SOJC Article

For more info about our program, check out this link:

http://jcomm.uoregon.edu/articles/ghana-2008/view

Okpungalow House Tour

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=NiX6VzgwtoY

In case you were wondering where I lived all summer, here it is courtesy of Molly and Ryan!

Sin City

Shots of naked women smiled from every storefront as I wound my way through the narrow streets of Amsterdam. Droopy eyed from a seven hour overnight flight from Ghana, the images seemed like some sort of weird hallucination but on the outskirts of Amsterdam's Red Light District, I learned that such displays are G-rated compared to those inside the district itself. My hostel, The Bulldog, was flanked by coffee shops where red-eyed stoner tourists lazily rolled blunts and tucked them behind their ears. People dangled their feet over the stone walls leading down to murky canals, where long boats hauled tourists to the city's most popular destinations.

After checking my bags at the hostel, I grabbed a map and set out into the city. The sun shone brightly, but it wasn't hot. For the first time in six weeks, I felt clean. There were no beggars, little pollution and streets regulated by lights and laws. Police officers whizzed by on shiny bikes and big horses, and people walked fat dogs on leashes. The culture shock, needless to say, was intense. There were no goats wandering about, no ckickens pecking the dirt and everyone was fully clothed. Imagine that!

Famished from the long trip, I stopped at a small bakery and bought a croissant. I nearly fainted when the woman charged me €3, but paid her anyway. I guess the days of $1.50 meals are a thing of the past! As I sat savoring my spendy croissant, I heard a familiar tune: sure enough, 'I Bless the Rains Down in Africa' came humming out of the nearby speakers. In fact, there were little reminders of Africa everywhere, from a man wearing a Kente shirt to my sleep-deprived hallucinations of people yelling 'OBRONI!' as I strolled by.

Since I couldn't officially check into my room until 3:00 (it was 9:00 when I arrived), I decided to continue my adventure around the city. I discovered the beauty of getting lost in an unknown city and finding your way back again by looking for the Anne Frank house for about two hours. People in Amsterdam give directions by noting the canals and bridges- 'Turn right at the second bridge and walk to the third canal'- which was confusing but quite an adventure. I finally found the little house, where I waited in line to tour the house and museum. The conditions were utterly tragic, but the history was so interesting and well worth getting lost for. I wandered into a nearby church and took a nap in the back pew after listening to a beautiful organ concert. The ceiling was decorated with cherubs playing big harps and wispy clouds, so when a woman poked me on the shoulder to wake me, I pretended I'd been looking at the art all along.

I walked the opposite direction to the Van Gogh museum and the Rembrandt House, where the artists' collections were displayed for awed tourists to marvel at. I found an inexpensive sandwhich shop, where I feasted on a fresh vegetable sandwhich. The crisp lettuce and juicy tomato tasted absolutely delicious after six weeks without fresh veggies and I happily savored the delicacy while watching the Olympic preliminaries in Dutch.

After visiting a few toursit shops, I wandered into Dam Square, where I watched people at the National Monument for about an hour. A ginat palacce loomed across the street, and I watched children chase pigeons as they wildly spiraled up toward the blue sky.

People in Amsterdam are friendly, but not as openly so as Ghanaians. The Dutch are more reserved, but kind in their own ways. I checked into my noisy hostel and unloaded my things into a small locker. I shared a room full of bunkbeds with 13 other strangers, but it was clean and secure. Instead of staying in the room, I ventured out into town to find Nick's hostel, a friend from Ghana who was staying the night in Amsterdam, too. He and I, along with his father who was also in Europe, explored the Red Light District together.

I've always heard about the Red Light District, its provocative women luring men from around the world, but I never really believed it was real until seeing it with my own eyes. Storefronts that had seemed so innocent during the day lit up in neon lights at night, their curtains pulled back to reveal all types of women on display. Thin blondes in push up bras sucked on lollipops, suggestively eyeing potential customers with piercing blue eyes. Robust Spanish women curled their fingers in a lusty 'come on over' motion, their laquered nails more brilliant in the cruel neon lights. Young boys weaved between people, quietly offering cocaine to those who needed a fix. A bridge lit by neon red Christmas lights signifies the beginning and end of the Red Liht District, and I think twice over that marker was enough for me. I collapsed into my top bunk at around 1:00, falling into the deepest sleep I've had in awhile with the cool Amsterdam breeze lulling me to sleep.

John Denver in Ghana

Ok, guys, this is really it--my last post from Ghana. I'm sorry it's not longer, but I'm running out of minutes at the cafe. I don't know how often I'll be able to post from Europe, but I'll try!

I leave tonight at 9am, leaving the dust and sweat of the last six weeks behind. All I can think of is that John Denver song: "I'm leavin' on a jet plane, don't know when I'll be back again...". The one thing I do know, though, is that I'll definitely be back.

Piece of Me

The last week in Ghana has been characterized by African rains. The rains fall so hard that they fill the deep gutters in mere moments, and umbrellas are left destroyed by the stone-sized pellets that fall by the bucketful from black clouds. Goats huddle beneath tin roofs and chickens shake their drenched plumage like confused dogs. Three nights ago, the thirteen obronis were woken from a deep, comfortable slumber by several rude claps of thunder that sounded like metal garbage cans beating against the walls. The sky lit up in a brilliant show--it seemed that Africa was trying to show off to convince us to stay forever in its fancy light show.

Despite the great continent's efforts to keep us here, though, our time has come to an end. With only three days left, I have very mixed emotions about leaving. I miss everyone at home very much--I often find myself wishing I could link arms with my best friends when out late at night and always wish I had Mom's input before buying brilliant batiks and colorful Kente cloth. A healthy helping of Dad's clam chowder with fresh corn from the garden sounds more appetizing every day. Despite missing all of you, I feel that a part of my heart is here in Ghana. I'll leave it with the sweet children who shout "Obroni!" and squeal when I wave back, my white hand ticking in the humid air. Part of it will stay with the kind ladies who cut pieces of sweet bread and stuff them full of egg omelets for our hungry bellies late at night. I'll miss that road to work, its swampy holes a breeding ground for mosquitos and malaria but the lotus flower blossoms reminding me to stop and enjoy every step. I think I'll even leave a piece of me on the seats of the dilapidated trotros with their flaming glove boxes and rusty doors.

I know that the rain here will stop, the gutters will dry out and the Earth will crack with the heat of the beating sun. Soon enough Ghanaians will be sweating through the dry season, praying for rain again to quench the thirst of their wilting crops. I wish I could be here to see it, but it brings me comfort to know that those bonds I've made and lessons I've learned won't be washed away with the swift rain but will instead dry like the Ghanaian soil into my memory forever.

Women in Ghanaian Media: A case study

Finally, the report I've worked on all summer is nearly done. Here it is!

Women in Ghanaian Media: A Case Study

1. Introduction

The media are recognized as essential to protecting basic human rights and freedoms across the globe. In young, developing countries, the media have proven especially helpful in cementing the ideals of democracy and fair governance. However, there are several aspects of democracy in which the media in Ghana have failed, including that of gender sensitivity. Despite the increasing role of women in political and leadership roles in Ghana, the media have marginalized their concerns and issues. In accordance with ABANTU for Development’s mission of engaging in policies from a gender perspective, this report will further explore the gaps left by the media in relation to women’s issues. Furthermore, the report will explore the root of this problem and offer recommendations for future policies.

2. Problem

According to The Women’s Manifesto for Ghana, the key concerns regarding the representation of women in the media are the media’s sexist and stereotypical portrayal of women, the neglect of issues pertaining to women and the nature of reporting of stories related to women, especially in regards to sex crimes against them. If we want women in Parliament and other positions of power, the media must first treat them as equals, being conscientious of wording, headlines and photographs that may play to cultural stereotypes above accuracy. Furthermore, the commercialization of the media in Ghana has led to pressures from advertisers thus leading to problems of the adage “sex sells.” This method of advertising perpetuates the negative stereotyping and representation of women in the media. The same is true for the film and entertainment industries, which were only observed abstractly in this report.

These problem stems from a lack of women in leadership positions in media houses, coupled with a lack of gender sensitivity and awareness. According to Sara Akrofi-Quarcoo, a lecturer at the University of Ghana Legon and the President of Women in Broadcasting, the problem with women in Ghanaian media lies in leadership. Women are accepted as reporters and anchors at major media houses, a feat that would not have been possible a decade ago. According to a study conducted by the organization Journalists for Human Rights, female enrollment in Ghana’s top three journalism schools is in excess of 50 per cent. suggesting a positive trend for the future of women in the newsroom. However, women are not treated equally in terms of promotions and opportunities in Ghana’s major media houses. While there are some success stories—the editor of the Ghanaian Times is a woman—more often than not men occupy the middle and top tier of positions in Ghanaian media. For example, the National Media Commission was established in 1993 as a system to check on all media institutions in Ghana, ensuring their accuracy and sensitivity in reporting. The board is comprised of 18 members from a wide range of media houses and other stakeholder organizations to guard against bias (MFWA 17). However, women account for less than half of the board. In order to assure gender sensitivity in reporting in the media, this problem of the lack of women in leadership roles must be accounted for in future policies.

3. Aim and Objectives

In addition to addressing the problems related to fair representation of women in Ghanaian media, the material obtained in this study will help answer the following questions:
1. What is the extent of coverage of women’s issues in the media in Ghana? What percentage of stories is oriented around women?
2. What is the content of stories about women? Are they about women in positions of power or otherwise?
3. What is the placement of the story and what does this placement say about the media’s perception of women’s issues?
4. What pictures accompany the story? What does this add or detract?

Ultimately, this study will attempt to determine whether or not women are fairly represented in the media in Ghana. The author will also determine how the media can contribute to a just and equal portrayal of men and women in the media, with a particular focus on assuring gender sensitivity through education and policies.

4. Methodology

This study was completed over a one-month period in conjunction with ABANTU for Development, ROWA. In order to attain a fair sampling of representation of women in the media, I chose to research Ghana’s three primary media outlets: newspapers, radio and television.

4.1. Newspapers
The daily newspapers studied include the Daily Graphic, the Ghanaian Times and the Daily Guide. The weekend papers studied include the Mirror and the Spectator. The newspapers were studied in the time frame of June 15-July 15. In reading each newspaper, I made notes of those stories related to women including the author’s word choice, language and the use of photography. I divided these stories into categories: women involved in violent acts, women in politics, women in entertainment, women in cultural roles, women in sports and women in education.
→Women in violent acts included those stories of women who were perpetrated by men and raped or attacked. They also included stories about women who were the perpetrator.
→Women in politics included those stories of women who were already serving in the government and those women who won the primary races in their constituencies.
→Women in entertainment included those stories about women in the film and music industries.
-Women in cultural roles included stories related to the trials of women in traditional roles.
→Women in sports included those stories about women on sports teams or individually.
→Women in education included those stories related to women’s progress in the educational sphere, including those women who were in leadership positions in schools.

4.2 Radio
The radio stations researched included Joy FM and Citi FM. The stations were analyzed during the period of July 15-July 25. Joy FM was sampled at the following times: Tuesday 7-8pm, Thursday 8-9pm, Saturday 10-11pm. Citi FM was sampled at the following times: Monday 5-6pm, Wednesday 5-6pm, Friday 9-10am. In listening to the stations, I analyzed women’s presence in the medium. Stories about women were recorded, as were those times when female radio presenters were most commonly heard. I also noted the placement of stories about women in regards to time and airspace.

4.3 Television
The television stations analyzed included TV3 and Metro TV. The stations were reviewed from July 15-July 25. I watched the nightly news on TV3 on Monday and Friday, and the nightly news on Metro TV on Tuesday and Saturday. I noted when stories about women aired, and how the anchors used language to portray women. Additionally, I watched TV3 on Wednesdays from 11:00am-12:00pm to determine what types of programs aired and what demographic they appealed to. This included a small analysis of commercials aired during this time in order to confirm the target audience. On Thursdays, I watched Metro TV from 7:00-8:00pm to monitor what programs were being aired, the commercials played and the suspected target audience.

5. Analysis and Findings

5.1 Newspapers
Again, the daily newspapers studied include the Daily Graphic, the Ghanaian Times and the Daily Guide. The weekend papers studied include the Mirror and the Spectator. The newspapers were studied in the time frame of June 15-July 15. I divided these stories into categories: women involved in violent acts, women in politics, women in entertainment, women in cultural roles, women in sports and women in education.

5.1.1 General Observations
According to Doug Murray of the organization Journalists for Human Rights, only 30 per cent of print journalists are women (4). When studying newspapers, however, gender issues rise around literacy. About 58 per cent of Ghanaians over the age of 15 can read and write. A 2000 census revealed a large disparity between the sexes, however. Approximately 66 per cent of males over 15 can read and write compared to just 49.8 per cent of women (Murray 1). Such literacy issues further complicate the coverage of women’s concerns in the print media in Ghana.

In the one-month period observed for this study, the following results were obtained:



Table 5.1
Daily Guide Ghanaian Times Daily Graphic The Mirror The Spectator
Sports 1 1 3 2 1
Politics 10 11 13 4 7
Violence 4 3 7 2 1
Culture 4 5 7 1 4
Entertain’t 4 2 4 12 13
Education 2 3 9 0 1
Total 25 26 43 21 27

5.1.2 Examples and implications of headlines
According to Sara Akrofi-Quarcoo, the problem with women in the media is not about numbers, but rather about context of stories and headlines. This theory is demonstrated in the headlines of Ghana’s leading newspapers, sampled here.

→ Political Headlines
“Afeku wins NPP primary” (Daily Graphic, 19 June)
“Women beat NPP men” (Daily Guide, 23 June)
“Students push for female running mates” (Ghanaian Times, 2 July)
“Women deserve a chance” (The Spectator, 5 July)
→ Education Headlines
“US, UK toast Ghanaian girl” (The Spectator, 15 June)
“Aburi HS raises funds for girls dormitory” (Daily Graphic, 20 June)
“Support girl-child education—Muslim scholars urged” (Ghanaian Times, 10 July)
“Torgome women undertake environmental project” (Daily Graphic, 10 July)
→ Sports Headlines
“Maidens suffer second defeat” (Daily Guide, 16 June)
“Brave Maidens pick New Zealand ticket” (Daily Graphic, 7 July)
→Violence Headlines
“Taxi driver sets wife ablaze out of jealousy” (Daily Graphic, 27 June)
“Evangelist impregnates 14-year-old girl” (The Mirror, 28 June)
“Mother boils child” (Daily Guide, 2 July)
→ Culture Headlines
“Women enjoy beatings by husbands” (Ghanaian Times, 18 June)
“Women in sheanut industry need support” (Daily Graphic, 21 June)
“Manners matter- the way we should be” (The Mirror, 28 June)
“Preserve the dignity of women” (Daily Graphic, 2 July)
“Should husbands do house chores? (The Spectator, 5 July)
→ Entertainment Headlines
“Signs to show she has interest in you” (The Spectator, 15 June)
“Ghana’s Most Beautiful—It’s Sara Adoley!” (Ghanaian Times, 21 June)
“Miss Ghana sets new agenda for women” (The Mirror, 28 June)
“Adoley fights for physically challenged” (Daily Guide, 7 July)

The biggest problem in headlines lies in the category of women involved in violent acts. The headline from the Daily Graphic on June 27 does not explain that the taxi driver was upset with his wife because she wanted to go back to school. In his jealous rage, the husband set her on fire and killed himself in the process. The story that accompanies the headline “Mother boils child” from the Daily Guide reveals that the mother did not put her child into a stew or something equally as ludicrous as the headline implies, but put his hands in boiling water for a moment after he stole 50Gp from her purse. While this act of violence is extreme, it is not nearly as inhumane as the headline would have us believe. Furthermore, the headline from The Mirror on June 28 implies consensual sex when in actuality, the 14-year-old girl was kidnapped and raped, leading to her eventual pregnancy.

In her study “Violence against Women in Ghana” Susanna Osam notes that journalists are often negligent in their headlines, implying that the victim is to blame for dressing provocatively or otherwise encouraging her attacker (43). It is true that in all of the articles observed, the reader eventually learned that the case was one of rape or other violence but, as Osam notes, the headlines assigned to articles often reflect the attitude and values of the author toward the case. Since media are meant to serve as the authoritative source of news, this problem presents a bias to the public that represents women in an unfair light.

Not including those headlines relating to women involved in violent acts, newspaper headlines are seemingly fair in reporting about women in Ghana today. Headlines about women in politics call for change (“Students push for female running mates”) and report accurately on changes already happening (“NPP women beat men”). By calling attention to women in power, other women may feel empowered to seek leadership roles in government, education or other realms of Ghanaian life. However, some inaccuracy still exists, such as the headline reading “Women enjoy beatings by husbands.” This headline implies that women happily accept routine beatings when in fact, a survey showed that less than half of all women surveyed accepted beatings as punishment, but not necessarily happily. While headlines have made significant improvements since Osam’s study, it appears that there are still some strides to be made in the direction of gender equality and sensitivity.

5.1.3 Implications of photographs in print media
Photographs can add or detract from a story, and often can draw a reader’s attention more so than a story without a photo. In this study, 51 per cent of stories about women included a photograph. The majority of those photos (62 per cent) were associated with stories about women in politics. Most of these photographs depicted women in traditional or professional attire speaking into a microphone or otherwise engaged in formal conversation. For example, on July 7th a story ran in the Daily Graphic about Madame Catherine Afeku’s victory in the parliamentary primary in the Evalue-Gwira Constituency and her campaign for support in the upcoming general election. This story was complimented by a photo of Afeku in a professional suit speaking to a crowd at her victory party. This representation of a professional, polished woman in a position of power conveys a positive image of women as leaders in Ghana.

Another example of female empowerment conveyed through images in Ghanaian media ran on June 20th in the Daily Guide. The article “Graduates embrace self employment” about college graduates seeking out entrepreneur opportunities includes a photograph of three women and a man in graduation costumes, apparently celebrating their recent accomplishment. This photograph is an example of gender sensitivity in Ghanaian media since it includes both sexes in the same setting. Furthermore, this photograph perpetuates the acceptance of women as educated members of society.

Finally, an important photograph ran in the July 9th edition of the Ghanaian Times. The photograph did not include an article, but rather a small caption with a headline that read, “Ensuring a violence free election—the role of the youth.” The caption went on to discuss the importance of this year’s election in Ghana’s young history. The photo showed young men and women casting their ballots. Such sensitivity is important for two reasons: women in Ghana are encouraged to vote by seeing other women voting and men are encouraged to accept women’s choices by integrating them into the democratic process.


5.1.4 Implications of word choice in print media
According to Sara Akrofi-Quarcoo, the context of stories proves a challenging aspect of gender sensitivity in print media. Equality and fair representation goes beyond including stories about women leaders in the news and extends into assuring that words are carefully chosen to represent women fairly and accurately.

On June 27th, an editorial ran in the Ghanaian Times entitled “Decent Dressing, Please!” Written by a man, this editorial called for women to dress modestly: “Some girls of today are exposing too much of their bodies in the name of fashion. It's no wonder that rape cases seem to be on the ascendary. We are Africans who take pride in womanhood and these young women should learn to protect their dignity,” (14).

The problems with this particular article are twofold. First, the author’s tone accuses women of putting themselves in vulnerable situations by dressing provocatively and therefore, asking to be raped. This accusation is not only unfair, but also caters to a certain archaic representation of women as property. Furthermore, the author implies that women do not have the right to their own bodies, whether that right comes in the form of what they wear or what they do with them. Secondly, such harsh, authoritative words coming from a male author perpetuate the man as the dominant, patriarchal figure in society to whom a woman must be submissive. In a culture where women are making strides to be on equal ground with their male counterparts, the perpetuation of this stereotype is a step backward for women’s rights.

A similar article appeared in the July 8th edition of the Daily Guide. The article entitled “What can women do better?” was written by a man and claimed that women want to advance in society but rely heavily on men to do so. “How can a woman exert her 'I can do better' agenda if she cannot do away with that ‘dependency theory’?” (4). By asserting that women depend on men for their success, this male author is perpetuating the same stereotype of the dominant, patriarchal male being the breadwinner in society. Furthermore, he is stifling those women who are enrolling in school, engaging in the community, seeking jobs and running for parliament. While freedom of speech is a necessary part of democracy, this column nevertheless reflects a blatant ignorance of gender sensitivity in the print media.

5.1.5 Story placement
Placement of stories about women in the print media reflects the publication’s attitude on the importance of women’s issues and concerns. The following table reflects the data gathered in this study relating to placement of stories about women in Ghana’s print media:

Table 5.2
Daily Guide Ghanaian Times Daily Graphic The Mirror The Spectator
Pg 1-10 15 8 12 5 8
Pg 11-20 8 12 19 4 5
Pg 21-End 2 6 12 12 14
Total 25 26 43 21 27

In the three regular newspapers, stories were more evenly placed from the front of the newspaper to the end of the newspaper. These stories varied in subject matter, but of those stories appearing in the first ten pages of the publication, 52 per cent related to women in politics and 19 per cent related to stories about women in education. Such emphasis on women in powerful positions in the front half of the newspapers implies that such stories are newsworthy and thus helps cement women as integral and equal in society.

The Daily Graphic contained the most stories about women, thanks in part to its “Gender and Children” section. The special section appears on page 11 of the publication and includes three to five stories related to women’s concerns and issues. The stories ranged in topic, and examples of headlines are as follows:

→ “Women—be interested in governance” (19 June)
→ “Women in sheanut industry need support” (21 June)
→ “Pregnant women patronize free health insurance” (2 July)
→ “Chose women running mates—NUGS” (12 July)

As noted in these examples, stories ranged from culture to politics to healthcare. By including such a section, the Daily Graphic emphasizes the importance of women’s issues and is careful not to marginalize the voices of Ghanaian women. Furthermore, by running stories about women’s issues so diligently, the Daily Graphic brings these concerns to the forefront and helps educate those readers who may not gain the information otherwise. For example, the Daily Graphic followed the progress of the recently introduced free maternal health care plan from its inception to its launch, reminding women what is included in the plan, detailing where they would be able to utilize its services and addressing the benefits of the plan. By using its large reach and readership as an education tool, the Daily Graphic contributes greatly to gender equality in the print media and in society.

In the two weekend papers, however, stories about women were mostly placed in the back of the paper and were largely about women in the entertainment industries. Of those stories in weekend papers, 82 per cent of stories placed in the back of the paper related to women in entertainment and 7 per cent of stories in the back of the paper related to women in sports. Those stories in the front of weekend papers were mostly of a sensational nature, relating to women involved in violent acts (“Female Cop Assaulted,” pg. 3, The Mirror, 5 July).

5.2 Broadcast
In the last decade, women in broadcasting have become more accepted by their male counterparts and by male listeners. For example, Akrofi-Quarcoo noted that when broadcast first began in Ghana, there were no women involved. Women only began to read the news after independence at the order of the first Ghanaian President. However, she also said that only the elite were allowed to read the news and many women refused the opportunity for fear of making mistakes (Akrofi-Quarcoo). Also, many women were forced to ask their husbands permission before reading the news, many of whom refused to grant it. The first programs hosted by women were those targeted at a female demographic; “Women’s Hour” was hosted by women and started in the 1950s to discuss housekeeping. As broadcast progressed, more women became involved in hosting and reading news, but gender stereotyping still occurred. For example, women typically covered only soft news and rarely presented during prime listening time such as radio’s morning rush hour (Akrofi-Quarcoo). Today, however, more women are involved in broadcast media. In fact, GBC employs more women than men according to Akrofi-Quarcoo, and the archaic stereotype of the woman as wife and mother is disintegrating. Furthermore, more women are allowed to read hard news on both television news programs and radio shows. An analysis of these trends is presented below.

5.2.1 Radio
Again, the radio stations analyzed in this report included Joy FM and Citi FM. The stations were monitored on alternating days at various times (see Methodology). In listening to the stations, I analyzed women’s presence in the medium. Stories about women were recorded, as were those times when female radio presenters were most commonly heard. I also noted the placement of stories about women in regards to time and airspace.

This study found that of all radio presenters, approximately 37 percent were female. Most commonly, a man would read a section of the news and then a woman would read another. This idea of a male-female partnership helps to affirm women as equals in news presentation and depicts an interesting image of gender sensitivity in broadcast media,

According to Sara Akrofi-Quarcoo, the number of female presenters is a significant improvement from recent years, and such data affirms that women’s presence in the media is on the rise. In the last decade, women in broadcasting have become more accepted by their male counterparts and by male listeners. For example, Akrofi-Quarcoo noted that women now cover more hard news and issues, such as economics and politics. Interestingly, on four occasions during the observation period women read stories concerned with the upcoming elections, paying special attention to the possibility of a woman as Nana Akufo-Addo’s running mate. Three of these stories were heard on Joy FM (July 19, July 21, July 24) and one on Citi FM (July 16). This example represents two ideas about the position of women in broadcast media. First, the fact that women were allowed to cover such hard news shows that broadcast media is moving forward in its portrayal of women as professionals. By trusting them to report on and read such important news, the radio station is conceptually pushing the fact that women are capable and worthy of such responsibilities in Ghanaian society. Secondly, allowing women to read political news encourages female leadership, thus pushing the idea that women are, indeed, capable leaders and thus should be considered for important roles such at Vice President of Ghana. These observations support the claim that women in the newsroom are gaining power.

Ghanaian radio programs allow numerous callers to call and voice their opinions about various topics of concern. During the time monitored in this study, approximately 1/3 of callers were women, and of those callers approximately 62 percent called in during the morning shows, when 620 listeners called in total. Of those who called in at other times, the majority called during the afternoon, with only 8 percent calling during evening programs. Sara Akrofi-Quarcoo explained this relative lack of female voices by calling attention to the fact that many women text message the radio show’s host, who then reads their text messages aloud. She explained that often, these women are too intimidated to be heard on radio stations but nonetheless, want their voices heard on matters from politics to entertainment. This observation is complicated because it says two things about women on the radio. First of all, women should not be too intimidated to call into a radio program. The show should be glad to take all callers and encourage a range of voices. Secondly, this observation shows that many women do, in fact, listen to the radio and care enough about the issues to at least send a text message to have their voices heard. Not only does this mean that the radio station is connecting with women’s concerns, but it also means that women are taking an interest in those issues in society that pertain to them.

5.3 Television
According to a study conducted by Journalists for Human Rights, the ratio of women-to-men full-time journalists is most balanced in the television field at 45 per cent (Murray 4). In the past, only young, attractive women with soft voices were allowed to read the news and appear on television. It was believed that reading the news was an illustrious profession designated only for young, beautiful women. Even then, these sex symbols weren’t allowed to be anchors, but rather read soft news and briefs. Today, such segregation is far less rampant, with women of varying ages reading all kinds of news (Akrofi-Quarcoo). A 1988 UNESCO Initiative aided this progression of women in news by declaring March 8 Women Make the News Day. UNESCO declared that women need to set the agenda in the news room as equals to their male counterparts, and therefore should have a special day to prove that they’re able to do so. The day entails women throughout Ghana’s major media houses taking over the station and running the programs for the day (Akrofi-Quarcoo). While this is only a temporary solution and is bittersweet, it suggests a certain faith in women and allows them to prove themselves during the day.

While women have made strides in the newsroom as readers and anchors, the stereotypical representation of women in television programs is problematic. Daytime programming is especially controversial and will be focused on during this report.

During the day on both stations observed, dramatic soap operas air back to back. In the author’s opinion, the target demographic of these popular shows is female based on the following observations:
→Plot: The plots of soap operas commonly revolve around the conflicts between women and men in the household, and often depict women crying to their mothers and sisters about problems with relationships. The programs also frequently depicted family life and women as young mothers. Furthermore, the plot of soap operas is extremely dramatic, with themed music often matching the moods of characters. While it is possible some men are attracted to such programs, the program seems to be oriented around women.
→Advertisements: During the programs, 34 percent of advertisements promoted grocery stores and other food chains. In addition, advertisements for household items ran during the programs, as did advertisements for children’s medicine.

The placement of these soap operas targeted at women during prime working time (9am-3-pm) suggests that women are at home where they have access to a television rather than out working. Such an implication insinuates that women belong in the home, raising children and cooking for their husbands (the breadwinners). This is problematic because such perpetuation of negative female stereotypes is not conducive to gender sensitivity and women’s rights as equals in society.

The content of the soap operas is also controversial. Women are portrayed as helpless individuals—they depend on men. In one particular soap opera that aired on June 19 at 9:00am on TV3, one woman with a young child was accused of infidelity and cast out of her home by her husband. She ran to her secret lover’s home, who took her in. Instead of consulting with her husband or making a life for herself, she instead retreated to yet another man to take care of her. It is unfair to say that this stereotype of the desperate woman is only evident in Ghana. Such portrayals of women are rampant in soap operas in the United States and Mexico, but are problematic nonetheless and should be addressed.

Another element of daytime programs that is not conducive to women’s rights is the portrayal of women as lusty sex objects. An advertisement that ran multiple times for Nokia portrayed a man in a snazzy business suit in an expensive-looking club. He held up his Nokia phone, saying “Cool” as women in risqué outfits flanked him. The women held his tie and looked at the camera, repeating “Cool” as they fawned over him suggestively (TV3). This representation of women as sex objects again suggests that instead of making a life for themselves, women can use their bodies to lure attractive, seemingly well-off men to take care of them. This portrayal is continued in the soap operas aired on both TV3 and Metro TV. In each soap opera, women are dressed provocatively in tight pants and low cut tops to reveal their “assets” to men. Not only does this desperation and promiscuity casts women in an extremely negative light, but also it is not gender sensitive. Instead of portraying men as the breadwinner and women as their dependent, daytime programming needs to air more programs to empower women.

6. Recommendations and conclusion

The fight for gender equality in Ghanaian media is not over. In order to assure fair and sensitive coverage of women’s issues, media houses and governing media regulatory bodies must enact policies to guarantee equal representation on boards and in editorial positions. By enacting such policies, women would have the opportunities to advance in the newsroom that are currently not afforded to them. One way to go about enacting such policies is to adopt an affirmative action clause, guaranteeing women spots in Ghana’s top tier of media practitioners. In order for such policies to be effective, media houses and media regulatory boards must also adopt strict policies against sexual harassment. Such policies would ensure that women are not intimidated or otherwise shunned from pursuing leadership roles in the workplace.

Secondly, those in print media must monitor their headlines and word choice more closely. Implications of headlines often reflect the author’s view on the subject and often, this can mean negative results for women’s issues as examined in this study. In order to assure sensitivity, the National Media Commission should enact strict policies that promote equal representation of men and women in print media. This feat could also be accomplished by designating places for women on editorial boards of all publications.

Finally, education around gender sensitivity and other gender issues needs to be enhanced in Ghana’s education system today. Those trained professionals in the journalism field should be made aware of the implications of word choice, photography and overall representation of women in order to assure their continual progress in society. For example, journalists should understand what it means to always portray men as the breadwinner in television, photographs, advertisements and stories—such portrayals suggest that women depend on men for their livelihood and happiness.

Once journalists have been trained to be aware of gender sensitivity and implications of gender bias in the news, media houses must hire them and allow their advancement to guarantee a fair and equal media system in Ghana.



7. Bibliography

Media Alert West Africa 2002-2003: Annual State of the Media Report. Media
Foundation for West Africa and Ibis West Africa: Accra, 2003. 16-19

Murray, Doug. “Empowering Women in Ghana: Journalists for Human Rights.” WORD
Magazine. February 2008. http://www.wordmag.com. 18 July 2008.

Osam, Susanna. “Violence against Women in Ghana: An Analysis of Cases Presented in
the Print Media.” ABANTU for Development: Accra, 2004.

The Women’s Manifesto for Ghana. The Coalition for the Women’s Manifesto for
Ghana: Accra, 2004. 49-53.

Volta Region- Can I Stay Here Forever?

With our time in Ghana running out faster than the sands in an hourglass, the thirteen obronis, sans Leslie (our Ghana Mama who returned to Oregon on Monday) loaded not into the big blue Chinese bus but into the little white Korean bus with Steven, our driver. Virtually everything about this trip seemed different—no Leslie, which we counted as a huge loss; Steven was our driver instead of Isaac, who lost his wife and was holding her funeral over the weekend; we had a different bus that was known to break down. Nevertheless, we are an adaptable group and found ourselves curled into little balls in our own seats, snoozing before we even hit the open road.

For our last field trip of the trip, we headed for the Volta Region. No one knew much about the Volta Region, but as soon as we rolled over the big metal bridge stretching its long arms across Lake Volta, we knew it was beautiful. We stopped to do the tourist thing—snap photos of ourselves, the murky water below and people carrying things on theirs heads—only to be greeted by dozens of hawkers selling things we’d never seen before. Several balanced giant bowls of cooked shrimp on their heads, not even teetering when giant trucks rolled by. The shrimp were completely whole, and their beady black eyes reminded me of tiny black stones. Still more women strode by the bus, tapping their hands on the glass and pointing to dozens of bags of tiny cooked fish—they looked like the minnows that Kelsey and I used to lure into our old Coke cups on the shores of Wallowa Lake. I bought some delicious coconut biscuits from a young girl for 50 peesewah—quite a bargain and just enough to tide me over for the next hour to Chances hotel.

Chances, our home away from home in Ho Hoe, felt more like rehab than a hotel, as one obroni put it. The halls were wide and covered in white tile, and the whole place was almost too clean. We saw no one during our first two hours there, with the exception of the hotel staff who walked around like ghosts in pressed white linen and white hair nets. We actually saw the kitchen of the hotel restaurant—this is a rarity, since it seems that in most restaurants here, the food just appears from some unknown place. Sometimes, the service is so slow that we obronis joke the waiters and cooks must have to harvest the cassava and plantains themselves. This service was phenomenal, though, and soon we were sitting in an open-air porch, stuffing our hungry faces with fried plantains, rice, strange cuts of chicken, steamed vegetables, fresh mangos and mouth-watering pineapple. After gulping down water and juices, we jumped back on the Korean bus for a two-hour trek to Wli Waterfall, the tallest waterfall in West Africa.

The drive to the waterfall was indescribable. The lush rainforest spread out in front of us like a great green canvas. Giant trees reached their massive branches up toward the sun, seeming to smile as they soaked in the warm rays. Steven wound the big bus through the hard concrete turns and navigated over the red dirt roads. The bus would occasionally sputter, but our big breakdown came only a few kilometers from the waterfall. Steven tried desperately to urge the bus onward in first gear, but the approaching hill was too much for our not-so-gallant white stallion of a bus. It finally came to a pathetic lurching stop halfway up a small hill. Steven pulled the emergency brake, punched on the hazard lights and leapt off down the stairs to asses the problem. That problem was obvious once he opened hood—sure enough, smoke billowed out into the sticky Ghanaian air in giant balloons. Luckily (or maybe not), the bus had a tendency to break down more frequently than not and so Steven, a savvy mechanic, always kept plenty of water on hand. Only this time, plenty of water was not enough. He and Jessica took off up the road to find the nearest village where they could fill the used bottles.

I had consumed almost as much water as the bus on our short expedition and so was about to burst—the only problem was that there were no real bushes, only a few small ones and some tall grass before a sharp drop off that would have left me tumbling down the side of the road. Remembering days of camping in the woods with Mom, I found an adequate little bush close to the bus. On such a lonely road, I was pretty certain that no one would pass by, so soon my shorts were around my ankles. I thought I heard something whirring down the street, but chose to ignore it and instead searched for snakes that could, potentially, wrap themselves around my ankles in my vulnerable position. As it turns out, that whirring was the six wheels of three teenage boys’ bikes rolling down the road, and now they were upon me, laughing in glee at the sight of an obroni’s bare behind hanging out in the open. Had I been an obibini (black person), the boys wouldn’t have paid the slightest attention (remember, public urination is legal). But as luck would have it, these boys nearly wrecked their bikes while craning their necks to watch me struggle to button my shorts and run in shame back to the bus.

Jessica and Steven emerged over the top of the hill, with water and all the children in the entire village in tow. The children, Jessica said, were eager to help and wanted to know if they could do more. They grabbed our hands and looked up at us with liquid brown eyes that burned my heart like charcoal. If there’s one thing that will define my trip to Ghana, it’s the children. Their brown skin shines in the glistening Ghanaian sun and their eyes shine even brighter. They have nothing, typically, but would share everything they have to be your friend. They don’t fuss and don’t throw tantrums, but hold each other’s hands and call each other brotha and sista. Instead of running to tell an adult when something goes wrong, the children work it out amongst themselves, teaching them to fight their own battles. As we pulled away after finally getting our bus to roll on its groaning tires, the children from the village ran alongside us, waving their pink palms frantically as we sped away.

We arrived at the waterfall shortly thereafter and began the 45-minute hike. It was the most level hike I think I’ve ever been on, and also the most traveled. I edged my way past Ghanaians in dress shoes hiking up to a wedding at the falls and weaved my way through teenage Ghanaian couples holding each other around narrow waists. The hike reminded me of Costa Rica, or Grenada, in its lush landscape and trickling streams. The hike was dark, with giant leaves sheltering us from the beating sun and occasional raindrop. The falls were upon us before we knew it, threatening our very existence with fast, rushing water that fell like bowling balls. We changed behind a makeshift wall that might have also been a toilet into bikinis and shorts and clamored into the water, one after another. The water itself was like ice, but that wasn’t what took our breath away. Looking straight up at the enormous falls required us tipping our heads back so they formed a 90 degree angle with our backs—I felt like a bobble head in the front of some cowboy’s pick up as I tried to survey the whole site. Hundreds, or maybe thousands, of tiny bats turned the sky black as they fluttered off their perches, shaking their sleepy heads in a mad panic when a young Ghanaian blew a horn that sounded like a kazoo. Their screeches echoed across the big pool at the base of the falls as I tiptoed over jagged rocks into the frigid water. I linked arms with Katie and Jessica and held on tight as we turned our back to the falls to avoid being pelted by the whirling water. The wind whipped our hair hard across our faces, and before we even jumped in we were soaking wet. I was ready to head out of the water to the comfort of my dry towel, but Sonny had a different idea. He grabbed the three of us girls by dainty wrists and led us (backwards) toward the cascade of water—before I even knew were we were, I felt the slime and algae of the rock wall behind the falls. The water fell and caressed my shoulders like a rough masseuse. I opened my eyes, but only for a second—the fast, cold water soon rendered me blind. Right there, under the tallest waterfall in West Africa, I probably could have stayed forever. The water seemed so cleansing and though I couldn’t see what was above me or below me, I felt comfortable and safe.

We eventually made our way back out, past the wall of water and through the dense algae floor. The hike back wasn’t nearly as satisfying simply because I wasn’t ready to leave. The sun was starting to sink lower in the sky, and just over the mountain we could see Togo. We made our way back to the bus and luck for us, it started right up. We drove back to Chances through the pouring rain and lightening, the later lighting up the night sky like a cheap fireworks show. Rain slithered like lazy snakes down the windshield when the bus broke down a second time, conveniently outside a little store with a flickering light shining on biscuits and crackers for sale. While Steven fed the thirsty bus its share of water, we fed our own cravings with Malt ‘n’ Milk biscuits and cookies. The bus was more cooperative this time and we were back at Chances within an hour. Again, the staff ghosts at the Chances Restaurant met us after our long journey and served a delicious meal almost identical to lunch. After watching “rain bugs” that look like locusts dive-bomb from the ceiling to the floor and back up like crazy kamikazes that keep missing their targets, we retired early to watch BBC. Never have I been so interested in watching the news—I think that in the US, I take such things for granted. Whenever I want to know what’s going on in the world, I flip on CNN for ten minutes or pull up the headlines of the New York Time online. Here, such media is not readily available at the flip of a switch or click of a mouse. I could tell you about all the headlines in the local papers—“Wizard crash lands” to “72 students pass out”—but as far as international news, it’s safe to say I’m starved. We watched Barack Obama wave to crowds in Berlin and charm the Prime Minister in London before the sound quit working.

On Sunday, we rose before the sun to set off to the monkey sanctuary. The sanctuary was the brainchild of a group of Peace Corps volunteers who sought to solve two problems: protect the monkey, which was endangered and being hunted for game meat, and bring revenue to the village near where the monkeys lived. So the Peace Corps pooled their resources and turned a piece of land into the sanctuary, where hundreds of monkeys swing from branch to branch with their long, strong tail and grab bananas with their human-like hands. The rains have been heavy lately, and especially so in the Volta Region. We followed our guide, Foster, down a red mud road where the clay-like dirt stuck to the soles of our shoes like gum. We walked for less than ten minutes down the trail, called Cemetery Trail for unknown reasons, before Foster stopped our group and began making a loud kissing noise. We weren’t quite sure what type of call it was until we saw a monkey with long, spindly arms and an athletic tail that curved like a question mark hopping down the branches of a nearby tree. When I say nearby, I mean a few feet away. And when I say hopping, I mean galloping—I guess there really is something about bananas that drives monkeys crazy. We all whipped out our cameras as if this intrepid monkey was the only one we’d see, but before we could even dig the bananas our of our bags an entire troop had converged on us, their eyes wide with curiosity. Their white chests puffed up proudly as they sat perched on delicate limbs, holding on with little hands. One by one, they hopped from tree to tree, splashing raindrops on us as they went. Eventually, a few of them came close enough to eat bananas right out of our hand—we held the banana firmly with one hand and our cameras with the other, allowing the monkeys to peel away the yellow wrapper and break off big chunks of banana. They carried their treasure off into the branches that wove together like a complex basket, only to turn around a few moments later for more. There were large monkeys and baby monkeys all with the same goal: eat as many bananas as possible. They tried to eat so many, in fact, that the often looked like they were playing a game of “chubby bunny” (when kids stuff marshmallows in their cheeks and try to say “chubby bunny” as normally as possible). Banana oozed out the sides of their mouths but they still kept taking more—they must have been the best-fed animals in all of Ghana.

After our date with the monkeys, we boarded the ill-fated Korean bus once more, tracking in so much mud that our bus aisle now looked like a red mud path. We made it an hour down the road before Jessica asked Sonny to pull over the bus—she wasn’t feeling well. Sonny, our “leader” for the trip, led Jessica to the bathroom (another hole in the ground) while some of the others on the bus sprang for snail kebobs and grass cutter skewers. Grass cutter is a little animal that people hunt for bush meat—it reminds me of a nutria or muskrat. People actually eat the stuff. Once back on the bus, Jess popped a few Imodium (that stuff works miracles) and we were soon spinning our tires across the big bridge over Volta Lake once again. Less than an hour from Accra, we felt the bus starting to stall. Again, Steven tried every gear but to no avail—it was a goner. Our gallant white stead had quickly turned into a grey donkey, and this time it really wasn’t going anywhere. Steven tried hard to turn the engine over after dousing the engine with water, but the bus wouldn’t budge. We got out to push the thing, but still nothing. We slung our backpacks over our shoulders and waved goodbye to Steven, looking dejected and tired. Out of nowhere, a huge fancy bus had showed up near where we broke down and only two people were riding it. We took up all the seats, sprawled out with our things, and paid the driver to take us home to Okpungalow. Soon, iPods and great books drowned out the sound of the rubber meeting the asphalt and when I opened my eyes again, we were in front of the Accra Mall. A few twists and turns later, and we piled out of the mystery bus and into our home sweet home. The place was just as we left it, with only a small puddle in the middle of the kitchen from freezer runoff stemming from the five-hour weekend power outage. The thirteen obronis, with only one week left in Ghana, went their separate ways for the evening. This obroni watched a slideshow of photos from Ghana so far and wondered—why does time always have to fly by, especially when you’re having the time of your life?

Music and Dance

Here's proof of Mr. Obama's popularity in Ghana, and a little sample of Ghanaian song and dance:

http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=L85YF0pyPH0&feature=related

Life without the spin cycle (and other observations)

As many of you know, I'm not exactly the most domestic girl on the block. I tend to shove my clothes into a giant heap and toss them all into the washer when the heap gets so large I can't shut my closet. That's right- I mix colors and whites (GASP). I've ruined a few shirts and maybe a pair of khakis this way, but as a college student on a budget, shelling out the extra $1.00 in quarters just isn't worth it. I also take full advantage of the dryer and often race downstairs to the Kappa Delta basement to pull the clothes out when they're still warm, burying my face in scents like "Mountain Spring Air" and "Fresh Rain." I didn't know how good I had it.

Here, the power flickers off if we turn on one too many fans, so a washer and dryer is out of the question. Laundry piles up at an alarming rate, since I change out of my sweat-drenched, dusty outfit and into a clean one at least once a day. This, of course, presents a problem. I tried giving my laundry to the security guard George once, a pleasant man with ears that stick out like an elephant who likes wearing shirts with rappers like 50 cent holding assault rifles. When he asked me to shell out 5 cedi for a measly load (P.Diddy pointing a smoking gun at me from his black t-shirt) I decided to try it myself. I strategically filled two seperate buckets, one for soaking and washing and the other for rinsing. As I scrubbed the sopping fabric together like I remembered Mom doing, I was immediately repulsed at the grime--was that really coming from something I wore? Are you sure? After just a few shirts, I thought I should probably start with some fresh water. Sure enough, soon after the water was again a cloudy brown. Oh well--the dirt has to go somewhere, right? To rinse my clothes, I tried to imitate the cycles I remembered from the rattly dryer in the basement. Rinse--okay, easy enough. I swirled my clothes around in the crystal clean water as little bugs hopped around at my feet. Spin--Oh, no. How was I supposed to do that? Well, the purpose of the spin cycle is probably to dry things out, I thought, so I wrung out my clothes, one by one, and swirled them over my head like a lunatic. That ought to dry them out pretty well, right? I hung each article on our sagging line after their spin cycle, letting them wave in the breeze like a colorful row of palm leaves. I was pretty proud of myself the next day when I retrieved my crusty garments. I buried my nose in their clean folds: Ahhh, a little something I like to call "Accra Morning Pollution." Maybe I can market it?

One thing about laundry: Mom, I will never again knock you for hanging our towels out on the line to dry in the fresh air. While it does make them hard and impossible to bend, there's something about the smell of fresh, air dryed laundry that will always remind me of you.

Laundry isn't the only thing that's utterly different here in Ghana. As the 13 obronis morph from mere visitors to actual residents of Okpunalow, we've learned a few things.

1. When it rains, it pours. No, I don't mean that in the figurative sense--it literally pours, monsoon style. Yesterday, I was sitting in the office of ABANTU by myself and thought something might be wrong with the fan based on a strange noise coming from the ceiling. I turned the knob to "off" only to realize that it wasn't the fan but rain coming down in buckets. Scratch that--BATHTUBS. Literally, this rain had ten times the pressure of our shower head and filled up the four-foot gutters so trash and other unpleasent things bobbed on the surface of the murky water like little sailboats. Today, the roads were muddy and covered in little swimming pools where potholes used to be. The road to work, which is usually pretty bad, was nothing more than a red mud path, interuppted by little lakes of water where malaria probably began.

2. Ghanaians use words we're not used to. Every day, I'm either called obroni, white lady, friend, beautiful seestah at least once, which I've become accustomed to. But in newspapers, I read a headline that said "13 army school students pass out." A tragedy, right? Were they poisoned? No, no conspiriacy here: they simply graduated. A few more: goundnut=peanut and elite=get off (like a tro tro).

3. Money here is a PAIN to deal with. The government redenomiated the cedi last year, so instead of paying 10,000 cedi for a loaf of bread, I now pay 1 cedi which is about a dollar. That's great, except no one here gives prices in the new currency. My trotro driver on the first day of work told me I owed him 4,000 cedi, and I felt like shouting, "WHAT KIND OF SUCKER DO YOU THINK I AM?!" until I realized that it was the old currency. This problem has also led to a serious shortage of change. I'm not sure if the banks don't produce enough coins and small bills or if people just don't carry any, hiding them away for some rainy day, but no one will ever give you change. The bank only disepenses tens, so I have to go to the mall or some other place where I know they'll have change before I can walk across the street and buy some eggs.

4. Speaking of the mall, it's INSANE. The new Accra Mall was opened the second week of our stay here and with its slick tile floors and air conditioning, it could be mistaken for any mall in America. There's a Mr. Price, which is like Forever 21, and designer stores that sell Gucci, Dolce, Guess and Luis Vuitton. There's a place called "Game" that reminds me of BiMart. They have a food court and rumor is, they're installing a movie theatre. If that's not globalization, I don't know what is.

5. Free range chicken will never mean the same to me after being here. Sure, I'll buy it back in the states but I'll do so knowing that 'free range' means running around in someone's back yard whereas here, all chickens are free to rome the streets, pecking at discarded corn cobs and other things that might not be so appetizing. Baby chickens often follow their mother, plopping down into gutters when they aren't full of rain water looking for treasure. I don't know how the process of determining chicken ownership (or that of goats and cows, for that matter, because they roam just as freely) works, but I imagine that people just might decide they're hungry and catch a chicken in the street. It'd be that easy. If you did, though, and it wasn't your chicken you'd be in serious trouble, because here, theft is a serious offense and I wouldn't put it past Ghanians to chop a robber's fingers off.

6. There are two beers that matter here: Star and Club. Early on, you must decide whether you're on team Star (owned by Guiness, who also sponsors the Black Stars) or on team Club (supposedly the only real Ghanaian brew). As most of you know, I don't particularly care for beer but most of the obronis here hopped on team Star. For those less than excited about beer, you can buy small packets of gin and brandy. The idea is to rip the corner off the packet with your teeth and drink the thing, though I suspect it's slightly more than a shot.

7. There will never be a better bartender than Michael, our 14-year-old main man from Wazzu who always pours a little more than we paid for and always charges a little less than what his father.

8. Children will never tire of having their picture taken, so long as they can see it on the display screen after you've taken it. They squeal in delight and dare each other to make funny faces for the next shot.

9. Driving here is like putting your life on the line. Every day, your fate lies with tro tro and taxi drivers as they dart and weave through any open space in the bumper-to-bumper traffic.

10. If you ever come to Africa, bring a lot of Immodium. I won't go into details, but I think you get the idea.

Stars of the Future

I can’t recall the first time I watched American Idol, but I can still remember the pangs of excitement that ran through my bones when I heard the tantalizing theme music. Would it be Justin or Kelly? Ruben or Clay? Munching on huge bowls of popcorn, I’d boo at Simon’s comments and applaud Paula’s light-hearted glee for every singer. Granted, I wasn’t the most rabid fan and never wore a t-shirt bearing my favorite star’s name. I always thought, though, how fun would it be to sit front row at a taping?

My rhetorical question was answered last Friday night. Molly, Krista, Sheena, Jessica, Katie and I all piled into a trotro and headed to the National Theatre in downtown Accra. We’d heard rumors that the live taping of “Stars of the Future” was free, and who were we to say no? After plenty of glances from Ghanaians (they often wonder why “rich” white people take the trotro), we ladies hopped off and scooted across four lanes of traffic to reach the National Theatre. We met Ryan outside, the sole male, and headed in. The Chinese built the theatre some years ago, and it looks like a giant spaceship hovering too close to the African soil. The shiny exterior and big cement stairs look harshly out of place, but Ghanaians flock to the center as their primary entertainment venue. There aren’t really any windows, which isn’t a total loss since there really isn’t much of a view in the heart of the polluted city. We arrived at the theatre about an hour early, and were greeted by hundreds of Ghanaians all seated quietly, as if watching an opera. Women lazily chatted in Twi while young men propped their chins on clenched fists. It wasn’t exactly the crazy frenzy I had hoped for, but I had faith that when the show got going, things would explode. And they did.

As soon as the music started to pulse through the packed theatre, men and women jumped out of their plush velvet seats (the place reminded me of the OK Theatre, for you Enterprise people). They applauded the host, a pleasantly plump young woman who held her too-big microphone too close to her pouty lips. A band stood in the left corner of the stage, with two back-up singers dressed in brilliant Kente cloth outfits. One man played assorted traditional drums and others jammed on guitars. Needless to say, their theme song was much more pleasing than the electronic rift that signals the beginning of “American Idol.” A projector shone on two different walls, showing the live TV broadcast complete with commercials during the break. On stage sat two yellow chairs, similar to the furniture the Jetsons might use to furnish their otherworldly home. The three judges sat in the front row. One woman was round and wore a brilliant scarf that curled on top of her head like a snake—Randy Jackson. Another thin, petite woman sat to her left, her flowery hair framing her face like the Mona Lisa—definitely our Paula. And to her left sat a chunky man wearing a too-tight shirt with small glasses—ladies and gentlemen, meet Simon.

We watched four men and three women perform, but they didn’t sing pop songs or Beatles covers or Elton John—instead, they belted out soulful tunes meant to rise above the rafters and drift right up to the heavens. That’s right—tonight was gospel night. These talented men and women had the whole building on their feet, swaying and clapping and shaking their wide hips as the music filled the place. Molly, Ryan and I jogged to the very front of the theater and danced right along with the Ghanaians—though we didn’t know the words, we felt right at home. Amida was our favorite, with her pixie-hair and bright dress. The girls all wore metallic heels—but when I say heels, I mean REAL, spiky, tall heels straight out of a high fashion magazine. Their outfits were all custom made from traditional fabrics for the show and they were absolutely beautiful. The men wore shiny black shoes with slacks, each donning a rather ridiculous, bright, floral shirt.

They all interacted well with crowd, but they way some put emotion into their songs was enough to move a person to tears (or at least to church that Sunday). People couldn’t contain themselves during the most rousing choruses and I saw a few eager young men jump on their chairs, holding up signs with bold marriage proposals scrawled on the front directed to the dashing young ladies. Sometimes, you couldn’t even hear the contestant over the roar of the crowd. It was really amazing that every person in that theater (except for us obronis) knew every word and every tune to each soulful song. At the end of each contestant’s performance, the host waddled back on stage and invited the singer to sit down in one of the Jetson chairs. She proceeded to ask him or her what the song meant, and why he or she had chosen to sing it. The answers were heart-felt, and the crowd erupted in applause after each and every one.

The night was over too soon, and we soon found ourselves lost in a sea of Ghanaian fans, toting their signs and white handkerchiefs (a sign of affection for the show). We hopped in a trotro to head to Osu, where we met up with the rest of the obronis for a night out. While Lil’ Wayne and other western beats pulsed through the speakers at the bar, I couldn’t help but think of the rousing renditions of gospel still ringing in my ears from the National Theater.

A little bit of spice...

Life in Accra seemed pretty dull after our great adventure to the north. After seeing elephants fighting, baboons howling and magnificent waterfalls roaring, the hustle and bustle of city life just couldn’t compare. We all went back to our internships on Tuesday—my research is coming along well and I think overall, the project will turn out great. I’ve become pretty close friends with the Canadian intern, Narges, and we often take the trotro home together. But even the best day at work couldn’t make up for the lack of excitement relative to our recent adventure, so a few of us decided that on Wednesday, we really needed to spice things up.

Molly, Ryan, Katie, Jessica and I piled into a cab, the four of us girls manipulating space in the back seat by sitting sideways with half of our rear dangling off the side of the seat. We paid our silent cab driver four cedi and he zipped down the narrow lanes of traffic to the Regency Coconut Grove Hotel. This hotel was the sister resort of the beach villa we stayed at in Cape Coast, so we had a feeling it might be nice. We were right. The building itself looked like a Tuscan villa, tall and inviting and encrusted in weathered red brick that gave it a certain charm. The pool was clean and inviting and palm trees waved back at us through the cool night breeze.

One of our roommates, Josh, has decided to stay in Ghana after the program and was hired by the manager of the Coconut Grove in Cape Coast to help set up a radio station. In talking with his new boss, Josh discovered the Wednesday night at the Coconut Grove was salsa night, which is precisely why we decided to go. Apparently, salsa has some roots in traditional West African beats and rhythms that made their way to South America. Now, that saucy, sexy style of dancing has reclaimed its popularity in Ghanaian youth and salsa night is one of the resort’s most popular activities.

Strolling through the big iron gates, we weren’t sure exactly what to expect and thought maybe, just maybe, it might be sort of lame—we couldn’t have been more wrong. Once we entered the main deck, hundreds of Ghanaians stood poolside, twisting and turning their bodies in tune with the music blaring from the speakers overhead. Men formed five or six neat lines and faced the ladies, who formed five or six neat lines of their own. Their hips swayed and heads bobbed and it seemed that everyone except us knew the next move in the elaborate, choreographed dance. We joined in anyway, always a step behind but laughing the whole way through. After just a few minutes, the DJ announced that the lessons were over but the music would keep bumping until 10:15. Instead of dismantling their lines completely, the men and women joined forces, swinging around to face the pool. A few of the really experienced dancers moved to the front of the group, moving their bodies in ways we white folks could never imitate. We danced a slightly modified version of the electric slide and grooved to unrecognizable tunes, too. Katie and I sprung for the four cedi vodka-pineapples since our parched throats simply begged for them. I felt like Baby in “Dirty Dancing” the way my awkward body tried to keep up with the fast steps of the Ghanaians, but I eventually got the hang of it…sort of.

Salsa night will be regular thing for our last three Wednesdays in Ghana because, though it doesn’t compare to elephant fights, it’s enough spice to keep our Accra experience from being too mild.

Great Northern Adventure, Part Two: Mole

If you know me well, which most of you do, you know that my favorite animal is and always has been an elephant. I’ve never been able to explain it—most people seem to opt for cats, dogs and other domestic animals while those more daring choose giraffes for their long-legged elegance or lions for their wild strength. Me, I set my sights on the elephant before I can remember. I had a whole collection, in fact—a tangle of porcelain legs and glass tusks danced across the shelves in my bedroom as a little girl. I guess my obsession with elephants stemmed from an obsession with Africa. I wanted to do everything I could to get close to the exotic continent, and collecting elephants seemed most appropriate since they were, after all, the most African animal I could imagine. With their huge ears and thundering footsteps, I’d often admired them in zoos but always dreamed of seeing one in real life.

As I tugged the thin sheet away from my sweaty body after a night of restless sleep in Kumasi, I knew that my dream might soon be realized. It was 6:00am, and the 13 obronis silently poured into the big blue bus, each finding his or her nest and immediately curling up and drifting back to sleep. My heart pounded loudly in my chest the whole way there—would we see one on the road? I decided I should probably keep my eyes glued to the blur of green scenery just in case. The city slowly faded behind us and the landscape opened up into savanna, with enormous trees interrupting sprawling grassy lands. Round, mud huts replaced tin shacks as we sped toward the north. Young girls and boys played in ditches and shouted out at us as we zoomed by. A few ran after us recklessly, like energetic cow dogs chasing spinning tires back home. We crossed over a narrow bridge and saw the fingers of Lake Volta sitting calmly below us, young children bathing at its shores. The water looked almost like milk chocolate it was so murky. After five hours of weaving our way through the landscape on red dirt roads, we arrived at Dumango Junction. The road to Mole is full of holes, bumps and dust so bad that the owner of the big blue bus requested that we not take it to Mole. Instead, Leslie hired another driver to pick us up at the junction where Isaac would wait with the bus until the following day.

Mr. Fatal was a squat man, his dark sunglasses covering his squinty eyes. He wore a khaki hat bearing a red, white and blue “USA” in enthusiastic letters on one side. He spoke with his hands, welcoming us to the north and helping load our backpacks onto the “bus.” This bus was slightly different than the huge, roomy blue bus we’d grown accustomed to. Mr. Fatal’s bus was really just a glorified suburban with one row of extra seats. Somehow, all 15 of us crammed into the squeaky van and Mr. Fatal slammed the door behind us. The driver hit the gas and the tires spun a cloud of dust, enshrouding the children who begged the “white lady, white man” for pens and biscuits. The bus hopped down the road while we weary travelers broke out in shaky renditions of “Lean on Me” and “Tiny Dancer” at the top of our lungs. There was little to no air in the dust-coated van, and we all tried to pull our shirts up over our noses every time another car would pass to avoid choking on the thick, red clouds that swirled through the cabin.

We had been driving for less than half an hour when the driver started to slow down. Mr. Fatal yelled something at him from the back seat where he sat perched next to Sonny. We didn’t understand what was happening, but when we saw the needle of the temperature gauge shaking its pointy finger well over the H, we knew we were in trouble. We eased the car to a stop and everyone piled out, half-thankful for a break from the dirty car. As we walked in semi-circles around the van pouring water on our faces in the scorching heat, the driver emerged from beneath the car with a wrinkle above his eyebrow. He explained in jumbled words that we were out of oil because there was a crack in the pipe. We didn’t have oil here, he said, so he would flag down a motorbike (much more popular in the north) and ride to the nearest town. In the meantime, we should stay put with the van.

13 obronis standing on the side of a deserted dirt road during the heat of the day is an unimaginably pitiful sight. We were covered with bullets of sweat made red by the dust and gulped down water by the bottle full. Luckily, this sight is also a rarity in northern Ghana so we drew quite a crowd. Children soon surrounded us, each in a baggy pair of underwear or wearing nothing at all. They all had different carvings on their bellies—suns and lines in different patterns, mostly. It’s common for northern people to cut slits in their children’s bellies and cheeks when they’re infants so they have some sort of identification when they get older—almost like a brand. One of the children in our entourage invited us to sit beneath their mango tree and before he could finish his sentence, we were halfway there. They carried out benches for us to rest on, balancing them carefully on top of their heads and then placing them strategically to avoid rocks. We eagerly sat down and waited for a call from Mr. Fatal.

Not many of the children spoke English. When I asked one little boy his name, all he could muster was “Thank you.” The fact that he only knew to say this one English word is so indicative to me of Ghanaian culture. They are so thankful, so kind and so helpful. The children who did know some English began drawing their names and some shapes in the dirt with a stick, and I decided to join in. The cool shade of the mango tree protected us from the sun as I dug out L-O-G-A-N. I asked the girls to show me their names and they easily carved M-O-N-I-C-A and M-A-T-I-L-D-A. They told me that their school was that way, and pointed long, bony fingers in the direction of Mole. They could read and write well, they said, but books were very expensive. Most of all, they wish they had a dictionary. Most of all, I wished I had brought one.

Two hours of hangman in the dirt, story time and peanut eating passed until Mr. Fatal finally arrived back at the mango tree, oil in tow. The motorbike he’d taken to town had broken down, too, so he’d had to wait for yet another motorbike to pick him up. The driver poured the liquid under the hood and as it glug-glug-glugged down the thirsty tubes, we said goodbye to the children. One of the youngest, a little boy in a red shirt with two kittens pressed onto it whose growth had been stunted by disease, started to climb into the van with us. Someone, his older brother maybe, plucked him up the way a cat picks up her young ones and waved goodbye.

With new oil and some A/C, we were happy to be on the road again. The bumps and potholes in the road didn’t even seem so bad as we cruised down the dusty road. We passed round mud huts, held upright by sticks that cracked down the middle like they held the weight of the world. We sped by the communal water pump, where women with bright scarves wrapped around their heads poked pointy chins over the stone wall to watch us pass. Their children or their children’s children ran bottomless through the dust, bare butts exposed beneath stretched out shirts too small for their protruding bellies.

We all clapped and cheered when we reached the sign that declared “MOLE NATIONAL PARK—YOU ARE WELCOME” in big yellow block letter. Red dust visibly rose from our shoulders as we patted each other on the back shouting, “We made it!” in dehydrated bursts. Almost immediately after entering the park, our driver slowed down. Everyone’s eyes darted to the temperature gauge but when I saw the needle hovering somewhere in the middle, I sighed, relieved. Instead of stopping to check the oil, he’d slowed down to shake his finger out the window, pointing at a bunch of bushes interrupted only briefly by tall trees that reminded me of the aspens at home on the farm. Suddenly, one of the bushes moved and an antelope with graceful, curved antlers sprung merrily away. This was only one of many sightings as the van crept down a narrow dirt road toward the Mole Hotel. We saw a tiny monkey, sitting in the middle of the road as if he owned it, gnawing on a piece of what looked like sugarcane. Someone shouted “PUMBA!” and we all swiveled our heads around, meeting the gaze of a large warthog crouched on its knees, rump high in the air, munching on shrubbery. It seemed uninterested in our tan van and went back to a much more productive activity: eating. We saw warthogs so frequently that they almost seemed like rodents, except much larger and more dangerous looking. Their tusks curved upward to the bright sun, and I decided quickly that I would make it a personal goal to avoid upsetting one of those things.

The Mole Hotel didn’t seem so bad. Guidebooks described it as “rugged” but by the looks of the swimming pool, it was like a little piece of heaven to 15 worn down travelers. As we unloaded people and packs, sweat dripped off our foreheads in buckets. The people in the back row emerged looking like swamp creatures—the back door didn’t shut all the way and since there were no windows in the back, the air from the front and the air from the back just sort of swirled around their heads and stuck to the sweat that formed across their faces an necks. They looked like they’d spent too much time in a tanning bed and had dyed their hair a brownish-orange color to match their skin. For the first time in my life, I was glad I got carsick and sat in the front.

We all jogged to our rooms, loaded down with bug spray and safari clothes in our bags, to change into swimsuits for the pool. The rooms were wide, with three neatly made beds lined up against one wall. We shared the bathroom with what seemed like an entire anthill, but so long as you picked up your feet while using the toilet they seemed pretty friendly. After depositing our belongings and stripping off our sweat-drenched, newly red clothes we cannonballed into the cool water of the pool. I’m not sure if I’ve ever felt like a completely new person so much as I did when my head pushed out of the water and I took a breath of the clean jungle air.

When we arrived, all we could think about was submerging ourselves in that cool clear water and hadn’t really taken the time to look around. Doing so while toweling off was enough to take my breath away (sorry to be so cliché, but it’s really true). The hotel sat up on a hill. Below us was a huge sprawling field of giant trees and bright green foliage. There was a watering hole, where we saw antelope, cob and other things that looked like deer drinking. About ten feet away from the pool, on the downward slope of the hill, was an enormous tree that looked like a wise old man, its wrinkles and lines snaking up into a thick patch of fat green leaves. Sitting at the tree’s base was a little monkey who seemed completely uninterested in all the people around. He hopped to and fro, his long tail following gracefully behind him as he foraged for food. There was a small deck that protruded over the hill, but only slightly, where we could watch for more animals—dots of warthogs, monkeys and antelope darted across the open field, but no elephants. Not yet, anyway.

We feasted poolside on another traditional Ghanaian meal—chicken and rice, chicken and chips, fish and rice, fish and chips. A few of us opted for more exotic meals, like snapper with the teeth and eyeballs still intact. The night was so clear it was almost surreal. Stars seemed to dance in the sky, happy to have escaped the congested city lights. A perfect half moon shone brightly and guided us back to our rooms at an early hour—we’d have to wake up before daylight to have breakfast before our safari. We fell asleep listening to warthogs rooting outside our windows and the occasional monkey calling out in the still, calm night.

5:30am came fast after a solid night of sleep, but I eagerly jumped out of bed, changing into long pants (for the first time in a month), a white top, and my best running shoes—you know, just in case. We all eagerly scared down fresh pineapple, mango juice, eggs and toast and made our way to the safari guide’s office. We were greeted by our guide who strolled across the path toward us in a forest green suit with a little green hat. Most importantly, though, he had an enormous gun strapped around his chest—I don’t know that it would have done much damage to a charging elephant, but it made me feel better knowing it was there. Four of the ladies in our group were ordered to change out of their sandals and into knee-high rubber boots—snake bites are common on these expeditions (we’d be on foot the whole time) and the guide didn’t want to risk it. With that, we trudged down a long dirt path and came upon a few little buildings where children played outside. Baboons strode with pride through the little community, pausing only briefly to tip back on their haunches and eat their latest finding. Their bright pink bottoms looked so out o place on their furry grey bodies and their fingers looked all too human-like. There were huge males and smaller, more delicate females, one of which had a baby clinging to her furry belly. There were a few other little monkeys too, like the tan monkey that made a big show of running across the road and leaping into a tree as if to prove its speed and agility. As we continued deeper into the forest, we saw warthogs rooting through the dirt with their big ugly snouts looking for something delectable. There were a few babies, who squealed and whined when their mother ignored them. One giant warthog was lying down in a mud bed it had dug for itself and the guide pointed out that he had two sets of tusks—there was one big set on top for stabbing and on little, razor sharp set just below that top set meant to rip and tear its food.
We continued on into the jungle, where beads of sweat started dripping like rain from our bodies—the humidity was much more intense once we were surrounded by dense foliage. We hadn’t been walking for more than 10 minutes when the guard ordered us to stop with a hand signal (we weren’t allowed to talk much). He pointed eagerly toward a clump of trees, but none of us could see anything. He whispered “Elephant” to the obronis in the front of the group and word spread down the line like in a game of telephone between 7th grade girls. My heart started pounding furiously and I inched my way closer to the guide, squinting my eyes to see the giant animal I thought must be in the distance. Then the bushes move and an entire tree popped out of the ground. I thought that it might be the crazy ‘security system’ from “Lost” ripping things out of the ground and I almost put those running shoes to use until I noticed that the tree was grasped around the middle by a large grey trunk. The elephant, in all its glory, was literally right in front of us. Its beady black eyes, too small for its enormous wrinkly head, seemed to look right at me and I froze in a moment of utter panic. Weren’t we too close? What if it got mad? I eyed the guide for some reassurance—he had a dumb grin on his face like a kid in a candy shop so I figured it was probably OK. It took me a few minutes to pull out my camera because I just had to sit there and take it all in. I was thisclose to a real, live, wild savanna elephant. IN AFRICA. It was almost too much to take in. The elephant devoured everything in sight, crushing trees and bushes and depositing them into its enormous mouth. This particular elephant was a male, with one ivory tusk snapped clean off as result of an intense battle. As I learned later, the female elephants hide deeper in the jungle with their babies. Since their gestation period is so long (22 months!) they don’t like to take any risks with their young ones. The males eat 800 pounds of food per day—casava, trees, grass, and anything else that grows in the forest. There are two kinds of elephants in Mole---the forest elephant (small and more brown-colored) and the savanna elephant (enormous and grayish-black). You can’t see the savannah elephant in zoos because it is too wild and impossible to tame—and I was standing mere feet away from it. I watched in awe as it continued to deposit trees and bushes into its mouth, its ears fluttering occasionally to swat away (or, more accurately, demolish) flies and other pests. I almost didn’t realize that the animal had started walking directly toward us until the guard grabbed my shoulder and ushered us all back in what seemed like a panicked voice. Perhaps we were too close, after all. Even from our new vantage point, we could see the elephant continue to eat—but wait, why were there two trunks? A second elephant had crept up behind the first, this one slightly larger with both enormous, shiny tusks in place. Though it was enormous, there was a certain gracefulness to how it moved through the jungle, placing one giant foot in front of the other and swinging its rat-like tail back and forth like a metronome. The two elephants didn’t seem to mind each other until suddenly, one butted heads with the other and they were fighting. They went back and forth for awhile, pushing each other through trees and crashing through bushes until they were out of sight and I could breathe again.

We walked back out of the forest, spotting weird trees, insects, flowers and lots of warthogs on the way. The whole time, though, I couldn’t get the images of the elephants out of my mind. Thinking about it now, the whole experience seems like a weird, vivid dream—one that keeps playing and replaying in the endless chambers of your mind. I couldn’t help but think about how incredibly lucky I’d been to witness something so powerful and so surreal—I really can’t even put the experience into words here, but I can say with a certainty from deep within my soul that it is something I will never, ever forget.

We thanked out tour guide with a hefty tip and piled back into the van. The northern roads are very dangerous if traveled at night, and armed robberies crop up in newspapers almost daily. Leslie was therefore adamant that we leave immediately after the tour. Smelling again like a bunch of young boys who haven’t yet discovered the miracle of deodorant, we chugged down the road with Mr. Fatal in the tan colored van. Mr. Fatal wasn’t the most pleasant man, and gave Leslie a hard time about everything involving money—he wanted her to pay for his room and board and Mole and argued about the price she should fork over for filling the van up with gas. Needless to say, we were relieved to jump out of the crowded van at Dumango Junction and climb back into our luxurious, roomy blue but with our trusty driver, Isaac (dressed today in a bright yellow shirt with “OREGON” scrawled in green across the front). After our heart-pounding adventure, we all curled up in little balls on the big blue bus, twisting and turning our bodies in an attempt at comfort and fell sound asleep.

A few hours later, Leslie shook us all awake—we were stopped at Ketempo Waterfall. We fell out of the van and trotted down 134 winding, narrow steps to the waterfall. It was absolutely beautiful with cool, clear water shooting over rocks and crashing into the swift river below. The mist from the falls felt so good on our sweaty skin as we took turns crossing over the rocks into the middle of the stream. The rocks had been made flat by years of beatings from the unforgiving waterfall and served as perfect stepping-stones. We stayed at the falls very briefly (remember—we had to get home before dark) and before I knew it, we were back on the bus headed to Kumasi.

Three hours later, we arrived back at the Royal Basin Hotel where Jessica and I ran and jumped into the cool water that filled the pool. Dinner that night was interrupted from time to time by brief power outages. The humm of the generator would kick on and the lights would flicker back on just in time for us to gulp down a few more bites before it failed again. The book club ladies—Jessica, Katie and I—went back to our room and read by flashlight until, as usual, we’d all fallen asleep with books open on our chests.

We woke up to another early morning breakfast at the Royal Basin on Monday, the cold orange juice and hot Spanish omelet a nice treat before heading back to plain oatmeal back in Accra. We loaded our things and thanked the staff once more before jumping onto the blue bus. We wound through the hills of Kumasi, the bus stalling and chugging up the steep parts and commanding traffic in the congested parts. We finally pulled into the bead village, Asofuo, where Leslie’s friend Joe greeted us. Before we got off the bus, Leslie warned us that they have a “fertility problem” in the village, meaning not that they have trouble getting pregnant here but instead, that the women can’t seem to not get pregnant. By the time we unloaded, children had swarmed our spectacle of a bus, each one eager to grab our hand and know our name. They were too cute for words in worn out shirts and bare feet, tugging at our shirts with dirty fingers. Joe led us to the bead factory and demonstrated, with the help of Sonny’s translations, how the men in the village melt down glass bottles to make beads. They use bright powders that reminded me of Dad’s glazes in the shop to create patterns and textures. They had clay beads, too, that they cooked in a big mud oven that the village has been using for over 200 years.

Joe led us to where the women in the village sell the beads, their merchandise spread out in front of them on big pieces of cloth. We walked around and looked at them all: big glass beads, small clay beads and everything in between. I wound up bartering for a few strands that shone brilliantly beneath the sun. We wound our way through the mud buildings and back to the bus, where we said goodbye to the children and climbed aboard. We slept most of the way home, but woke up just in time to watch the bright African sun sink below the horizon, signaling the end of yet another amazing adventure in Africa.

Great Northern Adventure, Part One: Kumasi

We’d been dreaming about the Great Northern Adventure since before the landing gear of our plane even skidded onto the hard pavement in Accra. The suspense was something similar to a child on Christmas Eve, his eyes wide awake until he’s sure he heard Santa’s sleigh bells on the rooftop. For the 13 obronis of Okbungalow, there were no sleigh bells on Thursday morning—instead, our alarms jolted us from our deep slumber before the sun had even risen. We shoveled oatmeal and eggs into our eager mouths and jumped aboard the big blue caterpillar bus. Leslie, our director, and Isaac, our driver, greeted us enthusiastically. Sonny, an employee of the Aya Center, was coming along, too, much to the delight of many girls who swoon over his good looks and charm. I made my nest in the seat behind Sonny, across from Katie, in the very front of the bus. With the combination of pollution, windy, narrow roads and no Dramamine, I figured it was probably the safest spot. I looked around me and realized that everything I had brought along had some special meaning: my backpack borrowed from Ellie, a bracelet from Megan, a purse from Eryn, a pillow made by Mom, a carved elephant from Will, a necklace from my sis and earrings from my dad—I really felt like you all were right there with me!

We zoomed through the University of Ghana campus and by the time we hit the open road, everyone on the bus was asleep. I took the down time to listen to music and snap a few photos of signs on the way out of town: “God Time Beauty Shop”, “Glory Be Cold Shop”. The traffic was terrible, with either construction or car accidents obstructing our journey almost constantly. While waiting in traffic lines, hawkers strolled by the bus casually, taking a little extra time than normal on our bus full of sleepy obronis. “Ettesein,” they’d shout, and then laugh hysterically when I replied with a shaky version of Twi. The women balanced huge loads of FanChoco and FanIce (ice cream in little packets that sell for about 30 cents) on their heads, all while hauling their sleeping babies on their backs. We stopped briefly at Linda Dor Rest Stop, shaking my peers from their restless slumber on the bumpy bus. The rest stop was nothing to speak of, though they did sell corn on the cob (which I have become quite fond of since that woman on the trotro practically shoved it down my throat). We clamored back on the bus for another three hours of iPods, Soduko and sleep.

We rolled into Kumasi approximately five hours after leaving Accra, which didn’t seem so bad once we saw the hotel pool. Kumasi is the “kingdom of gold,” the birthplace of Adinkra and Kente cloth and the second largest city in Ghana. I roomed with Jessica and Katie, the two girls with whom I’ve started a sort of impromptu “book club”—there’s a lot of time for reading here. Instead of lounging by the pool, we all piled back on the bus once again after checking into our modest rooms and headed into town. We stopped at Manyhia Place, a decadent yellow and red building with fancy blue and green peacocks strutting across the courtyard. The called to each other in screams that sounded like drowning cats—other than that, the place was nice. We had an interesting tour guide who showed us around the Asante King’s former palace—Kumasi is the center of the Asante region, and therefore the Asante King lives here. His primary duties are to deal with issues of the state, and he often confers with the President to make decisions about Ghana’s wellbeing. We peeked over the fence to see the King’s current palace, which was even more decadent than the first. Inside the palace are wax replicas of the Asante Kings and important women, including the Queen Mothers of the kingdom. The Asante are a matrilineal society, so the Queen mother is extremely powerful. In fact, the children of the king technically have nothing to do with the royal family. This might seem confusing, but it’s probably for the best considering that the king has eight wives. The Queen Mother is usually the sister, aunt, mother or other female relative of the king. We saw the former king’s swords (now used for ceremonial purposes), robes and even his collection of crystal shot glasses.

After our tour, we fended off some eager hawkers and climbed back aboard the big Chinese bus. Exhausted, we collapsed into a pile at the swimming pool, making a few lazy plops into the chilled water to wash the dust and sweat off our bodies. Dinner was, again, a buffet of traditional food: rice, chicken, fish, steamed vegetables, plantains and various delicious sauces. We were especially spoiled with desert—ice cream with fresh fruit salad. There’s no pineapple like Ghanaian pineapple, let me tell you.

After dinner, I took a warm shower. I can’t tell you what a life changing experience that was. After nearly a month with cold water that comes out in drips, a high-pressure, warm shower truly felt like a little slice of heaven right there at the Royal Basin Hotel. I must have stayed in there for awhile, because by the time I finally emerged it was pitch black outside and the mosquitoes made annoying sounds as they whipped around the light outside our window. I curled up on the rock that passed as a bed with You Shall Know Our Velocity!, a fantastic read if you’re looking. After about ten pages, I was snoring louder than all the buzzing mosquitoes in all of Kumasi put together.

We woke up early again to a feast of omelets, toast, orange juice and fruit before heading out on our big shopping adventure. I brought a lot of money, too much probably, and had every intention of spending it on fabric, beads and wood carvings. First, Isaac pulled the bus to a squeaky halt in the little village of Bonwire. Immediately, our outlandish blue bus was flanked by children with outstretched hands—it felt like an ambush. Where did they all come from? We snaked through the sea of children and toppled into a wooden building where a man wearing an Obama shirt taught us about Kente cloth. Asante warriors from years ago happened upon a spider and, after seeing its web, were amazed that such a tiny animal could produce such amazing things. They began to weave, like the spider, and soon perfected their art with brightly colored thread and intricate single, double and triple weave patterns. Only men weave, though, because women are traditionally meant to stay at home with the children. It’s thought that if a woman begins weaving, she will become infertile.

Our eyes were overwhelmed by vibrant colors bouncing across the room from strips of Kente hanging from the walls. I must have bought one in every color, including a large one for myself in brilliant green, red, yellow and black. They had silk kente, too, and it felt so good to run my fingers over the smooth, cold fabric. They tried to explain the symbolic meanings of each pattern, but for them it means something so different—it means something so much deeper than any of us who shell out a measly $5 for a strip of fabric that takes three days to create could ever understand. I left the Bonwire (pronounced bon-wah-ree) feeling humbled by the talent, perseverance and dedication of the men who toil and sweat to create such beautiful items, but was whipped back into the real world by children tugging my arms and begging for something to eat, pens, money, water, biscuits, anything. I climbed back on the bus and we chugged down the road to our next stop of the day.

Ntonso is a tiny little town on a dry dirt road. A few shady trees watch over children as they play, their wise old branches protecting their gleaming faces from the harsh, bright sun. We met up with “Adinkra Dave,” a friend of Leslie’s who gave us a tutorial on Adinkra stamping. The ink for stamping comes from a smelly process that involves stripping the bark from hard trees, soaking it, bleeding its juices, cooking those juices over open wood fires in huge barrels propped up by old, crusty engine blocks covered in ash the color of an elephant. Once the process is complete, Adinkra Dave leads us to a long red cloth where we each pick out a symbol—an Adinkra symbol—to stamp neatly onto the fabric. I chose the symbol for learning from your mistakes, a squiggly upside down heart shape with edges that curl around themselves like springs. Adinkra Dave dipped the carved cassava stamp into the boiling liquid, clicking it against the side of the pot to conserve any excess ink. I stamped down hard on the pretty red fabric and pulled directly up, just as Dave had instructed. Perfect.

We continued stamping and dipping, dipping and stamping until our cloth was all used up. While we waited for it to dry, we played with some of the school children who held our hands as we tried to ask their names. The hammed it up for pictures with us, their wide smiles filling their coal black faces like little light bulbs against a warm summer night. Once the cloth had dried, we once again climbed aboard the blue bus, now smelling slightly like a 7th grade boys’ locker room, and waved goodbye to the children as they danced and made faces at us from the red dirt path.

After Ntonso, the blue bus wound its way through Kumasi to Ahwiaa, a word carver’s market. Both sides of the road were dotted with intricately carved stools, masks, drums and enough knick-knacks to fill an entire airplane. Two of my friends bough enormous drums, their sides stained and carved with a true artist’s touch. I played with the carvings, turning them over in my hand, until the owners started hustling me to buy from them. I turned on my heels and move onto the next shop where the owner shouted, “Free looking for you, beautiful seestah!” as if I were the only one for whom looking was free. The carvings here are so amazing and delicate, each eye, nose and ear of the animal or person carefully thought out and beautifully executed. Ghanaians have a things for stools, stemming from the legend of the golden stool which exists somewhere secretive in a secret room where only people who are extra secretive can touch it, and even then only in the dark. The stool craze swept all aspects of Ghanaian life, and now beautifully carved wooden stools with etched animals, adinkra symbols and scenes interrupting polished wood lie in every respectable wood carver’s shop. My favorite is the unity stool, a tangle of three, five or seven little people whose arms and legs are all interwoven and carved from the same piece of wood. Their heads rest upright in a circle, designed to hold a piece of cut glass for a coffee table or a small bowl, depending on the size of the stool.
After a quick lunch, we again boarded the Chinese blue bus and chugged off to Kumasi Central Market. The market is run by women—all women—and is known for selling beautiful wax print fabrics with bright colors and vibrant patterns. Isaac dropped us off in front of a huge building painted green with little cans of dried tomatoes painted on the side and told us he’d be back in an hour. So we walked, dodged minor traffic accidents and darted between women with giant bowls on their heads carrying live chickens for sale. Their beaks wobbled back and forth with the stride of the gorgeous, curvaceous women carrying them to their deaths.

The market itself in one word was hectic. Dozens of people pushed and elbowed their way through tiny, crowded walkways big enough for one average sized person to walk down. Women balancing bowls on their heads and babies on their backs scowled at my as I tried to jump out of their way. Old women grabbed my arm and without saying a word pointed at their fabrics with tired old eyes that begged for business. Most of the women would only sell fabric in six-yard quantities. If you were lucky enough, some women might cut it down to three or four yards, but that meant you also had to be patient enough to wait while she slowly measured, cut and folded, all while trying to avoid being run over by passing foot traffic. Needless to say, I am patient when it comes to shopping and so wound up purchasing myself more fabric than I could ever use, especially since I don’t know how to sew—no time like the present, right Mom?

After breaking free from the chaos (sort of) and swearing we’d bought our last yard, Jessica, Katie and I stumbled upon a stand full of inexpensive, beautiful fabric. While Jessica and Katie bargained with the authoritative woman behind the table, I struck up conversation with a young girl, watching her fingers as she carefully folded and refolded the fabric. “Buy from me,” she said with shy eyes, and I explained in slow English that I didn’t have much money left. Instead of hassling me, she left me alone—a welcome change from the usual chaos of shopping in Ghana. Instead, she told me that this was her mother’s booth and she was learning how to buy and sell fabric at the market. She wanted to learn how to sew, like her mom, so she could be successful and attend a university someday. Just as Katie and Jessica were wrapping up their latest purchases (“Last one, I swear!”), I caved. I smiled at the young girl and asked her which was her favorite. She pointed a dainty finger toward an ivory piece with dashes of purple and gold strung throughout. I asked her for three yards. Her eyes lit up as the cut the fabric, ripping it carefully just like her mother. She folded it and placed it neatly inside a bag. With a smile that could light a city, she handed the back over and took my 3 cedis. I said, “Medahse” and turned to walk away, but not before I caught a glimpse of her flashing the 3 cedis to her mother proudly.

Again, we dodged traffic and narrowly escaped death crossing the road to the big green building. We weren’t exactly sure where to meet the bus, and it appeared that we were the first to arrive. We stood next to two pudgy women, their aprons stained with unrecognizable juices. One leaned over her makeshift bench to stir a bubbling pot of groundnut soup while the other counted the day’s earnings. They both laughed loudly, with cackles to match the hyenea. They introduced themselves, as did we, and began the typical line of questioning—how are you, who are you, where are you from, why are you here—as we fired back answers. They were kindly women, the type you’ve always wanted as an aunt or grandmother. One of their daughters, Matilda, walked up behind us and started chatting away as if we’d been best friends since the beginning of time. She was 17 and waiting for the results of her school tests—“Soooo nervous!”
She had piercing eyes like coal and clear skin. She was sweet, and asked for my number, proclaiming that she’d “take me as a friend” because I was nice. We chatted with the women awhile longer while waiting for Issac to roll around the bend with the big blue bus, fighting traffic and threatening pedestrians the whole way down the hill. Sheena, one of the obronis, got violently ill while shopping so we fed her water and Pepto-Bismol as the hot sun flashed in bright rays across the sprawling canvasses of the market. Finally, Isaac pulled up in the caterpillar bus and we headed back to the Royal Basin Hotel for an evening of Chinese food (delicious), pool lounging (fantastic) and a night of relaxation before our epic trek to Mole at 6am Saturday morning.

…TO BE CONTINUED….