it would change its mind and charge instead of retreating, the young man would be in for a hard time. None of the two seemed aware of this possibility.

The noises of the fight had attracted a small crowd. While man and crocodile had fought, they were busy commenting and arguing whether it was reasonable or outright lunatic to try to catch a crocodile alive. With time passing both crocodile and crowd had grown tired of the spectacle and now, as the hunter was standing right behind the big animal, silence was surrounding the scene.

Was he waiting for a special moment or just fighting his own doubts? After a long moment of silence he leaped forward and landed on the back of the big reptile. His weighed nailed it down to the ground; his big hands holding its mouth shut. There was no fight. The crocodile seemed as surprised as the crowd. It looked ridiculously simple, just like catching chicken in the backyard.

“It isn’t”, Matthew told me later. “If you don’t know exactly what you are doing, it can be very dangerous, both for you and for the crocodile.” Matthew Shirley knew what he was talking about. The young crocodile biologist had been in Ghana since June catching dozens of crocodiles. He wasn’t in for the meat or the thrill, though. Even if it was a good show, this was serious science.

Matthew came to Ghana to discover a new species of crocodiles. Africa is known to host three species of crocodiles, the most famous and the most feared among them being the Nile crocodile. Current knowledge has it that the Nile croc can be found in East, South and West Africa. But Matthew believes that what in Ghana is commonly referred to as the Nile crocodiles is in fact something altogether different.

The men-eater, as the Nile crocodile is sometimes called, is said to grow up to a size of six meters and to cause a higher death toll among humans than all other crocodile species combined. Ghanaian ‘Nile crocodiles’, in turn, don’t exceed 3.5 meters and rarely ever kill humans. “Even if they look quite similar to Nile Crocodiles in Eastern and Southern Africa, they are smaller, less aggressive and they live in a totally different habitat”, he told me.

It was for this reason that he was going all over Ghana and parts of La Côte d’Ivoire looking for wild crocodiles and taking blood samples. He is convinced that once scientists would have gathered enough probes, they would be able to analyze the DNA and show that Ghana and parts of West Africa were actually host to a species of reptiles do far unknown.

Unfortunately, this species would be endangered right from the start of its official life. Natural habitats all over West Africa are vanishing due to increasing human settlements, pollution and over fishing, Matthew says. “As we speak, crocodiles have come extinct in many places. But while scientists are sure that West and Central Africa are the priority areas in the world for crocodile conservation action, it is Ghana and parts of Cote d’Ivoire that still have a population worth speaking of”, he said.

Matthew’s believes that if there is a way to preserve this new species, it must be done in Ghana. “The people here are in a unique position to ensure the future of crocodiles because of their well established conservation ethic and protected areas network. Ghana will be a major player in this conservation movement in the coming years. And so far, the people from the Ghana Wildlife Division and the Faculty of Renewable Natural Resources at KNUST are very excited and supportive of that, and should be commended for helping to initiate this important first step.”

In the beginning of his research project, he had just intended to go out for crocodiles. But when he saw that in traditional crocodile breeding grounds like the Digya National Park along Lake Volta crocodiles were virtually extinct, he also started some conservation exercises.

In order to train future zoologists capable of studying and preserving Ghana’s shrinking croc population, he initiated various training workshops at the Universities of Ghana in Legon and the Kwame Nkrumah University of Science and Technology (KNUST) in Kumasi for future Ghanaian croc biologists showing them on how to catch, handle and protect the ancient creatures and prevent their extinction.

Ghanaians, he said, had to understand that crocodiles presented a huge opportunity. For one, tourists were attracted by the prospect of seeing them in the wild. On the other hand, crocodile farms would represent an interesting business venture. Crocodile leather could be used for all kinds of luxury goods like handbags, shoes or expensive briefcases. Their flesh was nutritious and could be sold at high prices.

“Currently, biologists at KNUST are trying to build up a croc farm at the outskirts of Kumasi. The place could be valuable for scientists, too. You can study them easily, train young biologists on how to handle them and even breed young ones to be released in their original habitats”, Matthew told me.

The crocodile Matthew had caught when I fist met him at Hans Cottage in Cape Coast, was a living proof for his vision of humans and crocodiles peacefully sharing a habitat. After the initial shock of being captured and robed of some of its blood, it slipped back into the huge man made pool and was being seen sunbathing a few hours later - very much to the delight of the tourists who had come all the way from Cape Coast to see one of Ghana’s most fascinating animals, alive.

Alles nicht so schlimm

2006-10-16T22:10:00.000Z

Alltag ist eine feine Sache. Egal wohin ich gehe, früher oder später holt er mich ein und dann ist alles irgendwie ein bißchen wie zu Hause. Leider ist zu Hause dann nicht mehr wie zu Hause, aber das merkt man auch erst danach. Was ich sagen wollte, Accra kann genauso alltäglich sein wie Bad Tölz oder Garching. Man sollte allerdings darauf achten, sich seinen Alltag sorgfältig zusammenzustellen. Mein Anfangsalltag in Accra war ziemlich zäh.

Kurz vor sechs klingelt der Wecker. Um die Uhrzeit ist die Dusche noch ziemlich kalt, die Sonne braucht ein paar Stunden, um den großen schwarzen Plastiktank auf dem Dach aufzuheizen. Mir ist kalt. Die Schaben haben das gleiche Problem. Frühmorgens lassen sie sich ohne große Gegenwehr erschlagen.

Zum Frühstück gibt es Porridge, jeden morgen eine andere Sorte. Süß-klebriger Reisporridge, grober dunkler Haferporridge, vergoren-süßer Maisporridge und, wenn ich selbst kochen muss, Instantporridge. Dann raus auf die Hauptstraße, umständlich eine Sammeltaxe angehalten und zur wichtigsten Vorort-Kreuzung. Von hier sind es noch 20 Kilometer zur Arbeit, macht an guten Tagen eine Stunde im Trotro-Bus, an schlechten zwei.

Die beiden zentralen Zufahrtsstraßen sind seit halb sieben Uhr morgens zu, ich bin ja nicht der einzige, der zur Arbeit will. Wir nehmen die Bush Road. Der Name sagt alles. An Regentagen geht es durch Schlaglochteiche und Schlammrinnen. Ab und an bleibt ein Minibus im Schlamm stecken. Im Vorbeifahren sehen sie aus wie modernes Großwild. Ansonst wird in Trotros meist geschlafen. Morgens genießen die Leute die letzten ruhigen Minuten, abends sind sie geschafft vom großen Mahlstein Accra.

Kurz vor dem Ziel bleiben wir im Circle stecken. Die Idee vor dem Industriegbiet einen Kreisverkehr zu bauen, war gut gemeint, stammt aber aus einer Zeit als die meisten Trotros in Accra noch aus Holz waren. Das gemeine an diesem letzten Stau ist das moralische Dilemma. Zu Fuß brauche ich von hier etwa 20 Minuten durch Hektik, Schmutz und tausende von Menschen. Bleibe ich sitzen, bin ich in 30 Minuten im Büro. Meistens bleibe ich sitzen.

Dann arbeiten und abends zurück, so ziemlich das gleiche Spiel. Insgesamt verbringe ich vier Stunden im Trotro, ohne Klimaanlage, mit viel Staub und Abgasen. Abends esse ich noch einen Teller ghanaische Vollkost und falle ins Bett wie der Wolf in den Brunnen.

So sah das einen Monat lang aus. Mir hat’s gereicht. Ich bin einfach ein Weichei. Ich finde ja schon den Alltag der Leute hart, die einen Grund haben jeden Tag in diesen Moloch zu pilgern. Wie es ist, ohne Job und Geld in Accra zu leben, will ich gar nicht ausprobieren.

„In den Vororten wohnt die Depression“, skypt mir eine Freundin. Sie hat Recht. An einem Samstagmorgen verabschiede ich mich von meiner unglaublich netten Vorort-Gastfamilie. Alle sind gerührt und sorgen sich um mich. Man hat mir erzählt, in Accra wäre das Risiko überfallen zu werden höher als hier in Sakumono. Aber morgen ist Sonntag und ich will nicht in die Kirche, ich will ausschlafen.

Seitdem ist mein Alltag süß, wie man hier sagt. Kurz nach sieben klingelt mein Wecker, eine halbe Stunde später stehe ich auf. Das Wasser ist dann schon ein, zwei Grad wärmer. Und eigentlich habe ich ja nichts gegen Schaben. Mit dem Trotro brauche ich eine viertel Stunde bis zum Stau am Circle. Sobald wir stehen, steige ich aus dem Bus und spaziere zehn Minuten zu einem wackeligen Holzstand an der Straße. Da ich jetzt nicht mehr zum Büro hetze, fiel mir im Vorbeigehen die schwarze Espressomaschine auf. Die Herren hinter der Theke stammen aus Burkina Faso und servieren echten Kaffee, nicht dieses Instantzeug, dass man sonst überall bekommt. Wir schwatzen etwas und dann schlendere ich weiter zur Redaktion.

Abends gehe ich zur Tawala Bar, einem Holzschuppen am Strand, fünf Minuten hinter unserem Haus. Ich bestelle gebratenen Reis und Huhn. Die Entscheidung wird mir leicht gemacht, Guerrisons Frau macht den besten gebratenen Reis der Stadt. Wen ich Abwechslung will, bestelle ich Huhn mit Reis. Die Sonnenuntergänge sind sehr romantisch und tauchen die Armut rundherum in bunte Farben. Ich persönlich finde aber die Mondnächte am besten. Dann haben selbst die Müllberge am Strand etwas mystisches. Und den Rest sieht man nicht mehr. So ist mein Alltag in Accra, eben fast wie zu Hause. Alles eine Frage des Blickwinkels.

No photo, please!

2006-10-10T13:26:00.000Z

I just had to take this picture. I was standing in front of the Ghanaian Times office chatting with a colleague when these two guys came by pushing a totally fucked up car to some place where they could repair it or sell it or whatsoever.
The scene was somehow funny. The street was really busy, cars rushing and honking and all and then this anachronism. But when I started taking pictures, they got really angry. The guy on the left is yelling something at me. I guess it was 'Stop it or I'm gonna spoil your camera.' Meaning he would destroy it.

Before coming to Ghana, I had heard that many people don't want their picture to be taken. The book said that was mostly due to religious or spiritual reasons. Some people, the book read, where afraid that taking their picture would also rob them of their soul. Humbug, if you ask me. Even in the small hamlets, people know that a camera is a camera and that's it. Sure, Moslems aren't so keen on been snapped, but that's due to the Koran and not to any fears of loosing their souls.

The reason most people get all worked up when you single them out with your camera is that they are sick of bad press. Just one example, a few weeks ago, I was strolling around the Kumasi Central Market, according to some sources the biggest market in West Africa and by all means a huge place. It is unbelievable crowded, noisy and also quite chaotic and at times disgusting. While I stopped at a stall to buy some water, I noticed an old German newspaper laying around on one of the tables. The owner was obviously using it to wrap the goods he was selling. I found it funny to find Die Frankfurter Allgemeine Sonntagszeitung at this very place and took out my camera. But there was no way, I could have taken that picture. The owner was fervently refusing my wish. He was so stubborn about it that I got somehow worked up, too. I mean what was so bad about taking a picture of this damn newspaper? I kept on bothering him and finally he told me that he wouldn't allow it because I would only go back home and use the picture to make fun of Ghanaians and depicture them like barbarians, practically animals living in poverty and ignorance. I was dumbstruck. Even if I would have liked to do so, how on earth could the simple picture of a German newspaper help me to ridicule Ghana? But there was no arguing with him. In the end I gave up, but not without delivering one final lecture about that there are also good people in Europe and that it was a sign of intolerance and even racism to accuse of all of vicious intentions.

Well, this was an extreme example. But still I'm stuck with a problem. How to deal with the bad things I do see around every day. Some people say, that Africa has had enough bad press and that there would be no sense in picking on it any longer. Instead, the good things should be highlighted to rectify the bad image Africa has and to attract tourists and investments. Others say that you have to put your finger to the wound otherwise things will never change. I can already hear some of you saying that you have to decide from case to case and that you can't generalize things. But that's not the point. Anyway, I don't feel like giving lectures on morals and all, plus the longer you inspect any given situation the harder it gets to judge. And I guess I'm already here for too long.

Thus, on the left you see the problem I face. Quite often I feel that I'm just watching things, but I'm not part of them. And whatever I will do, I will stay alien to my surroundings. So, am I in a position to tell the people down there what they should do? I don't know. Though question.

Sweet things

2006-09-23T22:03:00.000Z

Something less demanding: food. Ghanaian cuisine is not very sophisticated, but special. The dish below is called red-red. Beans, gari powder, palm oil and sweet ripe plantains. Delicious. The first one is rather luxurious; below is the fast food-version. The price is ridiculously low and it keeps you going throughout a long day.

ガーナで注目されていない物？それは食べ物である。事実、ガーナ料理はあまり洗練された類のもではない。しかし、それは実に特別である。下の写真は、通称レッド－レッドと呼ばれる、豆、ガリパウダー(キャッサバ芋の粉)、椰子の実の油を使ったシチュー。甘い完熟したプランテーン(見掛けはバナナに似ているが、味は芋のようである)のフライと食す。うまい。上の写真に写っているのがレストラン版で、下のがファーストフード版である。値段はばかばかしいほど安く、おまけにこれだけで、一日中空腹を感じない。

Palm oil is one of the most typical ingredients of pretty much every dish. The oil is, most surprisingly, taken from the fruits of the oil palm. The berries are red-brown. Quite spectacular.

椰子の実油は、日々の料理の大半に用いられる、ガーナの典型的調味料である。原料は、アブラヤシの実ということである。写真のように、その実は赤茶で、なかなかの壮観である。

The palm that gives palm oil is also used, another surprise, to produce palm wine. I found the chopped tree and the plastic flask when roaming around in the forest around Kibi, the capital of a small local kingdom. It was raining; the air was warm and damp. Ants and bees were trying to get through the bottleneck. The juice is sweet and thick, but becomes alcoholic and acidic throughout the day. People usually try to drink it before midday.

アブラヤシの樹液は、何とワインの原料となる。僕が「キビ」という名の小さな王国首都にある森を散策していた時に、横倒しになった椰子の幹の下に、プラスチックのフラスコ瓶が置いてあるのを見かけた。その時は雨がちらついていて、空気はジメジメと生温かかった。そして蟻や蜂が、瓶の口の辺りをたかっている。樹液は甘くネットリとしている。一日発酵させれば、苦いアルコールと化す。通常は半日前発酵に飲する。

If you want something harder you would probably go for Apeteshi, some sort of local gin that come in all kind of colors and variations. Pretty much every village has its own variation and people, men that is, like it a lot. The stuff on the right is some kind of bitter called Opemu. Like so many things, I tried it once. But the Apeteshi is not bad, especially if you try to digest one of the more traditional dishes like Fufu or Banku.

もしもっと強いのをというなら「アペテシ」がお勧めだ。これはいわゆる地元のジンで、色や味は千差万別である。ほとんどの村々に、その村独特のアペテシがあり、村人、特に男達の大好きな飲み物である。右に位置するのが、ビター(ビール)で、「オペミュ」と呼ばれる。他のガーナ名物と同じように、僕はどれも一度試すに留まった。けれどアペテシはそれほど悪くない。特に、もし「フフ」や「バンクー」といったガーナ伝統料理を消化しよう、と試みる勇気がある場合には。

Above you see Okra sauce with the said Banku. If you like these somehow acidic-tasteless balls of fermented maize then Ghana is the place for you, because it is pretty much the only place where you can get this stuff. This fact in itself says a lot about the food and I attribute the love my Ghanaian friends have for this stuff to their fierce patriotism and life-long exposure. Fufu is somehow similar in consistence. If you would throw a ball of Banku against a wall it would most probably bounce back. A ball of Fufu would make a huge mess and stay glued to whatever its point of impact. Ah, and you are not allowed to chew Fufu. No one could tell me why, but they insisted it is of highest importance to really appreciate its quality.

左のが「バンクーのオクラソース添え」。バンクーとは、発酵させたトウモロコシから作る餅のようなものである。酸っぱくて味の薄い餅のようなものが好きな人には、ガーナはまさしく素晴らしい場所である。なぜならガーナは、このような類のものが手に入る、ほぼ唯一の場所だからである。このような食べ物を好物とするガーナ人は、そうとうに気高い愛国心を持っているか、もしくは長年の訓練の成果としか考えられない。「フフ」もほぼ同じようなものである。バンクーを球状にして壁に向かって投げてみよう。跳ね返って来るはずである。では、フフを球状にして同じ事をしたら、フフボールは壁にベタッと広がって張り付くだろう。それから大事な事がある。フフを咀嚼してはならない。理由は誰も教えてくれないが、ガーナ人は、フフを本当に味わうためには、噛まないのが肝心だと信じている。

In the end it usually boils down to rice and chicken for me; or chicken and rice for a change. After more than two months here, I can't see chicken anymore, so it came as something of a relief when I discovered the "Bon Appetit"-Spot five minutes from here. I had passed by the place everyday, but it is just a little wooden hut of some five square meters. One day, I ran by and I glimpsed this sweet little coffee machine, a real espresso machine with steam and all. You have to know that although Ghana is also a coffee producing country most people don't drink it. And if they do so they take instant coffee. Tasteless, thin instant coffee. No surprise, I immediately stopped short and started chatting to the guys running the spot. It turns out they don't speak English, just there local language, Arabic and French. One was from Burkina Faso, the other from Cote d'Ivoire and no matter all the shortcomings of French colonial rule, they had left them with a taste for real coffee.

詰まるところ、僕の場合はライスとチキン(あるいは変化をいれて鶏肉とごはん)に落ち着いた。しかし滞在期間も2ヶ月を超えた今、もうチキンも傷食気味といった感じである。だから、自宅から歩いて5分の所にある「ボン・アペティ」を発見した時、僕はまるでか奇跡か、と思ったほどであった。実を言うと、僕は毎朝この場所を通りすぎていたのだ。けれどそれは、僕にはただの小さなの木造小屋としか写らなかった。ある日、そこに小さなコーヒーマシーンがあるのを垣間見た。しかも蒸気を使う、ちゃんとしたエスプレッソマシーンである。ガーナは、コーヒー豆生産国だというのに、人々はコーヒーを飲む習慣がない。もし飲むとしても、インスタントが関の山である。当然のごとく、僕はその場に立ち止まり、そこにたむろしていた男達と立ち話をし始めた。そして彼らが英語ではなく、地域の方言、アラブ語そしてフランス語を使用している事が分かった。１人はブルキナ・ファソから、その他の人々はアイボリー・コーストなど、皆旧フランス植民地国出身者であった。彼らは本当のコーヒーの味を求めてここにやって来るのである。

Since two weeks I make my own little Hadj to the place, have coffee, chat and eat food from francophone West African. The dish below is liver with pees and onion, but if you add some sort of slightly acidic couscous and fresh tomatoes and vinegar than you'll get Ayeke, an Ivorian dish.

２週間前から、僕はコーヒーを飲み、話をし、フランス語圏の西アフリカ料理を食するために、まるでメッカ(イスラム教徒の聖地)に通うようにここを訪れている。下の写真にあるのがレバーの豆と玉ねぎ添え。もしここに、酸っぱいクスクス(非常に細かいパスタの一種)と新鮮なトマトそしてお酢を加えれば、アイボリー・コースト料理「アイケ」の完成。

And finally, my favorite snack: Roasted plantains with groundnuts (peanuts). You can buy it pretty much everywhere. It is warm, sweet and nutritiuous. If you are in a hurry and there's no time to grab something decent, this is what you would go for.

最後は僕の大好物な軽食。ピーナツ(濡れ落花生みたい)と焼いたプランテーン(焼き芋みたい)。どこでも買え、温かく、甘い。そして栄養満点。忙しくてちゃんとした物を食べる暇がない時もお勧めである

Thilo (ティロ)

The original sin

2006-09-19T21:24:00.000Z

If it goes on like this, I will have to change the name of my blog. It is not the world according to me; it’s the world according to all these people around me. The picture you see above shows Dudley Thompson, a Jamaican I met in Accra. The little girl above just happened to find my camera interesting and I couldn't resist but publish the picture. I instantly fell in love with her. I mean it is a stereotype par excellence, but kids in Ghana are just too sweet.

Back to Dudley. I met him during a conference on how to ‘Re-brand Africa’. Basically, what the organizers wanted is finding ways of how to brush up Africa's image. The old man was there, because they wanted to have someone who could speak about politics and culture among all the marketing talk.

Dudley served the purpose. He is a former ambassador and proud holder of the Order of Jamaica, a seemingly prestigious award in the West Indies. He hadn't been to Ghana for a long time, not since they had buried Kwame Nkrumah, the father figure of Ghana, and his former friend. 'My dear friend Kwame Nkrumah', is actually what he used to call him. It was just brilliant seeing the old bloke sitting there in his sofa, playing with his walking stick and bringing up glorious moments from the past. He turns 90 next year. I would have given him at the utmost 70 years when I first met him. I mean, he has problems walking and all, but once you start to talk to him there is this vibrant booming voice, intellectual wit and humor. True, he likes to talk and enjoys the attention. But apart from a normal dose of vanity, there is a message. An urge to share his thoughts and ideas, to spread the word before his time ends.

He seemed pleased to have this young white journalist sitting there in front of him, listening and growing visibly impressed. In the 40s he had worked and lived with people like Nkrumah and George Padmore. I mean, not that these people meant much to me before coming to Ghana. But this is not because they were of no importance. It is rather a sign of my ignorance. But I'm learning. I'm trying. In short, Padmore was an Afro-American journalist, an intellectual and an activist for Pan-Africanism. He gathered all these people around him while staying in London. At least for once, a lot of the first African leaders spent some time with him. Nyerere was there, who later became president of Tanzania. It was with Padmore that Thompson met Jomo Kenyatta, the founding father of Kenya, whom he defended when the British imprisoned him for being the alleged leader of the bloody Mau-Mau movement.

Whatever, this is not meant as an alternative to Wikipedia, so look it up if you like. It is just that in the course of the interview, I decided to write a story about Nkrumah and maybe try to get enough material for a radio piece. I want to understand these men. He was both one of the first to free Africa and one of the first to lead his country slip into some sort of tyrannical rule. When people started to criticize him, he went for a one-party state with a draconic police force. Finally, he was disposed of by a CIA-backed coup and it took more then 25 years until Ghana reemerged. Now, I often hear people lament about the fact that in the 50's Ghana was ahead of countries like Malaysia or even South Korea, but nothing ever changed.

What I think is that maybe understanding Nkrumah and why he failed helps to understand other countries in Africa and their problems. Sometimes, I think that these men like Nyerere or Kenyatta, these visionary freedom fighters, where just not meant to be pragmatic managers of day-to-day business. Add all the external pressure and what else can you expect. But there are many aspects to the story and pinning down one reason for failure is bound to fail as well. But one thing still rings in my mind. Thompson kept on saying that there is an original sin of the white men, the sin of having damaged the black men's self-esteem. That white men have stained themselves with racism and, no matter how long ago, still carry this stain on their soul.

Black out

2006-09-12T18:26:00.000Z

Once again a story without pictures. But this time I have a reason. There are no pictures. My laptop has given up on me. All my photos and texts have been obliterated. There was a power cut and when the energy came back my computer told me that I don't have a hard drive anymore. Very unspectacular. But even this rather uninspiring event is a story in itself.

When Kwame Nkrumah became Ghana's first president in 1957, he was inspired by socialism and the idea of creating some kind of a Pan-African way, different from what went on in the rest of the world at the time. His new African way never quite made it and all that is left today are a number of truly massive industrial projects like the port town Tema or the Volta dam in Akosombo. Still today, the dam is just enormous. The resulting Volta Lake has been the world's biggest artificial lake for some forty years. The turbines in the Akosombo dam create most of the energy consumed in Ghana. But in the 60s, when lake was flooded, internal demand was too low. In order to make use of the excess energy, Nkrumah went for long-term contracts selling energy to a ridiculously low price to a huge aluminum smelter run by an American company. At the time the deal made sense, because it was American money that helped Ghana build the place.

Today, Ghana's economy is growing by approx. six per cent every year and energy demand has grown fast. The problem is such that during dry times the dam is producing less energy. But because the government is bound by its ancient contracts, energy has to be saved elsewhere. They call it the National Load Scheduling Programme. It means that more or less twice a week there is now power for exactly 12 hours. To mitigate the effects, they have devised a clever concept that just leaves certain areas without energy. So if there is a black out in your area, you can go two blocks down the road and find bars with cold beer or an Internet cafe.

And even when there is power the voltage in your plug might shift quite a lot. And that's what killed my hard drive, at least that is what the guy in the repair shop told me. Bad luck. But they will install a new hard drive, so I should be online soon. Plus, it is raining and the water level in the lake is rising again.

The ladybug man (Marienkäfermann)

2006-08-28T14:18:00.000Z

I came upon this guy when I went to our neighborhood beach bar, a little shag a few hundred meters down the road. He seemed to be part of the place even though I hadn't seen him before. I asked him for cigarettes and he sold me a packet. He had a strong German accent, curly hair that stopped short just above his shoulders. He hadn't shaved for a day or two. His skin was clean, but it looked like he had some of these diseases you get as a child. The ones that leave you with little craters from infected wounds and pimples. Only later, when he told me about it, did I remark the little black dots that were spread over his legs and arms. They had the size of a pinhead and looked like fainting tattoos. He was a nice guy, no matter the weird story he told me. So I decided to call him the ladybug man. I had always liked them. Whenever I found one, I used to count the dots on its back. This time no counting though; I just listened. I will stick to the name anyways, the whole thing was just too unreal for anything else.

The ladybug man’s real name was Wolfgang, a plain German name without any hint of adventure. But an adventure, he had been through. He had just come back from Burkina Faso, and he was more than happy about the fact that he could still speak of it. His words came like a summer rain and I can't recall every detail anymore. It was like he hadn't spoken German for a long time. It all came pouring out of him. Not in any particular order that is, but in a very fascinating crazy prose. I will try to give you an account of what it was in general, but keep in mind that I just relate his story without knowing if the least bit of it actually happened. All in all, it is quite a story and that’s reason enough to go through the exercise.

The ladybug man had worked in Burkina Faso as some shady sort of consultant for a Burkinabe granite pit that was in fact led by a bunch of alcohol loving Libyans. About his past, I know little. He had made some money in the 90s buying NVA barracks. They weren't worth anything. They just tore them down and invested in social housing projects. For all the Non-Germans: When the wall came down, property of the GDR government was transferred to an organization called Treuhandgesellschaft. Much of it was later sold for a symbolic price to investors from Western Germany. There was quite a lot of talk about corruption and the whole affair got a bit of a shady image. Well, he was there at the time, so it did seem fit to find him now navigating in murky waters here in Western Africa. Some kind of a logical succession.

What brought him to Ghana, I don't know. He is a friend of Garrison, the owner of the bar we met in. The guy, an Indian American who speaks fluent German, will get his own chapter sooner or later. His story is definitely worth being told. Anyway, the ladybug man had been hanging around in Ghana since the mid 90s and just went to Burkina to see a friend. The friend introduced him to a bank manager and our story got started.

The bank had invested millions into a granite pit. Three years had passed and still the pit was nothing more than a hole in the ground. The ladybug man was meant to assess the granite pit and deliver a report about its current status plus a business plan for the next years. Only after some months did he realize that he had become a pawn in the feud between the Libyan businessmen and the bank manager.

The Libyans didn't want him to finish his job. They had been milking the pit for three years declaring high costs for machines and all and cashing in on the difference to the real price paid. But the money wasted was provided by a branch of some West African Development Bank. The bank in turn had based the loan on guarantees from the Libyan government, in short Gaddafi. So, the Libyans running the pit were cheating on their own government. The bank manager had come to realize that they never wanted the pit to work properly, because then it would be harder to take out money. The money was gone, he knew that right from the start, but he needed somebody from outside to prove that his hands were clean. That's where the ladybug man came in the picture.

When I met him, he was totally fed up of Ouagadougou, the Burkinabe capital. "There is nothing there but heat and dust", he told me. The only thing left to cheer you up was alcohol and women. And that's what the Libyan fraudsters were into. Once they had gotten the taste of it, there was no way they would go back to Tripoli with its no alcohol policy and strict laws. So they tried to get the ladybug man on their side. First he was treated to lunch and alcohol; maybe women too, he didn’t say. But he kept on checking the books and asking questions, so they started to put some pressure on him. "At a certain point, I just went out of the house with two boys. When the Italian was killed, I didn't go back at all. I slept at friends' places." In the end, even this seemed too dangerous and he left the country. He had handed in his report, but never received any money. "I didn't even ask for it", he said. "I just wanted to get out."

I learned after some questioning that the Italian engineer, in its livelier days, had worked for a company that provided machines to cut the granite. He was there to teach the workers how to use them and supervise their installation; but there where no workers to be taught. Sometimes, there weren’t even machines to start with. His presence must have been some kind of a nuisance to the Libyans. They started to blackmail him at his company base in Italy. He was drinking, they said, spending his times with whores and the like. At a point, his wife came over to see what was happening. The charges, it turned out, where unsubstantial. But the engineer was pissed. He would go back home and blow the whistle, he said.

A few days later he was found dead in his Jeep, just a few blocks from his hotel. The police labeled it as a case of armed robbery. But the ladybug man could never figure out why robbers would go through the somehow irritating routine of breaking their victim’s legs before killing it, while leaving money, passport and mobile phone in the car.

But that’s not the end of the story. You might wonder why the Libyan government would want to invest in a Burkinabe granite pit, while there is no granite market to speak of, at least not in Western Africa. Of course, the ladybug man had an explanation, and a fascinating one as you might image at this point of the story.

Gaddafi had renounced terrorism and all after 9/11 and, weary of an ever growing front, Americans and Europeans alike had made their peace with him. Most of the trade limitations had been lifted. Still, there where sanctions on advanced weapon systems that hampered Libya’s wish to upgrade its army. The problem for Gaddafi, and that is an interesting point, was not getting the weapons. Once you have the cash, they are out there in abundance, the ladybug man said. All you need is hard currencies like Dollars or Euros. Thanks to high oil prices, Libya was receiving a steady stream of them. But Western intelligence agencies were still suspicious of the revolutionary leader of old and kept on monitoring financial streams into the country. So oil money was off limits for secret weapon deals. Money laundering was the answer.

Most parts of the world, the ladybug man said, where not suitable for such kind of business. In fact, it seems that nowadays the world is a fairly well run place, at least when it comes to financial transactions and investments. One of the few places left for big style money laundering could be found in parts of West Africa, he said. Burkina Faso is one of the poorest countries around and bribing high ranking officials a seemingly minor problem. That is why a 100% state owned Burkinabe company could be run entirely by Libyans.

That answers the question why this story took place in Burkina Faso. But why a granite pit? Well, first of all there is not much in Burkina Faso you could invest in. So even a granite pit could seem reasonable. And secondly, I was told that if you are interested in serious money laundering, return on investment is of minor importance as long as there is at least some income. Fortunately, the granite pit turned out to be one big hole in the ground that was good for nothing besides swallowing money. Unfortunately, an Italian engineer lost his life while he was trying to make sense of the hole affair.

That’s it. I left out some details, but the big picture is there. You definitely won’t see me going to Burkina Faso to find out if there is anything to it or not. But the ladybug man is real. He is one among the many drawn to this land. They are refugees, business men, aid workers, miners, missionaries, diplomats, travelers – you name it. And I just can’t stop listening to their stories.

I do work!

2006-08-26T20:25:00.000Z

I don't know if anyone is interested in that, but I'll post an article I wrote for the Ghanaian Times just to make you aware of the fact that I'm not just here to check beaches and try exotic food. If it will get published like this is an altogether different question. I recently wrote something about pollution in Accra and the need to avoid, collect and recycle basic litter like plastic bags etc. The article was published, but no one had told me how long it should be. Just write it, I was told. Well, it was too long and one of the editors cut out the part about avoiding and recycling. Unfortunately, the German vice ambassador read it and she was puzzled about the article's end. It just didn't make any sense.

Don't get me wrong, I love being at the place. Everything is somehow similar to a newsroom in Germany, but then again completely different.

PS: The pictures to this post show the ship that the article is about and a guy called Samuel, who had received treatment onboard.

The everyday miracle

Among the dock workers entering the Tema port every morning, a special crowd stands out. Men and women of all ages make their way through the labyrinth of containers and cargo trucks. Some are wearing big black sunglasses; others are being led by friends or family members. They come in from all parts of the country and even from neighboring Togo or Ivory Coast. Samuel Kofi, a 71 years old mason from Tema New Town, is among them. Like his fellows he is heading for the M/V Anastasis, a hospital ship docked in Tema for the next seven months.

When Samuel first came on board six weeks ago he had nearly lost his vision. One of his eyes had been blinded by a cataract, a deficiency that is common among the elderly. A one hour operation is all it takes to restore the sight. But with treatment costing close to 1.5 million Cedis, he couldn’t have paid for the surgery. One day a friend told him about the ship. He went to one of the screening procedures conducted in Tema by doctors from the swimming hospital and got picked for an operation – for free.

For Samuel the operation was a dream come true. He is now back for a check-up and his eyesight is nearly completed restored, says Francis Bottay, an ophtemical assistant who also works as a translator between patients and foreign doctors and nurses. “Now he can even go back to work again and supervise his boys on the construction side.”

Until the ship leaves in February 2007 an estimated 2400 visually impaired are meant to receive treatment in one of the ship’s three operation rooms or in one of the mobile dental clinics that operate on the mainland. But the crew, some 325 doctors, nurses, engineers, teachers and other specialists, are not just curing ailments of the eye.

The ship focuses on specific live changing health problems such as operations of the eyes, of cleft lips, plastic surgeries of tumors or VVFs, that is problems like incontinence that occur with some women after they have given birth, explains Amanda West, the ship’s press officer. “We don’t perform too much general surgeries. We figured out over the years that if we were a more generalized hospital ship, we wouldn’t be able to treat as many people.”

One among many to profit from the Mercy Ship’s stay in Ghana is Bawa Tarfo. He was suffering from keloids, scar tissues gone wild and growing into large tumors on his head, face, neck and torso. The tumors weren’t lethal but disfigured his body and turned him into a social outcast. When he got to the Anastasis he had not just lost his wife and his self-esteem, but all hope of ever living in peace from harassments and intolerance again.

Coming in days before the actual screening of potential patients began, he was one of the first to be operated on board. All in all doctors removed 8 pounds of keloid tissue from his body. The plastic surgery had made him a man again, he said after the operation. “I am a new person and very handsome. I am ready to go find my wife; if she accepts me I want her back.”

Helping people like Bawa is the reason why Mercy Ships have been cruising around the world since 1978. It was then that an American couple, Don and Deyon Stephens, bought an outdated passenger liner called Victoria and transformed the 552-foot vessel in what became the world’s biggest non-governmental hospital ship, the Anastasis.

As of today the fleet comprises three ships. The smaller Caribbean Mercy serves Central America, while the Anastasis has focused her attention on Western Africa. The African Mercy is currently being converted into a hospital ship with six operation rooms and a 78-bed ward. When the Anastasis retires in 2007, the African Mercy is poised to take over.

While a lot of money and effort has gone into the ship, the last decades have left their traces. Wandering through the mace of narrow wooden corridors and crammed laboratories one realizes that the ship was never meant to be a hospital.

The Anastasis was built in 1953 as an Italian cruise liner. Still, wooden panels bearing renaissance pictures and etchings of ancient Milan grace the walls. While it seems picturesque to the visitor, the ship’s past is a burden for its crew. “With all the wood in here, fire is maybe our biggest problem”, comments Amanda West. “We had a few incidents, but so far nothing major happened.”

Along the main corridors small doors lead to the crew’s dorms, storerooms and laboratories. Hyojin Ahn, a South Korean Radiology Technician sits next to huge x-ray scanner that fills the entire room. There is virtually no place to walk, but the place fulfills its purpose. And so does the rest of the ship, which somehow seems like a permanent interim solution.

Sharing such a narrowly confined space with hundreds of colleagues for months and years demands a lot of discipline and patience from the crew. And their situation won’t change much on the African Mercy, which is in fact a bit smaller than the Anastasis. It’s the patients who will benefit mostly from the new vessel, which will provide twice as much space for wards and operation rooms than its predecessor.

But no matter their age, the Anastasis and the Caribbean Mercy have been success stories. So far more than 26.000 handicapped or sick people have undergone operations on board. Health and development services provided by Mercy Ships on land and see are worth some 620 million dollars.

This is a huge sum, even for an American NGO with offices in 17 other countries all over the world. That the Mercy Ships have not suffered financial shipwreck is due to donors all over the world and, maybe even more important, the commitment of the crew. Every single person on board is a volunteer. From the captain to the doctors, nurses and machine engineers – no one receives payment. Rather to the inverse, crew members have to pay for donating their time and energy.

Jamie Kiesle came on board for one and a half months. The 27 year old nurse from Texas, USA decided to spend her annual vacations on board. She not only works for free, but pays a crew fee of 500 Dollar per month. Asked what made her invest so much money and energy, she responds without hesitation: “I want to take care of people who couldn’t afford the treatment. For me, it is like serving the lord with the skills I have learned.”

Faith is at the core of the whole enterprise. The Mercy Ships’ mission statement reads that “following the example of Jesus, Mercy Ships brings hope and healing to the poor, mobilizing people and resources worldwide”. Christians from some 30 nations figure among the crew. Reading the bible is part of the treatment administered by them.

Godwin Bzogbeta, one of 13 Ghanaians on board, says he is proud to be part of this mission. “I like it here very much. On the other ships people drink and smoke. Here it is different.” When the Mercy Ship moved from Liberia to Ghana in June this year, a lot of senior crew members left. The 31 year old maritime student from the Volta Region applied as a refrigeration technician and got the job. For the next months he’ll be part of a huge family helping the ones in need and working for his country.

Led by the blind

2006-08-26T11:46:00.000Z

I met Marcus on Friday. I had been out on an assignment with Effah and after the whole thing was over he stepped up to us and asked if we could take him along to Dansoman, an area in the west of Accra. He is the one on the picture. His kids led him along. He is blind, but wasn't born like this. I told him he could join us, but we would only go to Kwame Nkrumah Circle, a huge traffic hub close to the Ghanaian Times office. He beamed and called for his twin like boys. The taxis ride from the Ghana Society for the Blind to Circle is short, but this was one of the few times that I was glad to be stuck in traffic. Sometimes blind people led by kids approach you in the streets and ask for some money.
There is virtually no social security system in the country, so once you are disabled in any way, you are left to fight for your own. They are trying to build up some sort of social security for people working in the big companies. But with less than ten per cent of all workers in the private sector being employed formally, just a lucky few enjoy these new services.
When Marcus approached me, I was about to reach for some money, but he just wanted to save some money for transportation and chat a bit with the white guy. He was working as a fire fighter in the Accra fire patrol. After some six years of service his vision faded. Doctors said it was glaucoma. An incurable eye disease that inevitably leads to blindness, Marcus told me. It took him six years to get used to being blind. He had to learn it all anew. How to walk, to find his way, to make a living. In a way, he was lucky. Working for a public service he was transferred to the office and is now responsible for light duties, office work.
Still, it is virtually impossible to imagine what it means to become blind in a bee hive like Accra. There is no public transportation, no facilities for the virtually impaired whatsoever. If you cross the street you have to make it through a chaos of cars and buses all driving along without any care for pedestrians. All the streets are lined with open gutters and sewers filled with the drains of the city. One wrong step and you are soaked in filthy stinking water.
I was listening to Marcus’ words and jokes while we were sitting in the cab. There was just chaos and hectic around us. And still this man sat there on the front seat smiling and laughing and speaking about all this as if it wasn't really a big deal to make a living here. We dropped him off at where the trotro to his area was leaving and went on to work. I felt like walking half a meter above the ground. There was this immense joy about life - mine and that of others. I felt strength and confidence, and for a moment I could understand why so many people in this country are such fervent believers.

Floating through Accra

2006-08-23T20:46:00.000Z

Vivian just helped me out with this, so now I'm a blogger. Jesus, that's like showing somebody how to open the driver's door and then handing out a license. Well now this thing is up and so I better post some pictures. Better than boring you with endless stories. The zebra crossing above is in Accra, Ghana. The pictures on display ar for sale. Next to Bill is J.J.Rawling the former dictator who turned into a democrattically elected president and then, rather uncommon in Westafrica, stepped back once his two periods in office were over.
The guy on the right was one of the members of the elctoral commission. I went out with them on a float in Accra. We were all standing on a truck handing out leaflets about the upcoming local elections while a band was playing some kind of Salsa or whatever. I got pretty sun burned, but it was great fun.