My typical day in Ghana begins at 4am, when the awful shriek of the Muezzin reverberates around the local community. Completely antithetical to the sweet unwavering tones of the central Mosque in town, our resident Islamic preacher sounds like he has just swallowed our cat; an unwelcome wake-up call every morning. I then fall back to sleep until around 6.30am when the crowing of the house rooster acts as my second alarm clock. If I do not have an early appointment (which is quite common since I write my own work schedule) I snooze until 8am when I am finally woken by a conventional method – my alarm clock. By now the chirping of the birds and the buzzing of the insects can be heard through my bedroom window, which has shafts of white light streaming through the gaps between my brown patterned curtains. The other sound that can be heard is the whirring of my trusty ceiling fan, a most essential companion without whom working in my room would be almost impossible. I then clamber reluctantly out of my mosquito net, impregnable from the inside despite being erected so haphazardly that it has now taken on the appearance of a child’s fort – DIY was never one of my strengths. Immediately I put on my flip flops so as to avoid the thin layer of dirt and red dust that carpets my tiled floor, and walk 10 feet across the room to my oversized wooden cupboard and grab my towel. This is in itself enough to work up a small sweat, and so jumping into the slightly cold shower a minute later is a godsend and the highlight of the morning routine. The dampness of the bathroom seems to attract dozens of mosquitoes, who hover around the jets of water whilst being careful not to get too close. I then dry myself and hop quickly back round the corner into my room, which is a modest size at 10 feet wide and 20 feet long. My bed takes up much of the space with the headboard lying back against the far wall, leaving space on either side. To its left is a window which looks through into the house, and to the right is another window that looks out over un-kept fields and the road beyond. At the end of my bed is an improvised desk consisting of a small wooden table and a large round cushion, which lie next to my open suitcase and a large wooden cupboard. After ruffling endlessly through my suitcase, which I have not fully unpacked since arriving here, I get dressed and douse myself in mosquito repellent, or ‘deet.’ Is it a foul smelling substance that stings slightly when rubbed into the skin because of its toxic content, of which mine is 50%, the highest legally produced. I then quickly check my email using the Tzedek portable modem, a terminally slow process, before heading out for breakfast. The reality is that all of us who live in these quarters live a terribly comfortable life in Ghana. We each rent a room in a huge house owned by a doctor who was raised in Tamale but now lives in the UK. The kitchen and living area are both extremely spacious, luxurious in comparison to 99% of the houses here, whilst the main source of entertainment is not television, but a dart board. Tormenting our 5 month year old cat is also a popular pastime; he really is the craziest and most energetic animal I have ever met, including my dog. I am sure to lock my room before I leave (the ‘silly minger house’ is extremely well known throughout Tamale) before heading down the corridor, through the living room and out the front door. I slam the metallic veranda gate behind me before walking across our oversized garden, which is an acre of shrubbery, yellow grass, mango trees, and of course, reddish dust. I then arrive at another gate which lies between the watchman’s hut and a concrete wall, the latter of which borders the entire house and garden, before heading out into Tamale. It is a short walk through our immediate neighbourhood and past the mosque to the tarmac road, which is called Jisonaiyilli. Turning right I am then inundated with greetings from people who I consider my true community in Ghana, people that I see every morning and every evening, who work or live on the stretch of Jisonaiyilli that lies between my road and the main road. Zak’s bookshop, Luxury catering services (which is in reality a very nice ‘western’ restaurant) and the GIGDEV fundraising project are places which my housemates and I know particularly well. Once I reach main road and cross over the T junction, dodging a cacophony of goats in the process, I greet my good friend ‘the egg-bread man.’ Each time we exchange the same words, I say ‘deseeba,’ which means ‘good morning,’ and he replies ‘nah,’ a simple and commonly spoken word which simply acknowledges the greeting. I then say ‘tumabiola,’ which translates as ‘how is work?’ He replies ‘alafey’ which means ‘its fine thank you.’ Finally egg-bread man says ‘abirra,’ which means ‘how did you sleep?’ I always reply ‘gombienee,’ which means ‘I slept well thank you,’ even if it is not the case because my Dagbani is so limited. He then proceeds to serve up the most magnificent fried omelette sandwich in around 2 minutes, which I devour in two seconds and then take my anti-malarial, doxycycline, on a full stomach. Hailing a taxi down in morning rush hour is not a difficult task, but not worrying about the vehicle falling apart is more onerous. Most taxis in Tamale are dilapidated in some way, whether it’s through exposed wiring, a cracked windshield or even a missing roof, but they chug along from A to B somehow. The town is split into several districts which are sandwiched next to each other and lie on either side of Bolga Road, the main road which runs through the centre of town and through to the hospital. The journey in takes you through four or five of these districts until you reach the STC transport yard, the main market or the banks, which signify that you have reached the heart of the city. Describing the scene before you at this point would take me quite a while, but essentially it comprises a mish-mash of street sellers, taxis and motorbikes all weaving in and out of one another. Then on one side of the road are the western supermarkets and a few modern looking banks, whilst on the other lies the entrance to the market and a huge taxi round which makes Oxford Circus look like West Kirby beach. I normally try and buy a ‘fan-ice’ at some point in the morning; liquefied ice cream encased in a plastic package, which you rip open and squeeze out the sugary artificial goodness. I then make my way to one Tzedek partner or another, troubleshooting and project managing as I go, before buying some Ghanaian food for lunch. My current favourite is a dish called ‘wachei,’ which is comprised of cooked beans, vegetables, spaghetti and ‘gari,’ a sort of cheese. Despite the healthy sounding content the dish tastes closer to a Macdonald’s because of the amount of oil poured in, which is absolutely fantastic! I then might write a report or a blog post in the afternoon, after which I head to my regular restaurant, Nancy’s, for an evening meal. Josh and I order the same food almost every single night – plain rice served with supremely spicy vegetable sauce. This used to blow my mouth off, but after consuming it nearly one hundred times my iron-clad stomach could probably now happily digest a vindaloo. Finally, if it is not too late, we stop off at Luxury for dessert and our western fix for the day – apple pie and vanilla ice cream. Happily fed we retire to the house at round 8pm, and invariably go to bed an hour later. That concludes my typical day in Tamale, northern Ghana.
A large part of my role out in Ghana has been monitoring and evaluating Tzedek’s development projects. This entails conducting a field visit on the first day of the audit, whereby I interact with the beneficiaries of the project and conduct interviews. The second day is spent with the management of the organisation in their office. I ask them all kinds of questions, from ones that relate to their original application to the others which try to gauge the measurable outcomes of the project. There is a fair amount of collecting and analysing evidence across the two days, normally in the form of either tracking documents or financial accounts, which ultimately support or contradict what the organisation is saying. It is a comprehensive exercise designed to help both the partner and Tzedek evaluate the challenges and benefits of the project in question, and then charter a way forward. The two aspects that I have to keep at the forefront of my mind are the projects sustainability and the impact it has made on the community. I have found this monitoring and evaluation process highly interesting and extremely eye-opening. The time I spend with each organisation is essentially an exercise in information collection – the ‘monitoring’ part. The evaluation takes place when I write up my findings afterwards and submit the report to Tzedek. Of course whilst I am interacting with the organisation and the beneficiaries I am making judgements in my mind, this is only natural. However it is of paramount importance that I remain as objective as possible during the course of the investigation and do not express my opinions. I am ably assisted in my efforts by a local consultant with appropriate expertise, whom I have sourced and interviewed whilst in Tamale. I am also accompanied by a Tzedek volunteer who provides a valuable external perspective, so together the three of us make up the monitoring team. For confidentiality purposes I obviously cannot divulge information that I found out or wrote up, only that I enjoyed the role of pseudo-detective immensely and that I learnt an awful lot about development in practice! However one of the highlights of all the audits so far has been meeting the chief of the village of Saandu, which is a 45 minute motorcycle ride outside of Tamale. After spending an excruciatingly hot day interviewing women who had partaken in a shea butter processing initiative, the project staff and I were informed that the chief himself had summoned us to his quarters. From the outside his residence seemed only slightly more extravagant than the surrounding mud huts, but upon peering in one immediately noticed an enormous, wide space, festooned with magnificent fur rugs. The chief sat at the back of this room on an elevated rock shelf, surrounded by ornate wooden pillars that supported the ceiling. The others beckoned me inside but I wisely held back, for at once they removed their footwear and knelt on the sandy ground, shuffling slowly through the doorway in an orderly line. I hastily did the same and joined the back of the queue, and noticed that the Ghanaians in front of me were bowing so low that their lips practically touched the concrete floor. When it was my turn I summoned all the Dagbani I could muster to greet the chief, much to the amusement and delight of the group. He seemed genuinely astounded that a white person was in his presence, and even more so that he could speak a little of the local tongue. After taking some photographs at his request we shuffled out of the house once more in what was a short but momentous experience.
The next chapter in my Ghanaian journey took me to Mole National Park, approximately 4 hours south of Tamale, on a Tzedek organised trip for the volunteers. The journey turned out to be nearly triple that amount of time, in typical Ghanain fashion, following my second encounter with the Metro Mass coach service. The bus was absolutely heaving with passengers, some of whom seemed to be moving house judging by the amount of possessions they were carrying. I remember one man who boarded with a television and a giant golden framed picture of Jerry Rawlings, the former President of Ghana. The fact that most natives of the Northern Region cannot afford to buy a car means that an amusing variety of household items often arrive on each bus journey. We finally arrived at the ‘Mole Motel’ at around 11pm, and even at night the place seemed like a tourist trap. The reception desk resembled that of a North American hostel whilst the entrance gate reminded me slightly of Chester Zoo. I woke up the next morning to shouts and screams of the guys I was sharing a room with. Confused and slightly irritated I stumbled out of bed and towards the open front door, only to be confronted by five warthogs who were literally feet away from our dormitory. Alarmed and scared the four of us leapt back inside the room, locked the door, and began discussing plan B for how to get to breakfast. Obviously the back door represented an obvious option, but upon existing we were confronted by another animal, a mean looking monkey who looked intent on stealing our treasure trove of kosher biscuits. Eventually we decided that I, being the only one of the group with the rabies vaccine, should try and exit through the front door and hope all the animals had moved away. We of course did make it out of our room and into the motel complex, which, much to our delight, included a swimming pool. However the best discovery of the morning was the balcony which looked over Mole National Park. We stood there for hours gawping at the elephants and antelope that were roaming around the bush below, and staring enviously at the people on morning safari who were metres away from them. After possibly the nicest swim I have ever had, Josh and a Tzedek volunteer, also called Josh, decided that we would go on the afternoon safari. Our group of around fifteen was led by a ranger called Osman, who would go onto become one of the legends of our stay in Mole. We scrambled down the hillside from the motel and out into the bush below. The land was, for the most part, populated by dense forest but occasionally opened up into more expansive areas. No sooner had we started trudging through the undergrowth when the heavens opened, but the decision was taken to carry on. Osman started tracking the elephants, which descend into the forest in the afternoon, and impressively began following a line of fresh excrement into the jungle. I had no idea what techniques he was using or what signs he was looking for, but they were certainly very successful. Then the trail seemed to go cold and he seemed unsure – could it be that we had marched through the mud and pouring rain for 30 minutes to no avail? Then up stepped Kevin Bates, who after drawing upon his extensive experience as an African ranger, spotted the elephant plodding through the trees ahead. I never let the group hear the end of it! Such a huge animal was surprisingly well camouflaged behind the trees and the driving rain, and even though we only caught a glimpse of it, there was something immensely satisfying about tracking and finding the elephant in such adverse conditions. Once the weather became a little kinder we were able to spot more wildlife. Green monkeys, water bogs and antelope were all seen close-up. We then went back to the motel for havdalah and met an interesting variety of people at the bar. Being surrounded by an exclusively white crowd was very very odd at first, and even more so when the majority of the visitors were British. We did however meet a man working for the development branch of the German government, and a group of Texan missionaries who were trying to Evangilize the local population by offering medical treatment.
We all rose extremely early for the morning safari the next day. It was a very different experience to the first. The elephants had, in my opinion, been herded close to the hotel in packs, which made for a spectacularly close but artificial encounter. We then made our way down into the bush once more and saw much of the same wildlife we had the previous afternoon. The highlight though was undoubtedly watching the elephants playing in the waterhole right at the end. Our action packed weekend continued with a trip to Larabanga mosque, the most ancient mosque in all of West Africa. It was an interesting experience soured slightly by the constant and aggressive nature of the begging which occurred throughout our visit – evidently the mosque was another tourist trap. We then decided, after a long negotiation with the driver who was trying to overcharge us, to go on a jeep safari. This was in fact very disappointing; the wildlife was scared away by the noise of the engine, so we saw very little during the two hours. But although sitting in the roof basket on top of the jeep was really fun, we were left lamenting the fact that we had not gone canoeing instead. We rounded off a fantastic weekend with cards and drinks, the combination of which produced some highly amusing games of ‘concentration’ – those who have played will know what I mean! We boarded the Metro Mass bus at 4am the next morning and were back in Tamale by 9am. After what felt like a two week holiday I had never been so indifferent about being back home.
The last couple of weeks have been full of activity with several project evaluations taking place in succession, interspersed with trips around the northern and central regions – so sorry I haven’t been in better touch. The first of those trips, going back a few weeks, was Nakpanduri. Carefully planned in a matter of minutes the night before, my housemates and I hopped onto a coach on Saturday morning and headed north. Regrettably I drew the shortest of all straws and had to wake up at 4am to go and purchase the tickets (why Ghanaians insist on opening their ticket booths at 4am I have no idea) from the ‘Metro Mass’ station. Whilst Metro Mass coaches depart frequently and are varied in their destinations, they very rarely leave on time. True to form, we sat in the waiting area for a good 3 hours before finally getting moving after waiting for the bus to re-fuel. The journey had the feel of being particularly long as it was way off the beaten track. Nakpanduri lies to the far north-east of the country just below Bolgatanga and there is no direct route from Tamale. Instead buses travel north to Walewale before forking right, and upon doing so the concrete road turns into a potholed dust track, leaving passengers bumping violently up and down for the next few hours. This seemed to encourage the driver to depart the bus at virtually every village we passed, much to the consternation of those on board. The journey was also characterized by the remarkable number of water-melons on sale, which suddenly seemed ubiquitous throughout the northern region. Every time the bus slowed down to 10 miles per hour within 50 metres of civilisation, scores of women carrying huge water melons on their heads came running over trying to initiate a sale. Then came 5 minutes of customary chaos as the sellers tried desperately to shove their produce up through the tiny windows of the coach, often with calamitous results as the vehicle started to pull away. As night drew slowly in we became more conscious of the potential problems of disembarking after dark, and contemplated getting off at every village from Nalerigu to Gambaga. However eventually our journey-worn bus bounced into Nakpanduri and we were left celebrating the completion of a momentous drive that seemed never-ending. The place was almost entirely pitch black due to its remote location and subsequent lack of street light, with only a dull orange glow from the central shops providing any visibility. We wandered through the darkness by torch-light and stumbled upon our accommodation for the night through a mixture of luck and judgement. Selim’s guesthouse, pretty much the only lodging mentioned in our trusty Brandt guidebook, was a pleasant and very affordable place to stay at £1.75 per person per night. We were greeted by the snorting of the owner’s pigs and the glare of his fluorescent lights, and luckily there were two rooms available. Aware that our Nakpanduri experience was likely to be brief, we headed straight back into the centre for food (of which there was very little choice) and a few beers in celebration of Ruth’s birthday, who is one of my housemates. Immediately I felt a little more uneasy in the company of the locals compared to Tamale. They were friendly enough in conversation but a lot less accustomed to tourists, shown by their even more regular stares but less frequent greetings. Amazingly however we still encountered some western people, a British couple who were visiting from even further north, and a woman from the UK who had lived here for a few years.
As the sun rose the next morning it was strange to see the difference between what I thought the place looked like upon arriving at night, and what it actually looked like during the day. The town had a startlingly different feel from anywhere I’d been before in Ghana. The surroundings were even more untouched by plough or saw, with vast swathes of dense forest bordering the road. The place was also set apart by its immense rock faces, features never seen around the flat plains of the Northern Region. This meant that some of the buildings were made from bricks instead of plaster and mud, something that all of us had not seen for a long time. It had a distinct calmness, even a tranquillity; all you could hear was the rustling of the leaves under a soft breeze and the low hum of the insects. The air was also exceptionally clean and pure, perhaps sweeter than any air I have ever smelt. As we walked along the road surrounded by this peaceful setting, the most breathtaking view opened up before us. On the right, a huge escarpment (for which Napkanduri is renowned) boldly rose up over the neighbouring savannah, with a long stretch of forest eloping down the hill at its feet. Then the trees then became more sparse and scattered over a vast grassy plain, before bunching together again until they merged into one huge dark green sheet of vegetation, which stretched literally as far as the eye could see. We spent the next few hours marvelling at the sight that lay before us, snapping photos, and clambering a small way into the wilderness every now and then to get a better shot. We also encountered a large man-made sewage system, which whilst unbefitting for the surrounding area, was oddly impressive in such a remote context. As the sun started to beat down with full force we decided to turn back to Selim’s Guesthouse, thoroughly delighted with our decision to travel such a long way for such a short walk – the view was really very impressive.
Aware that we had a long bus ride back to Tamale ahead of us, we decided to push off to the town centre as soon as we were rehydrated. This was just as deserted as it had been the night before, but luckily a vehicle known as a ‘tro-tro’ pulled up in front of us almost immediately, with the driver willing to take us as far as Nalerigu. A tro-tro is essentially an average size minibus which holds around 15 people at a time, only in Ghana 25 people get shoved inside. Journeying for a long period inside one of these things is quite an experience. You invariably are squashed between a combination of a crying baby, the ramshackle side of the vehicle or a very large Ghanaian woman, and each time new passengers get on board they literally step over your head to get to the empty seat at the back. On occasion people who are really desperate clamber up onto the roof and sit with whatever food or materials are also being transported. When the vehicle splutters into life and starts speeding over bumpy dust tracks you get the feeling it could fall apart any second. However in the remote areas of Ghana such as the north-west region, it really is your only way home. We arrived at Nalerigu relatively quickly and after a very frustrating two hour wait, we finally headed off in our second tro-tro to Walewale. There was a small scare upon moving off when the driver appeared not to see a large and very deep gutter approaching his front right wheel, but after lots of shouting both from in and outside the bus he finally got the message. Obviously it was just a blip, he was a young driver but he knew what he was doing – we were going to get back just fine. But about 30 minutes after leaving Nalerigu our faith in the driver had not been restored. He was driving extremely fast along a particularly bumpy stretch of dirt track, so fast that the whole bus was practically bumping its head on the ceiling every 2 seconds. Nobody seemed concerned however, and Josh, my colleague from Tzedek who was sitting beside me at the time, jokingly said a quick prayer under the circumstances. Then suddenly the bus lurched to the right and the driver seemed to lose control. Unclear as to what was happening I instinctively looked out the window, only to see a large wheel rolling down the road beside the vehicle. As soon as the tro-tro ground to halt, the entire bus, which took over 20 minutes to load, emptied in less than 2 minutes! Immediately we realised we had been very very fortunate. The right back wheel of the bus had come off completely as we drove too fast over the bumpy ground, but the impact had been so severe that the axel had snapped off as well. It was a miracle that the entire vehicle hadn’t toppled over, especially given the amount of weight it was carrying. Many of the passengers were dismayed at what had happened and directed their anger at the young driver, who promptly ran away to the nearest village. We decided to sit and wait to see if a replacement tro-tro would arrive before calling out emergency re-enforcements from Tamale. Impressively a much newer and safer looking one pulled up within the half hour, so we were on our way once again. Thankfully we arrived at Walewale without the bus crashing, but the journey wasn’t without its hairy moments in which I thought history was going to repeat itself. All four of us were gripping our seats the whole way! But no sooner had we driven back onto level ground when our tro was hailed down by a persistent car driver behind us. Somehow he had got wind that four ‘silly mingers’ were on board the vehicle in front of him and were all heading for Tamale, which was also his destination. After arguing with him for a few minutes it was clear that he wasn’t going to take no for an answer, so we decided to jump out the window at the back of the bus to save everyone else getting off. Our mood lightened when we saw a spacious people carrier with leather seats and ten times more leg room than in the tro. We arrived back in Tamale at around 6:30pm, nearly 8 hours after departure from Nakpanduri. I had never appreciated speed cameras and traffic wardens quite so much.
The last couple of weeks have been extremely busy for me in Ghana as a number of areas of work near completion, whilst others are just beginning to take off. Tzedek held its first strategy consultation session overseas last week in an event that completely optimises the ethos of the organisation. Discussions are currently being held all over the world about how we can best move forward over the next three years, with the ultimate aim of synthesizing all the ideas, goals and objectives into one shiny strategic document – one that will guide our activities until 2014. I provided the forum through which our partners in Ghana could give their input, and it was a richly rewarding experience. The facilitator of proceedings, a man long familiar with NGO management, remarked to me just how exceptional the meeting was in terms of its philosophy. He explained that the vast majority of organisations impose a strategy on their beneficiaries; the head office decides what it wants to implement, and does it. Tzedek however has an exceptionally participatory approach which is rare amongst NGO’s; we are more than ‘just a donor,’ we are a partner that responds to the needs of local communities and listens to their concerns. Not only did the meeting itself represent this vision, but also the fact that the original idea of a strategy consultation came from them, our beneficiaries. It will be very interesting, for me, to observe how the thoughts that were aired are put into practice over the next three years.
I have also started volunteering with a development organisation on an ad-hoc basis. The Community Initiative against Human Trafficking (CIAHT) is an organisation that, whilst obviously fighting against human-trafficking, also does work on organic farming and agri-business. They are a good example of how intense competition amongst NGO’s in the developing world has forced diversification of its project areas. Nevertheless, the work that they do in agriculture has an immediate and widespread impact on many communities, and does not take away from their initiatives in combating what is known as ‘kayayoo’ – the forced migration of northern residents to the south. My principal involvement with the organisation so far has been working on a school feeding programme, in which school parents are given training on organic vegetable cultivation. They then begin work on a school garden, selling the produce both to the school and the local community as method of income generation, with the ultimate aim of starting their own organic farms. The reason why I expressed interest in the project was that I saw how one activity had numerous benefits which extended to a number of areas of development. Not only is the farming a method of income generation for the parents, thereby increasing their livelihood and that of their children, it is also preserving the quality of the soil for future generations, since chemical fertiliser is not being used. There is also an educational aspect, since the pupils of the schools also participate in the nurturing of the garden and learn about agriculture as part of their curriculum. Moreover, even something as simple as a school garden has dramatically increased school enrolment in the area. Finally there are health and economic benefits, since the nutrition levels of the local community will improve, and producing fertiliser domestically is far more cost-effective than importing it from the Chinese. So all in all, the project’s impact is huge considering the amount of investment needed. Fieldwork, in a way, is the glamorous part of working for an NGO – working with people on the ground and seeing the benefits first hand is very satisfying. However just as important, if not more so, is time spent in the office. Funding is always high on the agenda of any development organisation, from CIAHT to Save The Children, and for small NGO’s money tends to be given over 1-2 year periods, so there is a constant need to reapply year-on-year. Therefore I have also been helping write a funding proposal for the organic farming project, which will allow the existing operation to be expanded and for school gardens to be cultivated in two new villages. Fingers crossed that it will be successful.
It hasn’t been all work and no play over the last fortnight though, as my housemates and I went over to a friend’s house for a barbeque last weekend. We a met a couple of Dutch volunteers a few weeks ago whilst watching the World Cup (there a lot of them in Tamale for some reason) and eventually were introduced to a man working for an organisation called Masara. He is little older than either Josh or I, but he lives in an incredible house which would not look out of place in either the UK or the U.S., so naturally we were delighted when he invited us round for dinner. Obviously it was an enjoyable evening, with beers, good food and late-night poker, but I found the whole experience a bit bizarre as well. Walking into the house was practically like being at home; he had a flat screen T.V., big sofas, even an ensuite bathroom! Masara, his employer, take care of practically all the costs associated with the house, and have provided him with a bright green pick-up truck to drive around in. These luxuries also extended to the surrounding neighbourhood. Next door are a large South African family that have lived in Tamale for over 10 years, and for some reason looking over the veranda at their freshly mowed lawn, and seeing white children kicking a football around, was really odd after being in Tamale for nearly 3 months! The entire evening was like stepping into a microcosm of western society, for those few hours we could have been in a London suburb. The fuel behind such a lifestyle is a commercial approach to development, one which Masara embodies. Masara is an organisation which provides rural farmers with maize seeds, chemical fertiliser, training on credit and a guaranteed market price before their crops are sown. All farmers are given high yield varieties of the seeds, and keep all the additional profits on the maize if it is sold above the market price agreed before the harvest. Masara then manufactures the maize into something else and sells it on for a profit. It is an approach which usually divides opinion; some champion it since the farmers receive a guaranteed return, free training, and a quick rise in income. Others criticise its long-term sustainability because of the programme’s heavy usage of chemical fertiliser and its over-reliance on technology. Either way, it proves once again that development is anything but an exact science, and that there are multiple methods in achieving the same results.
A fortnight ago I turned the ripe old age of 22 and it was a birthday that will live long in the memory that’s for sure! The day began with a very eventful motorcycle lesson in which I took to the busy streets of Tamale for the first time, and the fact that you are reading this is proof that I survived! In reality I am doing my riding skills a disservice, I have taken to it a lot quicker than driving a car (probably because it is a lot less complicated) and there were only, well, a couple of ‘close shaves.’ Before the lesson however there was an even more amusing incident than the sight of me hurtling down the main road. The comical intricacies of Ghanaian English cropped up again when Sulley Mohammed, my trusty motorcycle teacher, said that he would go and hang himself so I could ride his bike. What he meant to say was that he would go elsewhere and meet his friends so that I could ride in his absence, something that was lost in translation to Josh and me for a hilarious split second.
After my crash course in motorcycling (which is of course only a figure of speech) I hopped over to the University of Development Studies on a recruitment drive for consultants to evaluate Tzedek’s projects. The campus was as detached in its location as it was in its modernity. Opened in 2009, I felt like I was walking around a western institution. The place was equipped with a state-of-the-art lecture hall, a large well stocked library and a fancy canteen. The offices were lined with mahogany furniture and leather chairs, some of the staff even had I phones. Of course it wasn’t quite like being at home, but it didn’t feel particularly like Ghana anymore either. This feeling was compounded when I realised the language spoken amongst the staff was strictly English – the academics, most of whom had studied abroad, had been recruited from various parts of Ghana and beyond, so hardly anyone spoke Dagbani, the local tongue. This was also evident from their phrases, body language and intonation patterns, which were startlingly different from those I had grown used to in Tamale town. When I finally found someone local it was a bit odd, almost like reconnecting with home! It made me realise just how unknowingly accustomed to Tamale culture I’d become. Perhaps the strangest thing of all however was meeting a British lecturer, Professor Bill Turner, who had been born and raised in Stoke-on-Trent and gone back and forth between Ghana and the UK for the last fifty years, the last 26 of which had been spent in Tamale. The sight of a young British man walking into his office seemed to amaze him, as if he’d never seen any like me before, and he was even more astounded when I said I’d been to the Britannia Stadium.
On my way back home I assumed the role of a delirious police officer after leaving my mobile phone in a taxi. Luckily I realised what had happened just after alighting on the roadside, so I frantically hailed down another cab and ordered the driver to follow the taxi in front. After losing sight of the car twice and performing a couple of outrageous u-turns, we finally cornered the taxi in question on the outskirts of town. Fortunately the driver was wearing a very distinctive headband in the colours of the Ghanaian flag, which I managed to spot as the car was speeding in the opposite direction. Sure enough, my phone was lying on the front seat.
In the evening we went out as a house to an expensive pizza place called the Jungle Bar, which was honestly the best meal since I’ve had since arriving here. We then headed to a bar in town called Sparkles, a popular haunt for tourists and western volunteers, but one that produces undoubtedly the best atmosphere in Tamale during the football. Ghana’s elimination aside, the less said about what went on after that the better, partly because I can’t remember an awful lot. Only apparently it is a local custom in Ghana to ‘bathe’ the birthday boy in water, which, to put it mildly, I wasn’t best pleased about at the time. The night ended in agonising disappointment for the Black Stars, but we capped my 22nd off in fine style with two bonfires in the garden.
Now my second victory over malaria has been achieved I’m raring to return to my blog. It seems an eternity ago now, but the week before last I was privileged to sample village life for the first time during a field visit with Tzedek’s newest partner in Tamale, the Nfasimdi Development Association. ‘NDA’ cover a whole host of areas as an organisation, working on educational provision for female children, water and sanitation, primary education, agro-forestry, micro-credit and vocational training. Tzedek’s funding will go towards a micro-credit project providing 60 women with financial management skills to enhance their existing businesses. I went with the Programme Director to meet the beneficiaries, which are spread over two villages east of Tamale town, Daasuyili and Kpalsugu. As we sped out of the metropolis of Tamale at the heady hour of 5:30am (I insisted on watching the England game in the afternoon, which turned out to be a very very bad decision in the end!) the populace of the town completely disappeared. In front was a huge desolate road visible for miles and miles, bordered by swathes of green countryside dotted with sunburnt trees and mud hut clusters. I was disappointed to hear that most of the wildlife was confined to Mole National Park, which is south of Tamale, so my chances of seeing an exotic animal appeared slim. After being buffeted by the wind and shouting over the whirring of the motorcycle for a further half hour, we turned off the main road and into the wild. By now the sun was beating down on our helmets and the crickets were humming cheerily around us. But at one point my guide stopped to make a phone call and the silence was literally deafening. For two months I had experienced a cacophony of taxi horns and an army of vociferous street sellers, so the stillness and calm of the wilderness was truly amazing.
After winding through dense shrubbery and overgrowth the village of Daasuyili seemed to appear out of nowhere. It is a very simple place, managed by the chief and the community chairman, which lacks even the most basic of amenities. All of the inhabitants live off the land in some way, whether it be through maize harvesting, rice processing, sugar trading or groundnut selling. Retailing groundnuts, in either paste or cake form, is the most common source of income for women in the village. This makes the absence of a grinding mill both surprising and tremendously challenging, as it adds at a least a day onto their production time. Particular circumstances like this are often the difference between one and three children receiving an education. The village incidentally also has neither a toilet block nor local school, and families have to travel almost two miles to fetch water from a dam. The chief concern seemed to be the lack of a local education establishment, since the women were anxious about the difficult and hazardous journey undertaken by their children. Additionally, the fact that they are forced to venture outside of their community is source of great shame for all their families. People here lead very cyclical lives, preparing their crops for 13 hours per day, repeating the same processes over and over again. In such a limited and remote environment, in which their family’s welfare depends on their rate of production, I greatly admire the women for the pressure they live under and the determination they exhibit. From what I saw during my short time there, I would struggle just to get up, fetch water, and carry it back to the village. For me, the way these people carve out a complete subsistence under such circumstances is nothing short of extraordinary. But even more so is their attitude and their character. They appear mindful but unfazed, concerned but in high spirits. They are happy with what they do have, and in some ways I could relate to that. The village is a peaceful and beautiful place far from urban civilisation, in which people enjoy being part of a very close-knit community. They enjoy things that a rich businessman in Tamale does not appreciate. We departed for Kpalsugu at lunchtime and encountered similar problems and concerns. The village is a little larger than Daasuyili but no less in need of aid. However the positive aspects of village life resonated with me again and I found the whole experience extremely eye-opening. I have spent quite a bit of time frequenting the offices of different NGO’s and chatting with directors about their work. But the true essence of development lies in the field with the beneficiaries themselves, and I think you cannot truly understand the role of an organisation until you immerse yourself in the communities they are affecting. But what was most satisfying and thought-provoking was looking at these families, and their animals and their land, and thinking about those Tzedek fundraisers back in the UK. The big events with the stellar names, the community fun-runs and bike rides, even the firewalks, were all for this purpose. That complete understanding, gained through visiting these villages, has greatly enriched my Ghana experience.
The last couple weeks have been certainly been character building! No sooner did I recover from malaria when I was diagnosed with typhoid as well! I’m happy to say they I have now recovered from both diseases, and can add them to what is becoming quite an extensive list for a 21 year old! Those of you jumping up and down in front of your computer screens telling me to be more careful (and there will be a few!) must rest assured that the standard of medical care here is much much better than I anticipated. I’ve been frequenting a private clinic called Kabsad and I am continually impressed with the standard of cleanliness there, and the speed with which I am seen. The place is obviously incomparable to a western institute, and they lack certain diagnostic equipment, but they have very good facilities to test for all the major diseases in a way that a UK doctor would do. The silver lining is that I’m now virtually immune to typhoid as it is a bacterial infection. Sadly the same cannot be said of malaria, which is unerringly common amongst visitors and travellers, and a constant topic of conversation amongst the locals. We are lucky enough to be able to afford any treatment that is provided, but most people cannot purchase even the most basic drugs, which are around £5. Ghanaian’s have a much more whimsical attitude about malaria however; it is something they have grown up with and long ago accepted, so when they contract the disease not only are they only mildly concerned, but their bodies can often fight off the infection without treatment.
Having been glowing in my praise for the Kabsad clinic, the main hospital leaves a little to be desired in terms of resources. My colleague and I visited there last week and were surprised by the freedom we had to enter all areas of the facility. Like many Ghanaian institutions they do wonders with what they have, but we were still very surprised to be standing metres outside of an operating theatre, watching a bloodied man being wheeled in for surgery.
Being here a while now has made aware of the intricacies of Ghanaian English. ‘You are welcome’ is the typical greeting when met by a stranger, but rather than being a formal greeting, it is merely like saying hello. ‘You are invited’ is another highly common phrase, which is an almost mandatory request to try the person’s food or enter their home. However ‘would you like some?’ is actually a far less friendly saying, since here the person is quite reluctant to share, but feels obliged because you are present. So interestingly the polite response to the first saying is ‘yes please,’ and to the second saying it is ‘no thank you.’ One phrase that I find amusing is ‘oh, sorry’ which is ubiquitously used for every degree of misfortune. Just as the person would respond ‘oh, sorry’ if I said I had a 3 foot tapeworm in my stomach, s/he would do the same if I dropped my pen on the floor and bent over to pick it up. My Dagbani is slowly improving and I now have seven or eight stock phrases that I can respond to with simple answers. This always brings smiles to the faces of the locals and raucous laughter when I run out of things to say and start speaking English again. I really feel part of the community now, especially in my local neighbourhood, where almost every passerby will wave and acknowledge me as I pass. Incidentally this is something you have to acutely aware of in Ghana, as it is considered extremely rude to not respond to a greeting. This necessitates looking over your shoulder when you walk down the roadside, and keeping your ears pricked for a hissing noise, which is the customary method for gaining the attention of someone. It is amusing to think of these idiosyncrasies outside of a Ghanaian context, I wonder what would happen if I hissed at a policeman in London to get his attention, or for that matter, went up to him and said ‘good morning white man, how are you?’
The rain has started to become more regular now and I was caught in a shower storm last night for the first time, after being trapped in a restaurant when the heaven’s opened. By the time I completed the five minute walk to the house my shoes were full to the brim after wading down our sandy path, submerged in an ankle deep swash of murky water after just 10 minutes. This was far less unpleasant however than my dash to get to the restaurant, since just before the storms begin there is a fierce gale of wind, which throws up dust from the roads into the air. So when I finally entered I had dirt in my eyes and a mouthful of sand. It made the meal all the more satisfying though.
The week ended on a high note when England, to my great relief, not only qualified for the next phase of the World Cup and crucially managed to avoid playing Ghana as well. I also had my first motorbike lesson on a disused airfield which was a lot of fun, and a fair bit easier than driving a car. I highly doubt I’ll be whizzing round the streets of Tamale but I certainly won’t have another opportunity to have lessons for free!
Tamale has been gripped by World Cup fever over the last few days as the first tournament to be hosted in Africa gets underway. The highlight has undoubtedly been Ghana’s 1-0 defeat of Serbia after which the entire town erupted in celebration. Some of the scenes were extraordinary, with every passing vehicle beeping and tooting, parades and congas gathering on the streets – I even saw one man lying down whilst riding his motorbike at 70mph, draped in a Ghana flag. We watched the game at a popular bar in the centre of town and the atmosphere was superb. Every time the ball went anywhere near either penalty area people were shouting and screaming, and the goal with five minutes remaining precipitated scenes of utter joy. The ‘Black Stars’ are a source of enormous pride for the majority of Ghana’s population, and their victory seemed to signify something more than just a sporting achievement.
The interesting fact about Saturday’s match was that the Ghanaian coach is in fact a Serb. When I asked why Ghana did not employ one of their own to manage the team, the answer was that Ghanaian football is simply too corrupt. Every level of the system requires cleaning up – Mohammed, my Ghanaian housemate, actually plays professionally for one of Tamale’s football teams. He explained that often it’s not the most talented youngsters that gain recognition; it’s the players that can afford to bribe the coaches into getting them European trials. And of course the coaches are more than willing to grab the cash, hence the Serbian appointment. Life as a Ghanaian footballer is hard work, training can start as early as 5:30am and the players get paid very very little. They are all searching for that golden ticket that will take them out of their homeland. I was extremely impressed when Mohammed told me he played in the same youth team as Dominic Adiyiah, who is now at A.C. Milan. It made me realise just how fine the line is between stardom and obscurity.
This week the focus of my Tzedek work has switched to education. We run a school twinning programme whereby five Jewish schools in London are matched with five Ghanaian schools in Tamale. The children from each school have been working through weekly exercises that relate to development and sustainability. The schools then swap marked work so the kids gain an insight into the culture and society of a new place, and realise the differences between their lives as children. My role is to tie up the programme with some fun activities, designed to make the link between the schools more real. I have been shooting video footage of the children giving a guided tour around their school, as well as messages to the students in the UK. I’ve also been collecting artefacts which have a cultural cross-over for the UK schools, and talking to the children about how the programme has benefitted them. It’s been one of the most enjoyable activities since I’ve been in Ghana which has thoroughly reinforced my appreciation of what I had growing up at school. I may have hated being shouted at by my P.E. teacher but at least I had one, as well as all the equipment I needed to play 20 different sports. All these kids are often left with is a dusty field and a broken goal frame. If education really is the root of world poverty, as many would argue, then there is still some way to go.
It’s been an eventful and slightly unusual week this time round. Highlights include being shoved into a taxi with ten, yes 10 other people, running away from a security guard (unfairly might I add!) and being co-opted by a group of cross-dressing street protestors. On that final note, there was a bit of a stir in Tamale recently when riot police had to step in to calm a student protest at a local secondary school. The cause – mobile phones had been banned. This might seem like a simple flash in the pan situation now firmly in the past, but it actually relates closely to a couple of underlying issues which trouble Ghanaian society.
The first is the north/south divide. Ghana’s economic hub, as I have referred to in previous posts, is the south, which has drawn all of its major businesses and institutions towards the Atlantic. This has generated a mild prejudice towards the north in the southern region, which for the most part is nothing other than harmless joking. But occasionally the area is subject to genuinely negative media coverage from the south, which people here were bemoaning in the aftermath of the school riots, saying that they would only reinforce the north’s unfair image as a violent place.
Ironically this idea holds some truth due to the history of the north. In ancient Ghana the Dagomba tribe, the great warriors of the time, first settled just north of Tamale (as legend would have it). The greatest of these warriors was Tohazie, ‘the red hunter,’ who with his army battled south through the bush, killing any settlers in his path. But some of the tales are magical as well as historical, and to my surprise these are taken just as seriously and as literally by the locals. One tells of a horse that walked up the side of side of a tree whilst chasing in a fight, and the man swore to me that you can still see the hoof marks with your own eyes today. Others describe a stone which is suspended in mid air, and a magic cloth which protects against bullet fire. The last of those stories is a more recent addition from colonial times, whereby the Ashanti tribe fought against their British masters. The Dagomba’s are a great source of pride for those few in Tamale who understand Ghana’s pre-colonial history, and it is interesting how legends passed down through the generations can still have some influence on modern perceptions. This also made me wonder if the world has peculiar prejudice against ‘the north,’ as there are so many examples you can think of where it exists, justified or not. Canada lies above the U.S.A; North Korea has never been a bed of roses, even in England many seem to think that civilisation ends above the Watford Gap! In Tamale there are similar tensions but I can say with some certainty that this is neither a violent or unstable place in any way!
The second issue flared up by the school riots is that of freedom, or should I say too much of it. Ghana’s democratic political system is only 18 years old and one of the popular criticisms levelled at its philosophy is that freedom has gone ‘too far.’ Some think that the incident at the school adds weight to this argument, showing that students resort to extreme measures too quickly in such a democratic and ‘free’ environment. The subject was all over the news last week too, when on live radio a political protestor likened the face President John Atta Mills to that of a chimpanzee, only to walk free from court at the say-so of the President himself. This caused widespread outrage as the President had seemingly let the man escape punishment for his abusive remarks – freedom, in the eyes of the public, had gone too far. You can even go back a few months and find more glaring examples – the house of former President Jerry Rawlings was burnt to the ground last February, only for someone to come out and accuse Rawlings of torching it himself. The feeling in Ghana now is that the country needs to sound out a strong message that freedom has an acceptable limit. Welcome to the problems of an emerging democratic state.
I have just returned from an interesting and hectic trip from Kumasi, Ghana’s second largest city. A 5am start followed by an 8 hour coach ride meant that I was sufficiently bleary eyed when I stepped off the bus. The journey was pretty uneventful to be honest but was coloured by much complaining about the state of the roads linking the two towns. It was actually quite entertaining to look outside and see what they were on about (plus there was not much else to do.) The colour and texture of the road seemed to change every ten minutes, one second there was a long stretch of slick freshly laid tarmac, which then merged into a white dust cloud and loose gravel. Then the surface became that original sandstone red once more, only to turn into the completely finished article, white lines and all. It seems that about 15 years ago the Ghanaian government commissioned a Chinese company to build this stretch of road, only for them to scarper when the state ran out of money, leaving the job completely unfinished. Since then a myriad of Ghanaian contractors have had a stab at concluding their work, hence the strange surface our coach was bouncing over at five miles an hour. It illustrates that despite the obvious progress being made in the countries urban centres, in terms of infrastructure Ghana still has a long way to go. It made me cast my mind back to when I volunteered in Romania, as the people there were constantly ripping up the roads even when they seemed finished. Perhaps this is a problem that affects all developing nations.
When I arrived in Kumasi it was as frenzied and chaotic as Accra. The city is known as the town of the trade and it is not hard to see why. The market in the centre is so vast that it claws all the way up the surrounding hillsides and is constantly choked with people. There are so many shops that they almost look like they are piled on top of one another and will topple over any second. People were far more persistent in selling their goods, presumably because the competition is so fierce; I even encountered one man who insisted he was actually Bob Marley in an attempt to sell me his African drums. Thankfully our Tzedek funded project, which was the purpose of my visit, lies towards the suburbs of the city. Muslim Family Counselling Services is a national organisation that works in reproductive health and youth empowerment. Tzedek funded a skills training project to be overseen by their Kumasi branch, in which 30 street children were trained in dressmaking, hairdressing, computing or electrical installation. Happily the majority of those involved have now graduated to either work for an existing business or even start their own company. Meeting the staff who direct our work is always enlightening, but actually meeting the beneficiaries and hearing them talk about how the programme has actually changed their lives is the most satisfying part for me.
After spending the day at MFCS I headed back towards the centre and my accommodation for the night, and the journey itself deserves a mention. I have been on a motorcycle a couple of times out of necessity (some rural areas are too remote to reach by car) but this was absolutely unbelievable. Forget Alton Towers and Thorpe Park, this was literally like being sucked into a Gran Tourismo game, it was absolutely fantastic! (I’m not sure I would do it again though…) After a night at a nearby hostel I made my way back to the coach yard, only to be told that the one bus going to Tamale that day was completely full. But following a 20 minute charm offensive I managed to persuade the conductor to let me sit on the floor for the next 8 hours. By the time I returned the Tamale I was absolutely shattered! Over the course of two days I had travelled for nearly 16 hours over 450 miles, I think I might stay a bit longer when I next visit.
(P.S. Comments are very welcome if you have them!)
