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July 31, 2005
Back Home in Boston
It's Sunday morning, and I've been back home in Boston since Wednesday afternoon. My trip to Ghana was truly extraordinary, but it's still good to be back in Boston with Susanne and the cats. And for the first time in a long while, I don't have any other trips breathing down my neck - I'll be home all of August, and for my next overseas business trip (Glasgow in late September), Susanne will come along for the ride, so we'll be able to make a brief holiday out of it.
We've had a really fun weekend; yesterday was my birthday and Susanne planned a surprise dinner with our friend Hallie, my cousin Peter and his husband Tim at Red Fez in Boston. I had no clue what she had planned for the night, so it really was a great surprise.
Today, I'm heading up to Lowell for a few hours to take pictures at the Lowell Folk Festival. It might rain at some point - it's looking pretty gray out right now - but I'm sure it'll be fun nonetheless.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 10:23 AM | TrackBack
July 27, 2005
Another Milanese Layover
It's 9:30am here in Milan; my flight from Ghana arrived about three hours ago. I'm taking advantage of the airport's wi-fi to kill time as best as possible, trying to avoid getting bored or sleepy. Unfortunately, I'm not having much success.
Really looking forward to getting on that plane to Boston. Time to go home. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 3:33 AM | TrackBack
July 26, 2005
Signing Off from Accra
It's just before 5pm here in Accra, which means it's time for me to leave BusyInternet and return to the guesthouse one last time to pack, eat and head to the airport. If all goes well, I'll be back in Boston in about 24 hours. Sometime after that I'll try to wrap up my final posts about Ghana, particularly the video clips, since I've had bandwidth issues the last couple of days.
Until then, this is Andy Carvin signing off from Accra. :-) -ac
Posted by acarvin at 12:42 PM | TrackBack
Mandatory Web Filtering to Fight Temptation?
Each day driving into downtown Accra I pass the Fighting Temptations Internet Cafe. I wish I had time to visit; would love to find out if they filter Internet access as a way to be true to their name. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 11:39 AM | TrackBack
The Most Diversified Businessman in Ghana
Seen on the streets of Accra this morning: a man walking through traffic hawking three items:
- An industrial sized collection of super glue
- A Suzanne Somers tummy exerciser, original box included
- An enormous TV antenna shaped like a 1950s sci-fi death-ray gun
I took a picture of him with my mobile phone, but alas, no Bluetooth, so I'll have to upload it once I get back to the US.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 11:34 AM | TrackBack
Country Music in Ghana: Who Knew?
One of the things that's struck me the most during my trip to Ghana is the sheer amount of country and western music I've heard in the country.
It's no big surprise that lots of radio stations play African American musicians here - you can't get through the day without hearing R. Kelly, 50 Cent, Mary J. Blige or Missy Elliot singing about her boomp-a-boom-boomp. But the Dixie Chicks and Toby Keith? I'm really not sure what to make of it. I asked a taxi driver today why he was playing country music during our drive into Accra this morning. He looked at me like it was a dumb question and replied, "Because it is good."
Perhaps the funniest thing about all of this occurred when David and I were driving the 150 miles from Accra to Kumasi. Somewhere half-way through the trip, in the middle of nowhere, we couldn't get any radio signals - except country music. Who knew? -andy
Posted by acarvin at 11:24 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Watching the Space Shuttle Discovery from Accra
Just finished watching a live video stream of the Space Shuttle Discovery launching from the Kennedy Space Center. I'm very envious that my family got to step outside and watch the launch in person, as I did so often as a kid; it's just amazing, though, that I can can watch it live over the Internet from West Africa as well. I'll have to step outside in a few minutes and wave as they pass overhead. :-) -andy
Posted by acarvin at 10:48 AM | TrackBack
Patriensa Tour
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Children in the Ashanti village of Patriensa |
Osei arrived later that morning, along with a colleague from Imperial College named Jon. I joined them for a late breakfast to talk about digital divide issues in Ghana. We then went on a tour of the village itself, which was about a kilometer up the road from the telecentre. The village was busy with activity; with a population of 4,000 people, there were lots of people milling about. When we stopped for a few minutes at the chief's palace, a group of more than a dozen kids gathered to watch us. All of them were very friendly and encouraged us to talk a few pictures.
We drove a few blocks to the edge of town, to Osei's family home. Inside, we met his mother, sister and brother-in-law. We spent some time chatting inside their living room. Much of the conversation had to do with funeral preparations for Osei's father, who passed away unexpectedly earlier this month. Though the burial had taken place, the funeral would occur later in August, giving them enough time to prepare for a ceremony that would easily attract the entire village, plus hundreds of visitors from Accra.
Leaving the village, we drove onward to the town of Agogo, which has to be the coolest name of any town in West Africa. The town was located high up on a hill, with a stunning view of Patriensa and the surrounding valley. I'd always been under the impression that Ghana was flat - so much for that idea.
In Agogo, we stopped at the local chief's palace. Osei knew the chief, who was one step below the Ashanti king. Unfortunately, the chief wasn't home, but one of the caretakers invited us in for a walk around the grounds. As was the case with the Asantehene's palace in Kumasi, this palace served as home to a squadron of peacocks. The house was quite modern from the front, but in the back was a giant courtyard used for official ceremonies. Osei pointed out the location where the chief would sit, as well as the official talking drums.
Beyond the palace, we stopped briefly at the regional hospital. Osei needed to talk with one of the doctors who had treated his father, so it gave us a chance to walk around the campus. The hospital was a sprawling complex of one-story buildings subdivided into quadrants. Many visitors (or patients?) were napping on outside benches; a group of women sang inside the hospital chapel. We walked all the way to the entrance of the operating theatre; for a moment I thought we'd actually have to meet the doctor inside the surgery room itself, but thankfully he came outside to meet us. The door leading to the operating theatre had a large KEEP OUT sign, with added emphasis provided by a greeting card photo of a golden retriever puppy with a yellow flower in its mouth. Consider yourself warned.
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A cocoa pod hangs from a cacao tree |
"Those are cocoa trees," Osei said. "Would you like to take a look?"
We found a place to park the car and crossed to the left side of the road, where the cocoa tree orchard was less cluttered with shrubs, allowing us to explore it safely. There was a mild citrus smell in the air, something I didn't expect. Each tree had at least four or five cocoa pods, most of them a dull green color.
"Are these cocoa pods ripe yet?" I asked.
"No, they're still not ripe," Osei explained. "The ripening season is usually in the autumn. But we might be able to find a few ripe ones. They will be bright yellow."
A few seconds later, someone spotted a yellow pod. The color reminded me of a citron. It was firm, but fleshier than the unripe pods.
"I wish the farmer were here," I said. "I'd love to buy one just to see what they're like-"
Before I could complete the sentence, someone had pulled down a yellow pod and smacked it against a tree trunk. The pod cracked in half, revealing a network of fleshy bulbs. The smell of citrus increased significantly; oddly, I couldn't smell anything recognizable as chocolate.
"Are they edible?"
"Yes, you should taste some," Osei said.
Jon and I both pinched off a piece. The bulb was slimy and pinkish-brown, with a hard center. I put it in my mouth and again felt a citrus sensation. Biting into it was quite different; the inner seed split and half and released a bitter taste. It wasn't particularly pleasant, but the bitterness finally revealed a hint of the chocolate flavor I'd been expecting. Apparently during cocoa production, the bulbs are removed from the pod, piled up and allowed to ferment. The fermentation process withers away the outer pulp and softens the harshness of the seed; then, they're dried out and crushed.
Carrying the remaining cocoa pods back with me for a snack, we returned to Patriensa. Some time later in the afternoon we'd return to Accra, though no one seemed to be in a rush. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 9:57 AM | Comments (1) | TrackBack
Discussing Podcasts and Video Blogs on Radio Ghana
A few days ago at the video blogging/podcasting workshop I conducted near the University of Ghana, I was interviewed by a journalist from Radio Ghana. I checked out various news casts several times, but never heard it, so I figured I must have missed it or that it never aired.
Well, last night I was driving back to my guesthouse in northeast Accra. We got lost while trying to take a short cut, so it took longer than usual. Just before we arrived at the guesthouse, though, I heard the evening news announcer reading the daily headlines, and he began talking about an American "Internet expert" helping Ghanaians create podcasts and video blogs. As I searched frantically for my digital audio recorder, I asked the driver to stop, saying they were about to air an interview me. Though skeptical, he shook his head and pulled over. Then, we heard my voice on the radio. The cabbie started laughing and gave me a congratulatory handshake.
Eventually, I managed to find my audio recorder. Here's what I was able to capture. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 8:09 AM | TrackBack
Accra Update #4 - So Much for My Final Podcast
Changed plans today, so I'm still in Accra rather than Cape Coast. So last night's podcast wasn't my final podcast after all. Unfortunately I'm unable to access my FTP server so far today, so I'm trying something new - uploading my podcast to a yahoogroup.com file folder. Seems to work just fine - for now, at least....
Music by Ghanaian drummer Obo Addy, from his album Afieye Okropong, used with permission from Alula Records. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 7:46 AM | TrackBack
July 25, 2005
Final Podcast from Ghana - I Think
This may be my final podcast from Ghana. Tomorrow I plan to visit Cape Coast, then head to the airport later that evening, so I may not make it back to BusyInternet. And since I can't count on cyber cafes in Cape Coast having the bandwidth I need to post podcasts, there's a good chance this is my final post from Ghana. I still have lots of other content to post; the rest of it may just have to wait til I return to Boston....
Music by Ghanaian drummer Obo Addy, from his album Afieye Okropong, used with permission from Alula Records. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 1:08 PM | TrackBack
Kumasi Daytripping
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A mother and baby in Kumasi's Central Market |
By the time everyone had finished breakfast and gotten organized for the day, it was approaching 10am. Liz, Hang, Ohime, David and I were planning to go to Kumasi for a few hours, primarily to check out the palace of the Asantehene, the Ashanti king, and the Kumasi Central Market. We had about an hour drive to Kumasi, give or take, so we'd probably arrive sometime before noon.
We crammed into David's pickup truck - David driving, Ohime riding shotgun, Liz, Hang and I in the back - and hit the road for Kumasi. David asked if we had any interest in shopping; I said I might want to buy some kente cloth, perhaps check out some wood carvings, while Liz and Hang had their shopping lists as well. David suggested we stop at the craft village of Bonwire, one of the major kente cloth centers in Ashanti. It was a short side trip off the main road to Kumasi, very close to the Besease Ashanti shrine, a UNESCO World Heritage site.
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Weaving Kente cloth in Bonwire, Ghana |
Entering the room, I was immediately struck by the sound of the looms. Three or four guys were working their looms furiously, opening and closing the loom in rapid succession each time they entwined another layer of thread into the weave. The motion of the loom and the tugging on each roll of yarn created a loud squeeking noise - like a group of children jumping up and down on springy dorm beds at camp. There were a handful of radios in the room, all tuned to the same station, allowing everyone to hear the same song and work the loom to the beat. One weaver chose to carrying an old walkman instead, whistling and singing to himself as he wove faster than anyone else in the room.
I started taking pictures and shooting video clips of the weavers. The lighting wasn't great, so many pictures were taken at around 1/20th of a second. Looking at the results in my viewfinder, it was quite extraordinary to see their hands completely a blur, moving the looms so rapidly. It almost looked like they were doing it in fast-forward.
There were a number of other men in the room, each one eager to get a commission by selling kente to us. The cloth was all quite beautiful - you could really see the craftsmanship that went into each piece. The most impressive cloth was made of double- or triple weaves layered on top of each other, creating a thicker - and more expensive - cloth. Larger cloths seemed to be priced 150,000 cedis and up - just under $20. I wasn't sure what I'd do with a full-sized cloth, so I looked at some of the strips instead, usually worn hanging around your neck. Single weaves started at 20,000 cedis ($2.50), doubles at 40,000 ($5) and triples at 50,000 ($6.25).
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Kente weaving looms |
Hang and Liz, meanwhile, had no such headache, apparently, and began bargaining hard for cloth, necklaces and bracelets. The sellers thought they smelled blood in the air and wanted to sell them a lot more, telling sob stories about how their purchase would help them achieve their dream of going to college. But Hang and Liz stood firm, buying only what they wanted and ignoring pleas for more purchases.
Back in the truck, we got back on the main road to Kumasi. David asked us where we wanted to go - like we were the experts - so I suggested we try the palace first. This, in retrospect, turned out to be a bad idea. The palace was on the far side of the city, and we spent almost two hours navigating horrific traffic. By the time we approached the palace it was well past 1:30pm, so Ohime suggested we get lunch. I would have preferred to have visited the place before eating, but my stomach and headache caused me to back down.
A moment or two later we arrived at a truck stop - perhaps the most Americanized place in all of Ghana. Inside we found what felt like a rest stop on the Jersey Turnpike - a modern facility with a 7-Eleven-like convenience store and rows of western fast food restaurants. Actually, that last statement is a little misleading. None of the restaurants were American brands - they were local twists on American brands. This meant we could choose between the Ghanaian versions of Sbarro's, Chick-fil-A, Boston Market and Burger King. I went for Nando's (the Boston Market poseur) and ordered a spicy chicken and rice dish, simply because it was the only thing on the menu that looked like someone in Ghana would normally eat it. In retrospect I wish I'd actually ordered the chicken fingers or something, because the rice was really greasy - and it caused me to remember that I'd basically been eating variations of that same dish all week. Why that never occurred to me is quite beyond me.
My mouth slick with oil, I desperately needed a dessert to get the flavor out of my mouth. Over at the convenient store, I found a freezer full of ice cream and frozen candy bars. I grabbed a bar of Mars Bar ice cream - like the original Mars Bar but with chocolate ice cream in the middle - and a Coke. Talk about hitting the spot. The ice cream got the Exxon Valdez out of my mouth, while the Coke gave me an infusion of caffeine that helped my headache subside.
After lunch, we got back in the truck and drove the last kilometer to the Ashanti king's palace. David and Ohime dropped us off, saying we'd need less than an hour to complete the tour. Hang and Liz got student discounts, while I sadly did not.
Inside, we were greeted by a small troupe of peacocks and peahens wandering the courtyard. They squawked constantly - that whiny yell that once you've heard, you'll always recognize it. In front of us was the old palace, constructed by the British in the early 1900s. The current Asantehene lives next door in a more modern facility, while the old palace is maintained as a museum. Signs along the front of the palace warned us "Photography is forbidden." Par for the course here in Ghana, which is more photo-phobic than almost any country I've ever visited.
At the inner gate, a woman took our tickets and directed us to a tour guide. He, in turn, sat us in a room to watch a VHS tape covering the history of the palace. I didn't retain much of what I learned because the tape flickered terribly, and those peacocks kept squawking. The guide then said he'd take us around the house.
"This is included in the ticket price, right?" I asked, having been warned about "extras" like would-be guides attaching themselves to you when touring Ghanaian sites.
"Yes, it's included," he replied.
"Never hurts to ask," I said.
The guide began by showing the king's talking drums, which were over 100 years old. The drums were used in ceremonies, as well as to alert the community during times of emergency. Inside the house, we saw the royal office, used through much of the 1900s. A giant green fountain pen sat on the desk - the Asantehene always signed documents in green, apparently.
There were several rooms full of gifts given to the kings from around the world, including lots of china sets and paintings. The palace was surprisingly modest, more reminiscent to a British official's residents rather than a king's home. In some rooms, we found live-size replicas of previous kings on their thrones. The replicas startled us more than once as we entered the room.
Much of the house was dedicated to the kings' turbulent history with the British. At one time they were on good terms, but by the late 1800s things deteriorated fast. It got so bad that the British foolishly demanded that the king give up his golden stool - the very symbol of his royal position. The king refused, and fighting began to bring out. Eventually the British seized the stool - or what they thought was the stool, since the Ashantis wisely made a replica and let the British take possession of it instead - then exiled the royal family to the Seychelles for nearly 30 years. Eventually, their differences were resolved, the bogus stool returned, and the royal family allowed to go home.
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Entering Kumasi's Central Market |
"I wouldn't do that," Ohime said. "They'll kill you if they catch you." I laughed it off and covered my camera lens, hoping that he wasn't being literal.
Eventually, Hang and Liz purchased a few samples of cloth to make some skirts; we then walked back through the market to the truck. It was amazing how many people could occupy such a small space; the human traffic was worse than Kumasi's auto traffic. I was also amazed by how many stalls of machetes were on sale. Though Ghana is a perfectly safe and stable place, I couldn't help but shutter and think of Hotel Rwanda with each blade that twinkled in the sun.
Back in the truck, I mentioned that I'd still like to look for some woodcarvings. I was hoping
We would simply drive to another side of the market, but instead we went to a neighborhood further afield. There were several shops selling carvings and statues, but the quality seemed cheap and touristy. I'd seen better pieces for sale back at the telecentre, so I figured I'd buy from them instead.
By now, it was approaching 5pm. We'd run out of time to visit the Ashanti Cultural Centre, which was a real shame. But at least we'd gotten a taste of Kumasi. Driving back, we saw many men walking around in silky black togas, apparently returning from funerals. I couldn't help but comment on how majestic their outfits looked. I felt like I'd just scratched the surface of Ashanti culture; hopefully I'd get the chance to return and learn more. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 12:26 PM | TrackBack
How to Make a Three-Hour Drive a Seven-Hour Nightmare
Yesterday afternoon, a group of us began the drive back to Accra from Patriensa. As you'll see in a future blog entry, our car broke down and we spent hours hobbling back to Accra, towed by a feed truck whose tow rope kept breaking from the front of the car. In the meantime, you can hear two podcasts I posted from my mobile phone while we were stranded - yes, I managed to have mobile phone access in rural southern Ghana.
First podcast: around 7:15pm, somewhere north of Accra
Second podcast: about two hours later, a bit closer to Accra, but far from anywhere near our final destination
Posted by acarvin at 11:45 AM | TrackBack
The Road to Patriensa
After spending Friday morning at BusyInternet, David picked me up so we could begin our trip to the village of Patriensa, three hours' north of Accra, just south of Kumasi. The first hour of our journey was spent stuck in traffic at Nkrumah Circle, no more than a couple hundred meters west of BusyInternet. In the time it took us to get to Ghana Telecom headquarters, we probably could have walked the same distance two or three times.
David refilled the truck and drove back to the guesthouse, where I packed up my belongings before tossing them in the back seat. We then pulled over for a minute while David spoke with a woman selling snacks alongside the road; a moment or two later, he handed me freshly roasted corn on the cob, wrapped in a newspaper. The corn was crunchy, like corn nuts, and very tasty. We then stopped at Osei Darkwa's house to fill the back of the pickup with used bicycle parts; they'd be recycled in Patriensa and sold across the district, the funds used to support the local telecentre.
By the time we were on the road to Patriensa, it was well past 4pm; that meant we might not make it to the village until almost 8 o'clock, depending on traffic. The road conditions leaving Accra were quite bad, as the new highway was still under construction, so we had to drive through numerous detours amidst numerous convoys of trucks. Nearly two hours into the trip, I noticed we were only a third of the way there.
"At this rate, we won't get there until midnight!" I said, somewhat worried.
"No, it won't be a problem," David replied. "The road conditions will improve dramatically very soon."
David was absolutely right; about 20 minutes later, we reached a stretch of the highway that had been completed. Though it was still only one way in each direction, the freshly-paved asphalt meant we could actually drive at a speed more conducive to highway travel. We still had to put up with a regular stream of trucks, but could at least overtake them on flat stretches of the road.
The majority of the drive was very rural, with lush forests on sloping hillsides affording us a beautiful backdrop to our journey. The hills to the east were surprisingly steep -- green mountains surrounded by palm trees and enormous trees with long trunks and flat canopies at the top.
Minutes became hours, and next thing I knew, it was pitch black outside; it's amazing how fast dusk becomes dark in the tropics. We only had another hour or so to go, but I was quite nervous, considering the number of reckless drivers on the unlit highway.
"The drivers here are very, very bad," David told me. "So many people who don't have licenses or got them without taking a test. No one knows what even the signs mean here - you pass a symbol of a cow that is supposed to mean cattle crossing, but there are people who just think it means 'Buy cows in this village.' It is very, very bad."
I appreciated David's honesty, but it did nothing to calm my nerves. Finally, though, just after 7:30pm, we turned right in the town of Conongo, just up the road from Nkawkaw (pronounced like mmm, cocoa, but with the m's as an n sound instead). The town was busy with people shopping at the night market and getting dinner in the local chop bars and spots - both uniquely Ghanaian institutions. By 7:45, we pulled off the road onto a hillside with several one-story buildings. We'd arrived in Patriensa.
"Hello, welcome, we were expecting you," said a beautiful young woman with amazing braided hair. "Welcome to the telecentre guesthouse, my name is Abigail."
"Thank you very much," I replied, "My name is Andy."
"Have you taken dinner yet?" she asked.
"No, not yet."
"We have already made dinner here, so you can go to Conongo for some food."
David and I went towards the guesthouse, where a young man named Davis showed us to our rooms. My room, at the end of the hallway, contained a large bed and an overhead fan, a small color TV, and several enormous spiders in the top corners of the ceiling, none of whom seemed eager to introduce themselves any closer than that. At least they'll help with the mosquitoes, I thought.
Dropping off my bags, I locked up the room and went to the common room, where I found two American college students sorting through bags of eyeglasses. Their names were Liz and Hang, and they were volunteering for the NGO Unite for Sight. We introduced each other and chatted for a few minutes before David reappeared, suggesting we get some dinner.
Back in the truck with Abigail coming along for the ride, we drove back towards Conongo and parked somewhere past the market. We went to a chop bar called Blue Moon, which was empty except for a group of four men, one wearing camouflage, eating plates of jollof rice and fufu. A TV played a series of Ghanaian hip-hop songs from a DVD. David and I were starving; we both ordered jollof rice, mine with chicken and his with fish, and a couple of beers. Abigail ordered some rice for take-out. David and I scarfed down our rice, in between skipping DVD tracks and a short blackout. Par for the course in Conongo, I imagine.
After dinner, we returned to the telecentre guesthouse. Tomorrow, I'd join Liz and Hang for a tour of Kumasi, before starting interviews with local telecentre users. We spent the rest of the evening watching Chinese soap operas on Ghanaian TV, swapping travel experiences, and thinking about where to go in Kumasi tomorrow. By the time I went to bed around 11pm, my room had cooled to around 80 degrees; still warm, but cool enough to sleep with a strong fan over my head, the spiders standing guard over any mosquito that dared to do me harm. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 8:38 AM | TrackBack
Strolling Through Kumasi Central Market
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Video montage of a walk through one of the largest open-air markets in Africa. Shot and edited on July 23, 2005. Music by Ghanaian drummer Obo Addy, from his album Afieye Okropong, used with permission from Alula Records. |
Posted by acarvin at 7:34 AM | TrackBack
Accra Update #2
My latest podcast from Ghana explaining why I've been offline since Friday afternoon. Music by Ghanaian drummer Obo Addy, from his album Afieye Okropong, used with permission from Alula Records. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 7:19 AM | TrackBack
July 22, 2005
Accra Update
Here's an extended podcast updating my whereabouts in Ghana. Special thanks to Alula Records for allowing me to use music from Ghanaian musician Obo Addy. I'll be featuring Obo's work in future podcasts and videos as well. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 8:31 AM | TrackBack
Identifying a Murdered Liberian
A photographer circulates photos of a murdered Liberian man found outside the Buduburam Refugee Camp in Ghana. The actual photos are not shown in the video.
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Posted by acarvin at 7:27 AM | TrackBack
Liberian Kung Fu Masters
A short video of some of the kids I met at the Buduburam refugee camp. Note how one of them yells out "Obruni" as he karate chops me - Obruni means "white man." :-)
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Video: Liberian Kung Fu Masters |
Posted by acarvin at 7:20 AM | TrackBack
How to Shake Hands in Ghana
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Video: How to Shake Hands in Ghana |
Posted by acarvin at 7:05 AM | TrackBack
Ghanaian Blog-O-Rama
Leaving the Kofi Annan Centre, David and I drove across Accra past the sprawling campus of the University of Ghana until we reached the site of my workshop on blogs, podcasts and video blogs. When we arrived, I discovered the cards were stacked against me; the facility had no projector (nor an empty wall on which to project, even if we had found one), and its Internet access was having problems. What those problems were, no one could really explain, but the end result was that my connection was no more than 10k per second.
Frustrating as this was, it was actually useful in a way, given the fact I'd be talking about publishing tools that usually require fast bandwidth. Would it be possible for me to demonstrate video blogging or podcasting on a connection slower than what I had at home in the 1980s? We'd have to find out.
Eventually, a group of two dozen Ghanaians settled into the room. Most of them were professional journalists, some quite well known in Ghana, while the others were technologists or academics. Since we didn't have a projector, I ditched my plan to show lots of websites and instead led a 90-minute discussion on the digital divide, blogging tools and their potential impact in education, politics and community life.
Amos Anyimadu, organizer of the event, then suggested we break up for refreshments on the verandah, then return to the conference room in small groups so people could huddle around me and watch me demonstrate various blogging techniques. We enjoyed the outside breeze while chatting over Star beer and Fanta, then worked our way back inside the facility.
Just for kicks, I offered to demonstrate podcasting and video blogging using fairly small files, neither of which was larger than 750k. I recorded a quick mp3 file while uploading a compressed two-minute video clip of a taxi ride through Accra. In both cases, it took just over 15 minutes to publish each file, plus another five minutes to way for the Web pages of my blog to download while I updated them. The slowness of the process gave us time to talk about what I was doing in great detail - again, an unexpected bonus caused by limited bandwidth.
The participants were very eager to learn more, but some wanted to step back and learn the basics of setting up a blog from scratch. For that, we simply visited Blogger.com and created a blog in about 10 minutes, again slowed down mostly because of bandwidth. They all took copious notes, asking lots of good questions; by the time we were done it was nearly 6pm.
Before heading out, though, one of the journalists pulled out his minidisc recorder and a large microphone; he wanted to do an interview for Radio Ghana. We chatted for about 10 minutes, recapping the topics we discussed over the course of the afternoon. Now if I could only get him to publish the recording as a podcast rather than just a national radio broadcast, then he'd do me real proud. :-) -andy
Posted by acarvin at 6:20 AM | TrackBack
A Third Blog Entry Named Kofi
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University students taking a course at the Kofi Annan Centre for Excellence in ICT |
Inside, I met with several staff, who were kind enough to lead me around the facility for about an hour. Opened two years ago, the Kofi Annan Centre is home to a variety of high-tech training facilities, including a Cisco Networking Academy. By sheer coincidence, the Cisco Academy was full of young Liberians from the Buduburam refugee camp, which I visited the previous day.
We walked from classroom to classroom, most of which were engaged with groups of students working in small groups, huddling around laptops and workstations. I managed to hover in the background in a couple of classes, snapping pictures and getting completely over my head in the technical discussions on networks, routers and switches.
Upstairs, we entered a room that needed to be unlocked with a smart card. Inside we found a Padma supercomputer from India. The most powerful computer in Ghana, it runs on an open source operating system; access to it is made available to any Ghanaian researcher starving for hard-core processing power.
I'd wanted to check out the centre's main conference room, but it was busy with some official event; someone told me that several government ministers were participating. Only later in the day did I discover that it was a high-level meeting on Ghana's new national ICT policy. Boy, I'd wish I'd been able to get through the door for a few minutes.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 6:15 AM | TrackBack
Just Call Me Kofi
When I first arrived in Ghana, I was struck by the number of people who shared similar names. I'd lost track of the number of Kofis and Kojos I'd met, not to mention Kwasis, Akosuas, Amas and Kwames. At first I wondered if there was a Balinese-like naming system for children, in which first-borns are named Wayan, second children are named Made, etc. But after poking around I figured out it's a twist on the same concept. Rather than naming kids on birth order, Ghanaian children (or at least those who are ethnic Akans) are named based on the day of the week they are born. They're then given a second name, chosen by the parents.
In case you were wondering what names are associated with what days, here's the skinny.
- Sunday: Kwasi (boys); Akosua, Asi, Ese (girls)
- Monday: Kwadwo, Kojo (boys); Adwoa, Ajao (girls)
- Tuesday: Kwabena, Kobina (boys); Abena, Araba (girls)
- Wednesday: Kwaku (boys); Akua (girls)
- Thursday: Yao, Ekow (boys); Yaa (girls)
- Friday: Kofi (boys); Afua, Afia, Efua (girls)
- Saturday: Kwame, Kwamena (boys); Ama (girls)
Needless to say, this got me all wondering what day of the week I was born. I knew the date, obviously, but couldn't exactly remember the day. For some reason, Thursday seemed right - Yao, then? But I wanted to be sure. So I opened up my Mac iCalendar and clicked the month button three hundred and some-odd times backwards until I got to July 30, 1971. So there it was: a Friday. Just call me Kofi.
Oh, and Susanne, in case you're reading this: from now on I christen you Ajao, except when we return to Bali. Then, you can be Made again.... -kwc (that's Kofi Wayan Carvin, of course)
Posted by acarvin at 6:11 AM | TrackBack
Kofi with the Longest Name in Radio
Driving to the Kofi Annan Centre yesterday morning, I had the opportunity to listen to some of Accra's local morning talk radio programming. The DJ was all up in arms because of reports that Accra police had set up checkpoints at which they were arresting motorcyclists for not wearing helmets, while ignoring the drivers of rickety tro-tros, the ubiquituous old buses used for public transport here in Ghana. Tro-tros are more dangerous to the public than motorcyclists, he explained, since they carried as many as 40 people, are made of "cardboard held together by staples," and driven often by unlicensed drivers.
Somehow, he felt this injustice was linked to the very survival of a unified Ghanaian state, that it was just another example of why Ghanaians must fight the urge to "become another Rwanda." He repeated an old Akan saying: If the state is going to fall, it is from the belly.
"The state of affairs is from within," he said. "Past leaders have been corrupt, inept and failures at nation-building. Let us begin calling a spade a spade."
If our state is going to fall, it is from the belly," he repeated. "Let's fasten our seatbelts and rally around the red, the black, the gold and the green. Until next time, this is Kofi with the longest name in radio, my brothers and sisters...."
Posted by acarvin at 6:11 AM | TrackBack
A Driver to Avoid
Seen plastered on the back window of a van in Accra this morning:
Man in War NEVER fears BULLET
Give that driver a wide berth.... -andy
Posted by acarvin at 6:09 AM | TrackBack
July 21, 2005
Podcasting Demo from Accra
Just recording a podcast demo at a workshop in Accra. -andy
Posted by acarvin at 1:16 PM | TrackBack
Accra Taxi Ride
A couple days ago I shot some footage while driving in a taxi from BusyInternet to my hotel, 45 minutes north of downtown Accra. Here are the results.
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Posted by acarvin at 1:03 PM | TrackBack
Life in a Liberian Refugee Camp
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Buduburam Refugee Camp |
Approaching 2pm, we found ourselves in a stretch of road lined with tightly packed stalls selling goods of all imaginable shapes and sizes. Vendors on foot went from car to car, hawking cases of toilet paper, freshly peeled pineapples and a spectrum of snacks. David pulled over for a moment and motioned to one young woman, who was balancing a pyramid of cookie boxes and peanut bags in a wide metal tray on her head. David placed his order, speaking to her in Akan, and she nonchalantly tipped her head, almost as if to make a facial gesture; a single pack of peanuts tumbled from the tray. She didn't even break eye contact with David; the peanuts landed right in her hand, ready to pass it through the window for a couple of crumpled cedi notes.
A few minutes later we arrived at the entrance to the camp. From the outside, it looked almost like we were entering the same neighborhood as my guesthouse. There was a dirt road sloping up a small hill, past several rows of cement huts and shops. Two UN High Commission on Refugees (UNHCR) vehicles left the entrance as we pulled in; David parked outside the UNHCR office so we could figure out where to go next.
A young African man in a UNHCR t-shirt came up to us to see if we needed any help. I told him we were there to meet a group of volunteers and Liberian NGO workers for a tour of the camp. At first he seemed to have no idea whom we were looking for, but eventually he offered to jump in the back of the truck and lead us to the right place.
We drove deeper and deeper into the camp. The further we went, the more surprised I became. To be honest, I had no particular expectation of what the camp would look like. What I found was a hotbed of human commotion - countless shops, children playing soccer, young men playing backgammon, women getting their hair done. This was a vibrant and surprisingly cheerful place. I wondered what other surprises might be around the corner.
Soon we reached a building with a small sign marking it as the volunteer headquarters. I went inside and introduced myself to an international group of young people, none of whom seemed to be expecting me. I then pulled out the only name I could recall from the flutter of emails over the last week.
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Jeremiah, one of my hosts at the refugee camp |
"Sure, he's in the back," an Asian American woman said. "You'll be able to find him there."
I stepped into the room and found a young Liberian man hunched over a laptop. He was wearing a bright, white polo shirt, sporting closely cropped hair and a goatee.
"Andy!" Jeremiah greeted me, warmly. He shook my hand and gave me a hug, like an old friend. We talked for a moment about the drive from Accra, then planned our itinerary for the afternoon.
"How much time do you have?" he asked. "You must be very busy; if you can only spare 15 minutes...."
"I have as much time as you need," I replied. "Even if it's an hour or more, whatever is best for you. David and I are not in a rush to return to Accra as I'm done with my appointments for the day."
"Wonderful!" he replied. "Let's go outside and wait for Hisenburg to come, then we can walk around the camp." Jeremiah was referring to Hisenberg Togba, founder of Movement for the Promotion of Gender Equality in Liberia (MOPGEL) and one of the camp's computer literacy coordinators. "I know Karl William would like to join us but he isn't available now - maybe we'll find him before you leave."
Outside, Jeremiah introduced himself to David while I strolled around the block. A few buildings to the left, in a small courtyard, a group of children played a game reminiscent of marbles. At first I was hesitant to take their pictures, as I had been warned that the refugees were often not comfortable in front of the camera.
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Liberian Kung Fu Masters |
The four of us began exploring the camp, Jeremiah taking the lead. I kept falling behind, eager to pause and snap pictures in every direction. There was so much activity: tight little alleyways leading past telephone centers, homes, snack shops, shoe stores. The wider avenues were busy with pedestrian traffic, as well as numerous bicycles and the occasional car.
When I caught up with the group, Jeremiah turned to me and said softly, "You probably know this, but some people are not comfortable having their picture taking. It makes them nervous."
"Don't worry," I said," "I'll maintain my distance. And if I want to get a shot of a particular person, we'll ask them first. If they say no, then they say no."
We reached another avenue and turned right, heading to another neighborhood. "So how many people live here?" I asked.
"More than 40,000," Jeremiah explained. "It's about 42,000, to be precise.... The first group that came here was like 5,000 persons, and finally it just moved onto much bigger numbers. And it keeps growing."
"And that was in 1990?" I asked,
"1990, yeah, the first batch, the first group," he replied. "As the war continued in Liberia, more and more started coming to Ghana -- and they are still coming."
We reached a neighborhood that featured several churches. Each neighborhood, actually, seemed packed with churches, as well as shops and learning centers of various types. Before coming, I'd expected to see temporary shelters with corrugated roofs; instead, we found acre upon acre of cement and brick buildings, painted and well maintained.
"I'm really struck as we walk through here at how well established it is as a community, with the number of shops and businesses," I remarked.
"The thing is that they have to make it on their own," Jeremiah said. "All these things are done by themselves. The UNHCR could not help them -- they had to take up their own thing, their own initiative. Many of these people rely on their own self-struggle. Some relatives in America and other parts of the world tend to chip in a bit, but that's not sufficient. So they rely on their initiative to really make it."
We began talking about some of the education programs available in the camp. Some of the Liberians here are highly skilled workers, but are unable to get jobs in their fields outside of the camp as long as there are equally-skilled Ghanaians applying for the same job. Meanwhile, thousands of others in the camp have very limited skills, so they're often quite eager to enroll in courses ranging from basic literacy to computer training.
"What I'm saying is that we want literacy skills around to empower them, to do their own thing," Jeremiah said. "Self businesses. Give them skills. And of course they can help themselves. Liberians are not really looking out for handouts. No - that's one thing I can tell everybody. They don't want handouts - they only want a push."
"So they want to be self-sufficient," I added.
"Self-sufficient," Jeremiah repeated, gesturing to some of the buildings around us. "Extremely self-sufficient. And that's why you can see from these structures that these are people who are not just beggars. They're not just beggars. They want to do a lot of things. Everything you see - they did it on their own. Nobody helped them; they did it own their own."
"And they're not prepared to beg," Jeremiah reiterated, emotion building in his voice. "They're not prepared to beg, not at all.... Not prepared to beg...."
The four of us continued to stroll through the village, dodging children and puppies and chickens while the local adults went on with their daily business. I asked Jeremiah if he thought the situation was improving enough for people to consider going home.
"In Liberia it's still not ready for them to go home," he explained. "I was in Liberia about a month ago, and there are still arms there. Why would these people go to Liberia when there are still arms there? Why would they go when they'd have nowhere to stay, no water for them? You can't let these guys go; they wouldn't go. And that's why the UNHCR voluntary repatriation process failed."
"But I believe that only if we can empower them, they can do better when they go home," he added. "All we need to do is empower them. They are absolutely not prepared to beg. They may be here in tattered clothes, but they are proud people, and they want to do it on their own. If only they can get a push, then they can perform wonders."
We reached an open field in the middle of the camp that served as the main soccer field; to the right, one of the high schools was teaming with students.
"How many students go to school here in the camp?"
"More than 11,000," Hisenburg said.
"11,000," I repeated. "That's like some U.S. school districts."
"Yes, there are many students here," Hisenburg continued.
"And you're involved with computer training?" I asked.
"Yes," he replied. "What we are doing now - you see, computers in Liberia, about 95% of the country isn't literate in terms of the computer. So what we're doing is training a group of volunteers who will go back to Liberia, and train others how to use them."
"So it sounds like you're focusing not only on training people here, but making sure that people back home will have these skills as well," I replied.
"Yes, so they'll be able to get a job in the market," he said. "Today, if you don't have computer skills, it's difficult for you to get a job. So that's why our focus is to train Liberian refugees before returning back."
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A student completes a Powerpoint Course at the refugee camp's computer center |
"We started here, we had 16 computers, at our own initiative," Hisenburg explained. "As you can see, these ones are down. We started with programs Monday through Thursday, then Friday and Saturday were for the disabled and children ages 10 through 17. But because of the number of computers we have now - we have just eight that work - so we had to reduce the Friday and Saturday for the disabled and children to only Saturday. We started with two hours, but now because of the number of computers, we only offer one hour in order to accommodate all of those wanting to take classes."
"Are you currently searching for donations?"
"Yes, we are looking for donations, contacting people for donations, but we have yet to find any donations. We have a lot of refugees who want to do the computer training."
Leaving the training facility, we were approached by a young man with a large 35mm camera slung around his neck. He was waving around a pair of photos blown up to around 6x8 inches. At first I was very confused by the photos; the first one appeared to show a large pile of animal intestines. For a moment my mind flashed to images of witch doctors auguring the future by examining entrails, but I couldn't imagine that practices like that took place here.
Then I saw the second photo and realized in absolute horror what I was looking at. The entrails were not from an animal; it was a man who had been completely disemboweled and mutilated, his face hacked with a machete. Before I could recoil in disgust, the photographer waived the photos in someone else's face.
He was speaking in English, but very quickly - so quickly that I had a hard time making out what he was saying. Jeremiah, Hisenburg and David huddled around him to discuss the situation as a small crowed gathered - young and old eager to peer at this two-dimensional horror show. The photographer gave the photos to Jeremiah in a large envelope.
"My God, what was that all about?" I asked. "Did that have to do with war crimes in Liberia?"
"No, that was here, this week," Jeremiah sighed. "They found him like that and don't know who he is. They are trying to identify him and the photographer wants to sell the photos."
"Why was he mutilated?" I asked, bracing for an answer for which I might not be prepared.
"Who knows these things," Jeremiah continued, eager to think about something else.
We continued through the camp, but the images plagued me with each block, each turn. I have a high tolerance for Hollywood violence, as it were, but don't handle depictions of real violence quite well, particularly when exposure to it is unexpected.
Just the night before, because of an ongoing bout of jetlag, I found myself re-reading Ryszard Kapuscinski's brilliant war journal, The Soccer War, which documents his perilous war correspondent adventures covering two dozen conflicts in Africa, the Middle East and Latin America. On the final pages I read last night, Kapuscinski presented a brief interlude in which he pondered the idea of writing "a dictionary of various phrases that take on different meanings according to the degree of geographical latitude." He offered examples of several words that might be suitable for such a dictionary, one of which was the word Spirits.
[The] act of destroying the corpse results from the conviction that a human being consists of not only a body but also the spirits that fill it. Many white people believe in a body and a soul, but their faith in one soul is merely a primitive simplification of a complicated feature of human existence: in reality a person's body is filled by many spirits proper to the various parts of the human organism. It would be naïve to believe that this complicated world of spirits, alive in the recesses of the human body, can be liquidated by a single bullet. [Or machete, apparently.] The body is only one element of a person's death: full death occurs only after the spirits have been destroyed or expelled.... Hence the necessity of destroying the corpse, particularly if the corpse belonged to an enemy whose spirits can later avenge him. There is no cruelty in this -- for someone who is forced to fight against the dangerous and omnipresent world of spirits, which may be invisible but are hot on the heels of the living, it is simple self-defense.
Upon reading that passage last night, I recalled that he was writing much of this 40 years ago, and thought it was obvious Kapuscinski was obsessing over his experiences in the Belgian Congo and elsewhere. Back then, of course. Not today. Not now.
Perhaps I was wrong.
I was rescued from my spiritual torpor by a beautiful little girl with braided hair.
We were walking through a residential neighborhood, with lots of children and adults milling about. Suddenly I looked ahead and saw this little girl, jumping up and down as if she were on a magical pogo stick, chanting an adorable mantra of "Yes! Yes! Yes! Yes!" Before I knew it, she jumped off the invisible pogo and darted towards me, locked my shins in an enormous bear hug, then scurried away. The tortured spirits of that corpse, plaguing me for Lord knows how long -- time passes strangely when haunted by spirits -- vanished without a trace.
Other children, none more than seven or eight years old, began to follow her lead. They approached me one at a time to shake my hand and say hello. I could barely keep up with them.
"Hello, how are you?" I asked them, adding, "I must be very popular!" I asked if I could take their pictures; before I could complete the question, eight or 10 of them jammed into a Napoleonic formation, row after row. They lacked true military discipline, though; rather than maintaining their lines, the children would dart ahead each other to appear at the front of the photograph, breaking all commonly accepted codes of conduct regarding picture-taking formations arranged according to height. Fortunately, they were in no rush for me to complete my assignment, so I let them weave among themselves while I snapped away, happy as can be.
My hosts, meanwhile, had wandered to the next neighborhood, so it was time for me to say goodbye. Many of the children followed me for an entire block, running and waving and shouting "bye bye!" to me. I was filled with warmth.
On the far side of the football pitch, we meandered down an uneven path, dammed with sandbags labeled UNHCR in black lettering. While chatting with Hisenburg, I was approached by a pretty teenage girl in a long white t-shirt and large hoop earrings.
"Hello, how are you?" she asked confidently.
"Fine, thank you," I replied. "And how are you?"
"I am well, thank you. What are you doing here?"
"I'm visiting from the United States, and I was invited to come to the camp," I said. "We've just been walking around for a while, meeting people, getting to know the camp a bit. How long have you lived in the camp?"
"Two weeks," she replied, to my surprise.
"So you just came from Liberia, then?"
"Yeah, I am just visiting."
"Do you have many family here?"
"Yeah, lots of people here."
"How long do you plan to stay?"
"Maybe two weeks. We'll see. Bye...."
"Bye," I replied, the conversation ending as suddenly as it began.
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I now realized we were far from the center of the camp, in a rural area with small farm plots. Further ahead there appeared to be another complex of buildings.
"We have actually left the camp boundaries," Jeremiah explained. "But there are so many refugees they have to rent the surrounding land from Ghanaian families."
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A teacher leads a group of Liberian women in an adult literacy class |
"What are they doing?" I asked.
"It's a women's literacy program," Jeremiah said. "One of the first parts of learning to read and write is learning how to form basic letters. It is a motivational way to learn each stroke of each character, while getting support from the others."
Before I knew it, Jeremiah was getting permission from the group for me to enter the circle and take pictures. The entire group chanted "Yes, please" in unison when asked. I climbed between the desks and did my best to be unobtrusive -- or, at least as unobtrusive as realistically possible, being a white man standing in a circle of African women in a field.
On the perimeter of the courtyard, Jeremiah took us to a series of classrooms, each filled with more adult literacy students. We were invited into each room; the classes would stand up and clap rhythmically to greet us. One classroom was using a fascinating technique to teach reading and writing: students had drawn a map of the camp, identifying its major features. Then they were asked to identify problems in the camp: sanitation problems, inadequate lighting and the like. The students were then challenged to debate the problems, prioritize them, and work together to draft language explaining their concerns, in the hope of working with NGOs to improve local conditions. You could see the pride in the face of the instructor and his students, most of whom were in their forties and older. They knew they were bettering themselves, and were glad that I could witness it, even if just for a moment.
After walking around the camp's school for the deaf -- I was amazed they were in a position to build one -- we looped our way back to the center of the camp, by way of the high school and football pitch. It was almost 4pm - we had been here for two hours. I could hardly believe how fast time had passed here in Buduburam. Then again, I was just a visitor, not a resident. Fourteen years must feel like an eternity.
Before leaving, though, I had two final assignments. First, I presented a copy of a National Geographic atlas that Susanne and I wanted to donate to the camp; the oversized reference book that nearly broke my back on the trip from America would be added to their community library. Then, we stopped for a few moments to say hello to Karl William, a charismatic young Ghanaian who worked in the camp. We'd hoped to connect earlier but he'd been busy.
We talked for a few minutes before getting ready to leave; he reached out to shake my hand, which I erroneously did in the usually white and western way - just an ordinary, firm handshake. I did try to slip him some skin, as they might have said in the 70s, by sliding out my fingers along his palm as I let go of his hand; I'd noticed several Ghanaians do this to me already this week.
"No, no, no, man, you've got it all wrong," Karl said, laughing. He grabbed my hand and tried to show me the proper way to do it -- first a normal handshake, then shifting your hands so your wrists pointed upwards, then your fingers curled like two interlocking C's. No problem - we used to do that one when I was a kid. Then came the hard part -- releasing your fingers in such a way that both of you snapped your fingers upon exit. He snapped; I fumbled; the crowd laughed.
"This is humiliating," I said. "I'm just a poor white boy from Boston. And each day people keep changing the secret handshake on me, like it's a conspiracy! You know there's no way I'll get this right."
"You're staying until you practice," he said. "One, two, three -- snap. Again. One, two, three -- snap. Now, that's better."
No, it wasn't. I was pathetic. But I was happy to provide some comic relief. Meanwhile, two of the others demonstrated it for me, even having me shoot some video of it.
"Okay, did everyone get that?" I asked as they completed their shake.
With that, it was time to leave the refugee camp and return to Accra. David and I drove back to the city listening to the radio, the sun setting behind us. He quietly sang along to one of the songs on the radio. And I sat there marveling at how my life had changed in one short afternoon.
Posted by acarvin at 7:46 AM | Comments (4) | TrackBack
A Workshop at Ghana Telecom
After breakfast on Wednesday, I waited downstairs in the guesthouse lounge waiting for my ride to Osei Darkwa's office at Ghana Telecom. A few minutes after 9:30am, Osei's colleague David came by in a 4x4; Lydia and Abigail from the guesthouse management came along for the ride.
It took us less than 20 minutes to get to the offices, a large open-air complex with numerous classrooms and workshop spaces. Osei was waiting for me in his office, tea and cookies on the ready. We chatted for a while about his ambitious project - to turn the training facility into an accredited university focusing on ICTs and community informatics by the end of the year. It's truly a bold project, but Osei's just the type of person who'll be able to pull it off. I hope I can come back in a year and see what he's accomplished.
Just before 10:30am, we moved to the meeting room where I was going to talk about the Digital Divide Network with a group of around 20 technology instructors. As I pulled out my laptop and started to plug it into the projector, we discovered that the Ethernet port in the room wasn't working, so the whole group moved down one floor to another classroom. This time, the port seemed to be fine, but the cable they had sticking out of it was a standard telephone cable rather than an Ethernet cable, so I couldn't plug it into my computer. This confusion lasted only for a moment or two, as one of Osei's colleagues found a proper Ethernet cable in one of the other cla