Sunday, February 18, 2007
Kumasi, Ashanti Region, Ghana
"Jesus Christ," I screamed.
"Jesus Christ," echoed a fat southern preacher the tiny television in my room.
It was around 7:30 in the morning and Asamoah was up and bored. He had flicked on the God channel and filled the room with over-modulated fire and brimstone.
I was not amused.
Before I could think of something more than four letters long to say, there was a knock at the door.
It was one of the organizers. They were going to drop of press kits at a number of Kumasi's media houses. George asked if we would like to come. Asamoah volunteered as I lunged to turn off the TV.
I lay in bed and enjoyed the quiet for a few minutes before deciding to have a shower. Although my clothes were clean, I was still covered in the soil of a nation.
I climbed into the shower stall, grabbed the telephone showerhead and cranked the tap. Happily, there was water, though it was just a trickle. My heart sunk as I raised the showerhead above me. The water stopped flowing. There wasn't enough pressure to send it higher than about four feet above the floor.
After my less than relaxing shower, my stomach reminded me that I was hungry. Despite the increase in exercise and reduced food intake, I was disappointed to find my pants were not falling off me. In fact, they seemed tighter.
I put on a damp shirt and waited.
A short time later my shirt was dry and the organizers and Asamoah had returned from their media blitz. We loaded up the Land Yacht and pointed north towards Wa, capital of the Upper West Region.
It was early and we foolishly though that we'd be able to make the several hundred kilometres to Wa before sundown.
In Tamale, the capital of the Northern Region we planned to meet up with our second vehicle, its crew and the concrete arms.
When we pulled up at the pre-arranged meeting point we learned the tragic news: the concrete arms were broken. We would have to remain in Tamale until they were fixed.
Luckily, I knew two JHR folks living in Tamale. As I had had no face-to-face contact with my JHR colleagues since arriving in Ghana, I was giggling like a schoolgirl at the thought of having a debrief with someone going through the same experiences.
Poor Katerine!
Katerine and Sam (a woman) work at two different radio stations in Tamale. Their job is the same as mine: to train journalists. Sam was busy, but Kat was able to meet me on the patio of the comfortable, if expensive, Gariba Lodge.
Kat and I chatted for hours over food (rice, chicken) and beer (Star). It was such a wonderful experience to have a brain dump with someone going through the same challenges.
Tamale, Kat told me, was a great place. Brutally hot, yes, but dry. And very quiet and relaxed.
We discussed the trials and tribulations of working in a foreign land and found that we shared many of the same things. Both Kat and Sam bought motorcycles in order to get around more easily. And while Tamale is a town that, unlike Takoradi, is filled with motorcycles and bicycles (there are traffic lights for the bike lanes here, just like in Europe), I too think that buying a motorcycle is a good idea.
The one thing about Tamale is that it's hot. But it is also dry. So dry, in fact, that I don't sweat. Which is odd. I'm not sure how it can be 10C hotter than in Takoradi, where I sweat more water than goes over Niagara Falls in a day -- yet I remain dry. I think I live in the wrong place.
After dinner and drinks Kat and I headed to Gariba's office facilities where I was able to plug in my laptop and upload the pictures that you saw last week. It was nice to not only use my laptop but also experience the wonders of a fast connection.
Around 9 p.m. our driver, Smiley, came to pick me up. We headed back to the yard where the arms were now whole and setting. This was a good sign.
Around 10 we hit the road north to Wa, capital of the Upper West Region. As I've briefly posted previously, the roads up north are not great. And at night, they are difficult to see: red sandy ribbons bordered by red sand.
The road, an international highway, was little more than a goat track filled with poorly balanced and overloaded trucks making their way to and from Burkina-Faso.
Poor Smiley. Around midnight he was driving through the back of beyond, in the company of sleeping passengers. If not for mental power required to follow the road and avoid the crushing death of a 1960's MAN transport headed to Ouagabougou, Smiley surely would have joined us.
I think we passed through Mole National Park, but as it was so dark it could have been Disneyland after dark.
Every once in a while we passed a small village. We knew this to be the case because we could see the flames from kerosene lamps and because there were makeshift barriers placed across the road.
I'm not sure why these were there, other than to collect unofficial taxes from truckers driving to/from Burkina-Faso in their overloaded MAN truck -- but we simply blew through them, scaring the crap out of the young kids sleeping nearby.
It was 2 a.m. by the time we pulled into Wa. We were lucky to have survived and more importantly, we were lucky to have a place to sleep.
In each region of Ghana, the government keeps a large compound for the regional minister's home and office. There is also a residence for visitors.
I shared a room with Asamoah, Smiley and, once the lights were out, a few million bugs. Misery loves company, I guess.
Cheers!
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