kijken kijken kopen

Soms is het ook wel een opluchting. Ik hoef niet te weten wanneer de voorverkoop begint van Into The Great Wide Open. En ik wist niet hoe je aan kaarten komt voor het eindfeest van het IDFA dit jaar en wanneer het Rotterdam Filmfestival precies is. Of wanneer de verkoop begint voor het leukste oud & nieuw feest of voor Lowlands, welke dag de Zolamanola sales begint en wat de beste voorstelling is op de Parade die je gezien MOET hebben. En mag je nou wel of niet nog een vrolijke King Louie jurk aan, of lijk je dan voorgoed op een quasi-hippe bakfiets moeder?

Ook wel makkelijk: ik koop niks want er is hier niks en ik hoef hier niks. Geen huis, geen bank, geen nieuwe kleren, geen iphone, geen schoenen. Heb ook niets nodig want leef elke dag eigenlijk in the great wide open, op blote voeten, m’n haar in een frutsel staartje en trek elke zaterdagochtend de zelfde korte broek uit 1999 aan. Er zit meestal een berg zand in mijn tas, dus een nieuwe telefoon is ook geen goed plan.

Maar volgend jaar ben ik er weer bij. In een hippe nieuwe outfit, met vers geknipte haren en de nieuwste iphone op weg naar een of andere leuk festivalletje. En daar heb ik eigenlijk ook wel weer zin in. Ik hoop alleen dat ik dan nog iets overhoud van mijn makkelijke anti-consumeer-en -ik-hoef-niet-overal-bij-te-zijn leven hier, maar ik vrees het ergste. Al is die broek uit 1999 naar mijn inschatting eigenlijk best wel weer retro, dus die hoef ik niet nieuw te kopen.

To go to Togo

On a Monday morning one might think “all I need is a good cappuccino and a ham and cheese sandwich and this day will be much better”. And then you walk to the nearest bakery and get it. And perhaps your day is much better. Or in my case you wait 5 days for the weekend to come, charter 5 friends, hop on the minibus and drive for 4 hours to Togo, land of delicious French food. Somehow British colonial kitchen combined with West-Africa turned into something quite gross. But French colonial cuisine combined with West-Africa miraculously turned into crevettes, ail, pain au chocolat et –whoohoo- baguette avec du fromage et jambon. I almost packed my 4 suitcases and moved. But then, around the corner of the patisserie, we found this creepy voodoo market:

And a nice and very serious looking young man explained me how to make the ‘love medicine’. I will share the recipe with you as who knows when it may come in handy for one of you. Scrape some powder of the scull of a monkey and add some herbs and water. Put 7 drops in your right hand and whisper your name and the name of the person you love 7 times in your hand palm. Then -quickly- invite the person you love and shake his or her hand. And for sure he or she will fall in love with you right away and you will live happily ever after. Unfortunately he didn’t say which herbs exactly, so I have to do some research on that.

Winter sun

Mission accomplished: Meije back on the plane all tanned and relaxed and ready again to cope with the rain and put her pedicured toes back into those winter boots. (Leaving me in Accra all re-energized by her lovely company, missing her terribly and eternally grateful for all those night shifts we used to work together, when we closed the bar and stayed for hours drinking Corona, telling each other everything there was to know about our life and became great friends).

According to most expats here ‘only people that really love you come to visit you in Ghana’ as opposed to those who come when you are based in Kenya, Fiji or New York. Apparently in such a place you may as well open up a travel company and hotel because you get visitors every week. However, with this picture I’m guessing that in the next few months perhaps I will find out more people love me during winter than in summer.

Out in Africa

Ok, so imagine for a second you are driving in a national park in the south of Kenya. The roads are muddy and slippery and luckily you’ve rented a 4wd. There are some deer, some huge colourful birds, zebras everywhere, but all you do is trying to look through your binoculars at the horizon. The road is bumpy, so it’s hard to not stick the binoculars in your eye every time you hit a pothole.

The zebras, the giraffe, the buffaloes, you’ve seen them all as they are everywhere. But the real thing is hiding. It’s getting a bit dark already and the dirt roads all look scary similar, and you wish you had a compass as you don’t remember whether the sun goes down east or west anymore and which way you came from. Then all of a sudden you scream “stop” because you see a big cat. Your handsome driver aka boyfriend hits the breaks and slowly you approach the cat till you get close and your face looks like this:

A safari is one of my new favorite things. Together with chocolate pies that are still melted inside. But what happens when you have a flat tire in the park and there are cheetahs, lions and leopards around? And not a single soul with a gun? And what if you have to pee? Although for that one I know now it's possible to just do it really quickly in the open field.

Camping in a national park is fun as well. But what to do when there are aggressive rhinos, hippos and crocodiles sniffing around your little tent? And I surely have to pee at least once every night. Thank God for the Masai warrior you can hire to guard your tent all night with a spear. He looks a bit weird with his earlobes stretched to his shoulders because of piercings and jewelery. But he does the job and did not fall asleep. Interesting people by the way, with their diet of milk and cattle blood.

Anyhow, we’re out of romantic East Africa, safe and sound, with all our hands and feet still attached to our bodies. Next trip will be Enschede for Christmas.

Into the Upper Wild West

Oh the joy. The old Fokker plane of Antrak Air ( I'm not joking, this is really the name of the local airline) is being serviced till later notice. Therefore I had no other option than to fight my way in to a replacing plane. Fight, because the airline had sold 40 tickets (amount of seats on the usual plane) but this was a 12 seater, also known as ‘the coffin’ or ‘the trotro’. For your information: trotro’s are the little minibusses used here. Most of the time they look like they have been in a severe accident, the doors are duct taped and they have no lights, windows nor brakes. The little plane seemed fine, but I was scared to death and cried a little. My seat was just behind the pilot who looked like he was no older than 16 and had never been kissed. Or flew a plane before.

But alright, it was worth it. The Upper West Region of Ghana, close to Burkina, is beautiful. And once again being in the field was disturbing yet enlightening. You can read all the books you want about how economic development can be achieved, how health and education systems could be put in place, but you will never realise how incredibly complicated things are, unless you see it. It probably goes beyond what many of the readers of my blog are interested in, but in short: just the simple fact that at least 20% of the kids in high school can not read. The fact that politicians say education is for free, so parents don’t want to contribute to the school anymore. But those same politicians provide the school with less then 0.30 Euro per term per child. Little money that leads to absolutely nothing as headteachers usually use it for their own transportation. Or for buying a generator and tv so the kids can watch tv at school (and teachers don’t have to teach). School furniture piled up in the district offices, as nobody thought about budgeting for distribution, meanwhile the kids are lying on the classroom floor.

But before I’m accused of being negative or cynical, I saw some great things too. An NGO supported 9 months mob-up programme for children who have never been to school and through intensive training can fit into the normal school system afterwards. A wonderful teacher who taught the children how to resolve conflicts in the classroom, family and community.

And of course there was the delight of being in a completely foreign world and situation. I learned how cashew nut trees grow. How you can officially change your birthday here in Ghana (easy, just buy a new birth certificate and you are 5 years younger). I learned that if you die in the Upper West Region, your body is put in a chair on the road side for 3 days. So people can grieve. Men are put facing the east, as they have to know when the sun comes up and they have to go farming. Women face the west, as they have to know when it’s time to cook dinner when the sun goes down. And I learned about witchcraft. If anything bad happens to you (sick, death, bad harvest, small airplane instead of big one), you can just blame an old woman. She will be chased away from your village. Maybe if she is pretty and her husband still wants her, she might be able to come back if proved innocent. But if not, too bad. I better get out of here before I’m old. Today is my one year anniversary in Ghana. I’ll stay till I’m 31, but that’s it. Taco, I promise.

Opening Prayer

“Who is volunteering to do the opening prayer of the meeting today?” During this question I’m always very busy finding something unknown in my purse under my table. It’s the question I fear the most. I even prefer: “ who is volunteering to write the minutes of the meeting today?”. Technically I shouldn’t be scared, as praying is pretty straight forward and pragmatic here. It goes more or less like this:

“Heavenly Father, thank you for bringing us together in this meeting today. We pray that you will guide us to work hard for the benefit of Ghana and Ghana’s beautiful innocent children. Lord, we pray that we will make great progress on the education district plan today. We also pray that Unicef will sponsor us further in the future. Some more money is needed for fuel for the education district offices and refreshments during meetings with the school management committees. Father, we pray that you will enlight our path and fill our hearts today with commitment and passion for our work. Thank you Father. Amen.”

Shrimp

Finally it’s out in the open. My friend C is having a baby in a few months. A white one from her British husband, just for the record. The picture is just an illustration and they are the beauties I saw on the beach last Saturday.

A few weeks ago I had the huge privilege to accompany C while the doctor was putting some scary ultrasound thing inside her to check out the little shrimp. It moved it’s little arms and legs, like it was dancing a little dance. And I was speechless. Suddenly I got it. Why women take a million pictures when it’s born. Why they change their facebook profile picture in a picture of their baby. Why it’s all they talk about. And all other somewhat bit annoying symptoms of newly mothers. It’s all because it is freaking amazing.

By now the little shrimp is actually not even a big gamba anymore. It’s a little boy. Most likely. And he is as big as a large orange. How amazing is that?!

Superstition in the night

I have some very sick habits. One of them is checking the BBC website when someone I love is flying. To see whether there has been a plane crash. I even do it in the middle of the night. Suddenly I wake up, shiver and I think that I ‘feel’ something has happened. Once I get that on my mind there is nothing I can do but get up and switch on my laptop. With the speed of internet in 1992 I wait for the website to load. I feel my heartbeat, hold my breath and think about who would have called me to tell me if something had happened. What if I find out first on the internet. What on earth would I do?

And then, with first the red header slowly appearing on the screen, I go over the headlines and breathe out. And I thank God, Allah, the Universe. Only a hurricane, deaths in the Middle East and an increased risk for thousands of children to die from cholera last night.

Mindful waiting

“Pretty girls don’t go to university”. Nobody ever told me this kind of important news before, but many Ghanaian girls grow up with this idea. In addition, they also learn that if you do go to university, there is no way you can find a husband afterwards and have children.

I attended the opening of a science education camp for girls last week. About a hundred 14 year old girls from the Northern (and poorest) Region of Ghana, were put on a plane by an NGO to participate in this camp. They were gathered in the room, waiting for the Minister of Women and Children to talk to them about the importance of science. The slogans on the wall reminded me of the campaigns we had in the nineties in my high school, trying to convince girls to study maths and science. Een slimme meid is op haar toekomst voorbereid... en dat soort teksten.

Surprisingly the hundred girls didn’t laugh or whisper or anything for an hour, while we were all waiting for the Minister to arrive. It was dead quiet in the room. Some of them were sleeping, leaning their head on the seat in front of them. I wondered why they weren’t whispering, moving around or giggling. Some were staring at me. And I realised I was the personification of their nightmare. No husband, no children. That’s what university does to you.

The whole hour I kept wondering why they were so quiet and tired. Why they were not running around. Finally I asked the girl next to me if she had to wake up early this morning. So looked at me with her big eyes and shook her head.

It made me think of the babies on the trotro busses. They just sit there for hours and keep quiet. They don’t scream or cry ever, even with a chicken on their lap in 40C. And it made me think of how adults here seem to be able to completely zoom out of a situation. Like a boring presentation. Or a 4 hour church service. Or in this case waiting for a Minister. While I get all worked up and restless about wasting my time, they are there, but they are really not there. I wonder where their mind goes. And whether zooming out is something you can learn. Perhaps I should do a mindfulness training?

Or maybe it was just a case of the typical dialogue between a European and an African: European while ticking his nail on his watch: " why are you late?" African: "you are from Europe, you have a watch. I am African, I've got time".

Bill

‎The other day I saw him on tv giving his daughter Chelsea away (did you know Madonna restyled her all over from nerdy geek with frizzy hair to classy vamp?). That was the first time I thought about him for a long time. I was thinking what it must be like for him to live off his wife’s income now and be married to this woman who forgave him. Or perhaps she never did and as some kind of atonement makes him wake up early every day to do all the household tasks, saying maybe -one day- , she might forgive him. Or not. I don’t usually think about him much, but that same week he was on my mind again. Due to a facebook message. Someone posted a quote of him that really struck me.

"In too many countries, too much money pays for too many people to go to too many meetings and get on too many airplanes to do too much technical assistance".

Somehow I felt he was directly talking to me. And that made me blush and a bit ashamed, even though I haven’t been involved in any shady cigar business. Not that I travel so much as a consultant doing technical assistance or something, but I do live in airplanes lately. Some are paid by UNICEF, some I pay myself, but from the good money UNICEF pays me. Money that could be spend on food or safe drinking water for Pakistani children too.

I’m not advocating for a salary reduction, I love to be able to do all these things and fly around the world, for work, for training, for holidays. But Bill Clinton’s quote made me think of the UNICEF sponsored walk I used to do as a little girl. Me and my friends would go door-to-door and collect money for every kilometer that we would walk or run. We ran for hours till we were really exhausted. Proudly we would hand in our collected guilders. More money than my pocket money for a whole year. It made me feel really good about myself and about how I was helping the poor children in other countries. Ever since I wanted to work for UNICEF and help more vulnerable children and make their voices been heard. Bill made me think about that though. About all the money for plane tickets. About how selfish it is to feel good about yourself for helping others. I wish I had his phone number to talk things over. But I would have to come up with a more sensible question than his daughter’s secret for non-frizzy curls.

Our House

I think I officially qualify for homesickness today. Or at least for melancholy. But listen to this beautiful song. It's my favourite and sounds like the perfect evening to me, yet very unavailable at the moment. Don't listen to it if you just went through a painful breakup though, unless you feel like crying.



So thank god tonight I can't stay in bed and play sentimental songs. It's girls night again, with dirty Martini’s and lots of gossip! It will be such a relief after this work week of long discussions about the Ghanaian government’s planning and budget, endless discussions with 200 people and powerpoint presentations of over 70 slides.

It was the week of the Education Sector Review, meaning all parties involved in education in Ghana got together and made recommendations to the Minister of Education on priorities and improvements. Nothing new obviously. In fact I think we could have copied those of last year. But there was a personal new thing. It was the first time I felt completely comfortable commenting and giving my opinion. After 10 months I finally really seem to get what is going on... So I better stay a bit longer and miss our house a bit more.

It was the scary excitement I only remember experiencing when I was a little girl. Like when we would play hide and seek in the middle of the night during primary school camp. But actually, a bit more of an excitement of something you knew were not supposed to be doing as a child. Like looking in all the closets of other peoples bedrooms (would there be something sex related??) Or like copying someones answers in a test while the teacher was walking behind you.
But this time the children were 30 and 34 and sneaking around inside the UN building in the evening. There was nobody there, except one poor man hoovering every single chair of the room of the United Nations General Assembly. But he had left the door open. So when he turned his back we sneaked in and looked around in the massive room with the hundreds of chairs. We whispered and shivered. We were standing in the room on top of the Security Council, where hundreds of resolutions have passed or where rejected. Where life changing decisions on the future of people and countries were made.

We pretended to be the Netherlands’ and Ghanaian delegation (or was it the Russians, for the historians amongst us?).

















Then we hesitantly walked up to the speaker’s desk on the stage. The place where Kofi Annan used to stand. Where he stood when he called for action on how by 2015 we should reach the Millennium Development Goals and have made the world a better place to live for all of us.
It felt weird standing there, knowing that Kennedy once stood on those same cm2 too. And Gorbatsjov and more recently Obama. People who changed history. I gently touched the wood they must have touched as well while they were speeching and tried to imagine what they might have thought and how they felt. I imagined they were nervous, knowing that the whole world was watching them. I already felt tremendously intimidated and fairly awkward. And the cleaning man hoovering the chairs wasn’t even watching me.

sweat and sour home

I violated the number one blog rule: Write on your blog at least once a week or you lose all your readers.

But I think I had some good excuses. I turned 30, again, drove around beautiful Friesland in an old VW camper van and all my friends were camping in my parents garden and surprised me (and made me cry with happiness twice). My sweet grandma passed away and we had to organise a funeral with good wine and food to honour her life. And then I went to New York, the city where it’s just impossible to find time to check your emails or write quietly on my blog. I did a great course at the New York University, but besides that –or should I say more importantly- I enjoyed three weeks of uninterrupted loving company of my dependant spouse (official UN terminology for the greatest boyfriend on earth).

Needless to say I wasn’t overjoyed to wake up this morning alone and jetlagged and ready for work. On the bright side however, my dear colleagues lifted me up and spun me around in circles and for once didn’t say I gained weight after travelling. Besides, it’s much cooler here than the heat wave of New York and the road people have been starting to fix the scary potholes on my way to work. So, cleaning out my inbox now, unpack my new clothes and enjoying quiet Accra-life with lots of sleep.

Nu nog even alles wat op de grond ligt in mijn slaapkamer in een koffer proppen en ik ben er klaar voor. Niet vergeten scheermesjes uit de badkamer te halen. En oordopjes in handbagage te stoppen. En paspoorten te checken. En verder wat meer lokaal gerelateerde dingen doen als teiltje onder lekkend dak zetten, een trui zoeken ergens deep down under in mijn kast om mee te nemen, m'n eigen vuvuzela kopen en etensvoorraad afsluiten voor levensgrote kakkerlakken.

Oranje oase, fasten your seatbelts as I’m on my way!

30

Turning 30 is the best thing you can possibly imagine. At least in my case. I loaded my car with girls and took off to the beach. There we met some more lovely ladies -and a few men- ate chunks of cheese and watched the sunset. No cleaning up the next morning, no puke in the bathroom, no ash in your bed. I wasn't even the tipsy running hostess on heels that I normally am at my own parties. Instead, I reached this rare euphoric stage of happiness that occurs when you have your friends around you, there are boogy boards, waves and of course Kelly's homemade apple crumble.

Cheers to the belly botton

The 19th of June is my new years' eve. I contemplate on my year, I make plans like drinking less on school days and going for runs more often and I check with myself whether I’m on the right track.

This years new year’s eve is going to be too busy for that though. Not only will there be 2 football matches to watch Saturday, I’m also going to sleep in a beach hut with a lovely group of friends (and a lot of wine). So I pre-contemplated today and made some resolutions and plans for the new year and the new decade.

First of all I started with something radical. I took out my belly button piercing. Wanted to do that for a long time, but wasn’t ready to say goodbye to this one and only tiny little teenage rebel action. But the thought of being a woman in her thirties with a Britney Spears piercing suddenly made me rip out the whole thing this morning.

The rest of the plans are all simple. I am going adapt to the African time mentality of taking it easy and not thinking too much about tomorrow, let alone next year. I do however allow myself my secret pleasure of looking at funda.nl and dreaming about my future married life with 2 kids and a rose garden. Other new year’s resolutions:

I will dye my hair as soon as I find one grey hair. I will start cleaning my face after wearing make-up (starting when I don’t live on the equator anymore, here I gave up make-up in a minute). I will go dancing more often. I will spend more on food and good wine. And most importantly, I’m going to try to keep living the life I want and not settle for less. Cheers!

Go Black Stars!

Weinig prullaria hier. Een paar tshirs en van die toeters die iedereen nu blijkt te hebben. Jammer trouwens, die toeters. Ik hou meer van meezingen en het meedoen met de wave vanuit je huiskamer/cafe of waar ik dan ook kijk. Maar alles lijkt nu platgetoeterd te worden.

Tshirt die je hier kan kopen zijn zeer curieus. Er staat meestal de naam op van de beste Ghanese speler, maar die is nu geblesseerd. Schijnt te komen omdat zijn vader boos is dat hij hem niet genoeg geld geeft. De goeierd had z’n pa wel een huis gegeven, maar dat was te weinig en nu is het algemeen bekend dat de vader de knie van zijn zoon heeft bevoodood. Dat klinkt angstaanjagend en dat is het ook. Hij kan 6 maanden niet spelen de stakker. En er schijnen echt prikpoppetjes, mensenharten en vermalen apenschedels aan te pas te komen.

Maar goed. Straks dus wedstrijd van de Black Stars onder het genot van een biertje en wat geiten kebab. Hopelijk helpt mijn eigen voodoo (duimen), want denk dat het een fantastisch feest gaat worden als ze winnen.

SATC2

‘Did you put on some weight?’, my colleague asks and she smiles. ‘I would swear you got a little bigger’. I know, I have written about this phenomenon before, but I’m still not used to the shocking bluntness. Of course by this time I know how to react appropriately. I smile back, say I love the food too much here (yeah right) and call my friends to have a strictly non-Ghanaian girls night where we all tell each other we look fabulous. And nothing else.

And this time we actually had a great occasion.

Worldwide groups of over excited women have been queuing these past two weeks to see the new Sex and the City movie. As even Accra has a movie theater (also known as ‘the cool box’, due to the airco that is always on 15 degrees) we put on our highest heels and got all in the mood to meet up with our 4 old friends. And old they were. Plastic surgery literally was in your face. We laughed and gossiped, criticized and discussed afterwards the outfits and the haircuts, the botox and the shoes. It didn’t look like any of them ‘got a little bigger’ though. But who cares about those things anyways. The movie lacked any kind of story line, but with my almost- Manolo-Blahniks from Invito and a group of fantastic, glamorous women around me; what else do you need than a cosmo?

I beg you sign

Have been taking the sun for granted. My skirt and sunglasses were my uniform. But as rainy season is starting now, millions of potential malaria mosquitoes have turned me into the burka kind. And sometimes in 10 minutes enough rain falls to flood the streets. I take of my shoes and walk barefoot. To the car of course, not far. On an average day I don’t walk more than 300 meter. I have been told that this is about the distance an average American walks a day as well.

I just found out by the way that officially in Ghana cars coming from the left have the right of way. That could explain my numerous hunking sessions in traffic. Luckily though, I now know the “I beg you” sign. If you put the back of one hand in the palm of the other it means, depending on the context: “I beg you, please let me get into this line”. Or: “I beg you, please lower your price, as you can see I live here and I know the sign language, so don’t fool with me”. And last but not least (after going back and forward with orders that are 'finished' today): "I beg you, I see you have 500 things on your menu, but what DO you have?" Answer is always simple though. There might be crocodile and crab on the menu; all there really is, is chicken.

I'm actually having a bit of a crocodile theme lately; but I did in fact come across the one restaurant that did have it. Failed to live up to expectations though. It was just like chicken.

De groeten aan de rimboe, ik heb meer zin in het kopen van een krokodillen leren tas. Daarom kom ik lekker een weekje naar huis! 25 juni-2 juli. Het lijkt me heerlijk om jullie allemaal te zien. Alleen lukt dat natuurlijk niet. Bij deze baal ik daar al van en voor de duidelijkheid: het zegt niks over hoe lief ik je vindt, maar meer over hoe ver weg of dichtbij je van de Amsterdamse grachtengordel verwijderd bent, het aantal uren in een dag en het feit dat, gezien de ervaring afgelopen kerst, Taco mij waarschijnlijk aan de tafelpoot vast gaat binden.

En jullie hebben ook nog andere dingen te doen dan met mij in de Bakkerswinkel te zitten. Werken en kinderen opvoeden enzo. En facebooken natuurlijk. Maar wie weet kan ik deze en gene wel overhalen om ‘ineens snotverkouden niet te kunnen werken’ en toch een koffietje met mij te drinken. Desgewensd kan ik ook wat tropische ziektes importeren zodat we gezellig met een beetje malaria aan de bar kunnen hangen. Of pastasalades eten in het park. Of kampvuren bouwen op ons balkon. En vieren dat ik de week daarvoor dan toch echt een volwassen vrouw met kleine lachrimpeltjes ben geworden natuurlijk. Overigens trek ik het tot nu toe best goed, dat 30 worden. Ben er bijna trots op, al heb ik er niet echt veel voor hoeven doen. Maar tzt kan ik vast wel een borrel gebruiken. Of twee. En een taart.

Play time

Children in northern Ghana are lucky. They go to school maximum about 2 hours a day and the rest is play time with their mates around the school. This conclusion is not the result of scientific research, yet my conclusion after some observations. Everywhere we went the schools ‘happened to be’ on break. Such a coincidence. We visited eight primary schools in very remote northern Ghana, close to the Burkina Faso border. In all of them, except for one, the kids were running around outside. The very few teachers that did show up that day were hanging on their motorbikes under a tree. Chilling out, not having the slightest intention to teach. All the head teacher but one were on sick leave. It must be a horrible job as they all fall ill within months after being appointed.

Some class rooms had no furniture and the children were sitting on big stones or on the floor. Some of the small ones were sitting there all day. Waiting for the teachers to come. Or waiting for the school feeding programme to give them at least one meal a day. The food seemed in fact all they were there for.

It was the first time that I wished to work for the Ghanaian government instead of UNICEF. Indeed, I wished I were the the Minister of Education. Not only would everybody call me ‘ honourable Madame Swart’ then, but I could sack them all. Hire good and motivated teachers. Although with the 150 Euro they make per month that could be an illusion. It’s even hard to blame them for not doing anything. If I were the Minister I would want to shake up the parents and communities for them to demand for a good school. I would fire about all my staff at the ministry, region and district level. I would want to know where the one billion dollars that is spent yearly on education in Ghana has gone every year. But I'm not the minister. Lucky me. I'm just a bit worried sometimes that it doesn't look like anything ever seems to change here.

First time for everything

I’m sure everybody remembers his or her first flight, as long as you were not younger than 2 at that time. My mom thought hers was ‘absolutely fabulous and fantastic’ and she looked out of her window for 6 hours before landing at Kotoka Airport. Smart as she is, she picked her spot deliberately at the right window to see the sunset. And there I saw them at the airport, my mother and brother walking into their first African night.

Pictures below give a good impression on how we spent our time together. It involved lots of wine, beers, reading, discussions and talking about all the million thoughts and things that we had not shared for the past 6 months. I also gained a lot of respect for driving in the madness of Saturday markets. I lost some respect however by admitting that all I do for housekeeping is organising my closet full of shoes every once in a while.

It was great to show them around in my life. And the next year and a half that I will stay here seem long today. But I’m glad that they developed a warm heart for Ghana. A warm but sweaty heart.

April in NY pictures

You can leave your country, but you can’t leave the Dutchness behind. Why take a cab if you have a bike right? Even though it was nerve wrecking from time to time, it was the best way to explore NY outside Manhattan.


The big blue building in the back is the UN by the way.




Coming from Africa I burned lobster red while touring the Big Apple in the first spring days. Song I felt like singing out loud all day was Nina Simone’s: Birds flying high you know how I feel / Sun in the sky you know how I feel / Reeds driftin’ on by you know how I feel / It’s a new dawn / It’s a new day / It’s a new life / For me / And I’m feeling good. With a very long and happy eeeee in feeling and oooo in good.

After nescafe powder and milk powder for over half a year, a heartshaped cappuccino, blueberry muffin AND carrot cake for breakfast tasted like an angel pied on my tongue. I am aware that this is most likely no English expression, but it was so good!

After spending the amount of the money on a haircut that would have been enough to vaccinate the complete population of Ghanaian children under five against all possible deseases, I felt bad. So we went to the MOMA in Queens to do at least something reasonable and go for a swim in modern art swimming pool.









And the rest of the time we hang around in parks (even old railways are parks in NY), listened to great jazz from a balcony stage, had a lovely picknick with old friends, went for a jog and romantic evening walks and yes, I spent some more money in my new favourite shop (Japanese Uniqlo, go there, it’s Japan’s gift to mankind apart from sushi, suzuki and tamagogis).

Due to Week of Dutch nationalism in Dutch

Hoog bezoek uit Nederland op komst. Mijn lieve moeder en broer hebben hun zwemspullen, malaria pillen, zaterdagkrant voor mij en stukken kaas bijna ingepakt. Ik ben van plan ze een duizelingwekkende Afrika rush te bezorgen. Over 10 dagen kunnen ze met een enorme bak kalkoenen staarten op hun hoofd lopen om te verkopen langs de weg. Ze zullen weten wat de ‘mosquito clap’ is, ze eten alles met hun handen en spreken beetje pigion engels (I will sleep small small, but let’s chop something afterwards. Aka: I will sleep a bit but let’s go out for dinner afterwards). Ook zullen ze bedreven worden in het keuren van voedsel op uiterste datum. Nooit geweten dat een bounty echt kan bederven bijvoorbeeld. Wit uitslaan ok, dat is nog best te eten. Maar zuur?

We gaan het vast veel hebben over het nut van ontwikkelingssamenwerking. En over hoe erg je boft als je niet in sub-Sahara Afrika bent geboren als dochter van analfabete casave boeren. En uiteraard gaan we formeel uitgedost bitterballen en paling eten tussen de ambassadeurs op koninginnedag. Waarna we wellicht nog afzakken tot het gepeupel dat bier drinkt op het echte feest. Klik trouwens even op de link, hij is grappig.

Ik hoop maar dat ze echt komen. Want deze week wilde ik eigenlijk het liefst even naar huis om mijn oma een knuffel te geven. Alleen is er plotseling iets in haar hoofd gebeurd waardoor ze misschien dat vlak daarna zich al niet meer herinnert. Maar ik weet niet of dat wat uitmaakt eigenlijk.

My secret lists

I love making lists. Somewhat neurotic and I never use them in the end, but they clear my mind. To do lists, list of people I need to call, grocery shopping list, list of favorite baby names (no concrete plans). Lately I have started daydreaming about my list of potential new duty stations I want to opt for when my contract ends in 2011. All in consultation with my supportive love of my life by the way. Utrecht also features on this list, although I think that is the only one we don’t agree on and has no UNICEF office.

There is one more list I regularly add on that I will share with you in a minute. I am obsessed with all the things I once want to do in my life. But most of them I can’t do at the moment. Life is pretty straightforward and easy here. Options on what to do on the weekends are limited to beach, pool, watch movies, hang out with friends and stay in bed. Occasionally I’ll go search the town for good wine or yogurt, but that is it really.

Thanks to steady supply and a great rotation system, I read quite a few Dutch magazines and books though. And there my obsession starts. So many things I once want to do that I shouldn’t forget about! You guys do them first and let me know which ones to keep. Enjoy!

- See the northern light, perhaps go to my sister's boyfriends cottage in Lofoten, the remotest place on earth in the north of Norway
- take the Blote Voeten Wandeling (take a bare foot walk)
- learn to dance the tango, learn how to properly give a massage, figure out photoshop finally
- Go to Berlin for a long weekend
- Drive through Namibia with one of these jeeps with a tent on the roof
- Leave more surprises for Taco around the house like little notes or funny presents
- Call in sick more often and go roller-blading in the dunes with a picnic in my backpack
- Don’t go to Zara and H&M anymore but buy a proper ladylike wardrobe. I think I have to open up a special savings account for my Scandinavian clothes fetish.
- Make my new favorite salad with smoked trout, black lentils, walnuts, goat cheese, avocado, lettuce, dried cranberries, pickles, cherry tomatoes, shallots and vinaigrette.
- Go on a night safari with a forester in the Hoge Veluwe
- Learn to take pictures like these so they give me that job

To be continued and I'm happy to hear your suggestions of things-not-to-forget-to-once-do.

Why Nigerian soaps are the best

I can really understand why rockstars eventually always trash their hotel rooms and throw their guitars out of the window. Not that I’m suddenly a rockstar, or that I’m planning on trashing my room. I’m just saying I understand. Spent quite some time in hotels the past two months and I am about to throw the broken Chinese airconditioner (with only Chinese characters on the remote control) out of the window. Or the pillow that smells like the dirty armpit of the last guest before me. Or the tv with the 5 local channels (a priest, a Nigerian soap opera, old football match from the 70ties, advertisement and one more Nigerian soap opera).

The soaps are the only programmes I really enjoy here. Although I have no clue what they are saying (honestly, I still am not sure whether it’s English with a real heavy accent that the are speaking or Hausa or another local language), they are fun and no actual understanding of the language is needed. It always involves stealing, ghosts and miracles, some violence, long pauses with dramatic looks when she walks into the bedroom and the husband is sleeping with someone else and long chasing of the bad guy. The secret code for a bad, slutty woman is when she smokes. There is no secret code for a bad man as they all seem to be stealing, lying, cheating sexists. The women are usually quite fat in my western European opinion. Which might partly be the reason why I prefer these programmes over America’s Next Top Model whilst eating my chocolate and banana’s for dinner.

6 months anniversary in Ghana today! And my blog may not always reflect this as I seem to prefer to write about the weird or slightly annoying things that happen, but I'm really liking it here. Including the complete chicken leg with all the little toes and long nails still on it in my soup today.

Camembert bags

Alright, so after all the dreams coming true and all that, I landed again with a big big bang in Kotoka International Airport, Accra this morning. People gave the pilot a big hand of applause, praised the Lord for the safe flight and mumbled some prayers before switching on their phones and starting to fight to get off the plane. I caught myself saying “oh my God thank God” as well, as landing with big bangs is not my favorite.

Darling roommate Carole came to pick me up and took me out for coffee which was a much better welcome than hassling with a taxi driver. And now I’m back, just unpacked my extra suitcase stuffed with new clothes, camembert and parmesan cheese. Like me, from all over the world my fellow UNICEF JPO’s (Junior Professional Officers) had brought long lists of what food they wanted to bring back to Georgetown, Sudan, Timor etc. Some seem to live under pretty rough conditions, but others are based on the Fiji islands, which can not be too much of a hardship post. It was great to hear all of their stories and learn that even in Fiji people get frustrated with their job sometimes.

I developed some renewed appreciation for my own duty station, hearing about their safety restrictions, evacuations for medical reasons, regular car jacking and use of panic buttons in their houses (although I have one as well, which has only been used once when Taco thought he was switching on the light. In a few minutes half the Ghanaian army showed up at our door. We were quite impressed).

So, I’m back. Will pour myself a glass of red wine tonight and eat some cheese.

On another note; I have had a few complains about not writing this blog in Dutch anymore. Sorry about that guys, but according to statistics around 30 % of my readers now is from all over the world. I wonder who these people are and why they are interested in my futilities, but I like the idea :-)

Country girl in Manhattan

On the plane I had lots of time to think. I assumed there would be little televisions in all seats and I was all excited about the movies I was going to watch but no. No tv, and I didn't bring a book, so plenty of time for seated yoga and meditation practices and when I was done with that another 9 hours and a half for reflections.

Half way across the Atlantic I realized I have fulfilled my dreams. That might sound dramatic, but dramatic it is. After all, how often do you think about all you wished for before and how these dreams came true?

I remember the first time I came to New York and I was standing on the Empire State Building looking over the massive city, the tiny little yellow cabs and the pretty park. Different life, different love and long time ago. I remember pointing at the UN building, dreaming about working there and thinking it would be nearly impossible to get in and do so.

And here I am, little county girl, always scared that she is not smart enough. Now I'm eating my take away food while watching the little twinkling lights of Manhattan across the river. I know my way around on the subways and walk 30 blocks on sneakers with my heels in my bag and with a coffee to go like I live here. I enter a skyscraper office, take the elevator up to the 22 floor and feel like I really do and don't belong here at the same time.

But now that I think about it, I do still have something to wish for. I wish my soulmate was here with me instead of the fact that he just took off on a plane to Amsterdam. I wish he was still here to squeeze my arm and come up with new dreams. I even wish I was on that plane too at the moment. I think I might even enjoy reading the sky magazine 3 times, watching old mr Bean shows (I do really hate those though) or sit next to screaming kids. My new dream might involve a bike ride on the Dutch dikes on Eastern Monday, baking apple pies and telling everyone how great NYC was back in the days.

Star Bucket shower

Almost 6 months here and I haven’t even been possessed by an evil spirit or daemon. I haven’t seen a ghost either. I think most Ghanaians would not believe me, as this happens to them all the time apparently. Also, I haven’t eaten the local delicacy, grass cutter. That is a rat indeed, thank you. Plus I haven’t taken a bucket shower. So much for integration.

And now I’m off to the US, planning to fully integrate in the life of a New Yorker. I will go for runs at the Hudson riverside and Central Park. I’m going to hit the jazz clubs, salad bars and delicious sushi places, go to museums at 10 o’clock at night and stay awake 24 hours if possible. Thanks to homeexchange.com we even got our own little apartment in the Big Apple. Hopefully the guy who will stay at our place is not too psycho. After all, I have been assured that evil spirits and daemons do exist.

Second half of this year though, when I get back, I plan to take a bucket shower and integrate a bit more in the non-expat life of Ghana. I think it’s time to get off my big African booty (I’m getting compliments lately, for real, not too sure whether I like it or not). Sometimes I feel I’m completed isolated in my AC cold little world from reality. Although the daily power cuts and water shortages remind me of the life outside my house, car and office. Maybe a bite of a tiny tiny little rat to start with will help. But please don’t send me bad vibes by some kind of scary voodoo witch if I don’t keep this promise.

Goodbye to my best friends

For the past months I have seen them almost every day. I have been so engaged in their lives, I can’t even imagine living without them anymore. They are my friends and I will miss them so much. It’s really unfair, and I wasn’t prepared at all, even though I knew that eventually they would leave me alone here.

I want to know what is going on, how they are doing, how the kids are doing. And most of all, I want to know how Adam is doing after all what happened. And will Karen and David stay together? And how about Jenny and Pete? I really hope Jo is happy in Australia.

Some of you might think that in this time of emailing and cheap phone calls staying in touch is not too difficult. But it is though. And I’m sure that others felt the same way as I do now. The others that have been friends with them as well. Please tell me I will get over it. And please tell me there will new episodes of Cold Feet. I’m grieving and staying in bed today.

Story of a Sinner

For someone who comes from a family that has not been to church for the past 3 generations at least, Ghana can be a bit difficult. I think even before those 3 generations, some of my ancestors might have been either communists, - also not very known for their spiritual interests- or a drunk whose job it was to light the street lights in the evening. Or so I heard. But that particular great great grandfather doesn’t sound like a regular in church either. (by the way, I come from a very sophisticated background as you can see)

Anyhow, for a sinner like me, understanding ‘fun’ in Ghana can be complicated. Fun is not dancing with your friends, going out for beers or parties, going away for weekends at the beach or hiking in the mountains. Fun is going to church. If you are lucky for at least 4 hours. And fun is going to funerals. Which basically means lots of food for free. I have been invited many times already to go to church though, and I’m actually quite tempted to wake up early one Sunday morning. My colleague really wants me to go to Ghana International Gospel Church with him. That sounds like it might be even a little bit of fun. I swear to God, I will go once I have a confession to make.

No need for google translation today

Since a few months I am the proud Owner of A Car. I am so proud that if I were a man you’d say the car compensates the length of my penis. But for a woman that is a bit of a weird thing to say. And besides, I wouldn’t know what I should be compensating in length, although in fact I would love legs like Julia Roberts.

Anyhow, all I want to say really is that I’m very happy with it. I even plan to post a picture of the thing on this blog sometime soon. Although most people I know own cars and they might think it’s not so special after all. But these people certainly don’t have the nice overview on the road like in my car. Or perhaps they don’t have an ipod thingy in their radio. Or electric role down windows or a functioning AC which are life saving gadgets here on the equator. Since a few weeks I know on which side of the car I can find the fuel tank. Honestly, that took me quite a while, but at least now I know how to park it at the filling station.

Besides how to park a car, I found out some other interesting stuff lately. Apparently people in the north of Ghana think one breast is full of milk and the other one is full of water. That’s why sometimes they give their babies tea. Other intersting phenomenon has been that today my colleagues forced me to dance to a 15 minutes song about how I love the Lord and praise him. Never thought I would do that. And last extraordinary event of today is that my friend Sofie who moves back to Danmark in a few months just cleaned her house herself for the first time in 3 years. She is trying to pre-integrate into Danish society and adjusting to no cook, no maid, no gardener, no driver and no personal trainer. If I were her I’d reconsider.

Walk like an Egyptian Part 2