You don't know the Thing. I'm teaching you the Thing

Small girl. I love it when people call me that here. Much better than ‘Obruni’ (white man) , or ´Mama´, or worse ´White´. ´Hey White, you can´t park here´ (random men on the street who decide they have a say in where I can park). Imagine saying that the other way around. Or ´Mama, please, something small for your friend´ , (those poor boys that take you by surprise splashing water on your window at the traffic light and wash the car).

But lately, I have been a bit confused. Whenever someone calls me small girl they add ´you don´t know the ting´, look me up and down and smile . What is that supposed to mean I kept wondering for a while. What Ting, or Thing? And I would just smile politely. Innocence is bliss.

But then I read this report on teenage pregnancies. The last page included recommendations from district education officers on how to prevent teenage pregnancies which is a huge problem here, causing girls to drop out of school. At first it made me furious as one of the suggestions was that girls should be wearing more proper clothes, so teachers (!) and boys were less tempted. Sure. I´m not even going to comment on that one as this argumentation upsets me too much.

Another recommendation was that the song ´ Small girl, you don´t know the thing´ should be banned from the radio as it causes bad behaviour. That, of course, triggered me and I did a little google search. And now I hear this song everywhere on the radio. And even though the video is provocative and as an educationalist that tries to improve gender sensitive schools I shouldn´t approve it, it gives a fairly good impression why they give me dirty smiles these days when calling me small girl. And it´s a master class in some lovely dirty Ghanaian dancing. Enjoy.

Saturday nights Accra-style

Living in a somewhat boring city full of expats results in two things. One: many people start binge drinking. Two: people look for entertainment in various other ways, eg watching all episodes of Cold Feet in one weekend, train for marathons, develop a passion for baking or –my favorite- organize costume parties. Never in your life would you have time to sew an outfit and look for accessories for weeks in different markets. And considering that most of my friends moved here with one or two suitcases with boring work clothes, it’s not easy to dress like an Alice in Wonderland character, Don Draper or one of his classy ladies, a Cowboy, Chinese Year of the Rabbit, a Ghanaian Chief or a Rubik Cube.

But here, with all the help cooking, ironing, washing, cleaning, driving you, there is plenty of time for such fun things. And people really go out of their way. Just sharing some of the gems:








So after my delicious nespresso this morning (seriously, after 2 years of watery nescafe this new gadget produces liquid gold!) I'm on a mission today to find a water pistol for my cowboy outfit for Friday's party.

But before you may think that dressing up is restricted to bored expats: I'm taking my (cowboy) hat off to my friends who managed AGAIN to get into this super expensive but fun 3 day Dutch music festival for free. Last year dressed up as bee-keepers, this year they are "grass-specialists" keeping the grass at the festival fit and green even after thousands are dancing on it. Sure. Oh and the grass-specialist on the left is marrying us next summer.

Community Vocational Training Centre Nima

BlackStar Masterplan

Net nu ik al weer me langzaam aan het voorbereiden ben op een leven zonder constante 30 graden, maar in de regen op de fiets en zonder ‘eeeiiih small girl, you look fiiiiine-oooohh’ en andere lieflijk Ghanees commentaar op straat, bedenkt mijn fiancé op de valreep een slinkse truuk om ons voorgoed aan Ghana te binden. Hij heeft zich begeven in de wondere wereld van kvk nummers, investeringen, proto-types en importbelastingen en werkt met een tomeloze energie aan de uitvoering van het masterplan “Taco en zijn vriend en zakenpartner Sebastiaan worden miljonair’. En wel door alle yuppen en aanverwanten van Amsterdam en omstreken een hippe duurzame fiets van bamboe te verkopen. Geproduceerd in Ghana door Ibrahim de vrolijke dreadlock Ghanees en zijn werknemers die daar een goed salaris voor krijgen.

















Dit masterplan kan ik uiteraard alleen maar ondersteunen, zeker aangezien ik straks op Taco’s zak ga teren. Maar voor de fietsen in grote getalen te vinden zullen zijn, moet er wel eerst wat geld geïnvesteerd worden. En aangezien ik mijn spaargeld wil bewaren voor een bruiloftsfeest en inrichting van nieuw huis en andere kleinburgerlijke dingen moet het durfkapitaal gewonnen worden in de ASN Bank duurzaam ondernemen wedstrijd. En daarvoor, lieve lezers, heb ik jullie nodig. Voor een stem op dit goeie plan, zodat de concurrentie teleurgesteld zal afdruipen na dit massieve stemmingsoffensief. En zodat ik niet op maandagochtend gratis hoef te trouwen met een Nibbit chips ring om daarna mijn tent onder de Magere Brug op te slaan. Ga daarom please please even naar deze website en stem op dit project (NB je kan ook fan worden, maar het gaat uiteindelijk om de stemmen, dus vergeet niet te stemmen).

En koop straks natuurlijk ook zo’n mooie fiets als ze echt in productie zijn. Want fietsen in de regen is misschien niet zo, maar je zal wel nageroepen worden dan: ‘eeeiihh coole gast/chick, wat heb jij een mooie fiets-heeeey!

Snakes or fluffy towels

Rainy season at a refugee camp: tents flood, the mud is up to your knees, your clothes don't dry, snakes like to stay warm in your tent, textbooks in schools get wet and children are coughing and sneezing and can't hear what the teacher says because the rain is pouring so loud on the roof. And yet the kids keep laughing and make fun of these two white girls who try to entertain them teaching them songs in strange languages and do little dances and clapping games with them as there is nothing else to do and nowhere to go.

No high-level cluster meeting, no coordination meeting or joint fundraising proposal to write, but just being stuck in a classroom for hours as the rain just would not stop. At the end of the day I got into the white car, drove to my hotel full of dry, fluffy towels and felt awful and strengthened at the same time. And ashamed. My government is cutting funds that should be going to these children. Hand clapping games and silly Dutch songs will not get them anywhere in life and they deserve better. For crying out loud.

Shorts from Makola

Makola market is a city on its own. You can buy everything you could possibly think of (ok, maybe not an iPad or real Louis Vuitton bag, but anything else, from Chinese Christmas decorations to pink toilet paper with My Little Pony on it to cute woolly puppies you want to take home and cuddle). It’s a mess of tiny, dodgy streets, overcrowded multi storey buildings and shady businesses. People die here under the stairwell and babies get born in dark little sheds in the maze. It smells like warm garbage and open gutter and you can get a haircut everywhere on the street or be blessed by a voodoo priest at the same corner. So, yes, always a nice Saturday morning activity to go there.

In one of the container shops I tried on two pairs of shorts. Trying on clothes here is always a recipe for disaster. More often than not you won’t even be able to put it on, as your skin is too sticky and sweaty and the dress gets stuck around your head, zippers don't move and you think you are going to faint behind that see-through sheet that is actually defining the fitting room but is really the sheet that covers the toilet. But anyway, I managed to try on two pairs of shorts.

‘Which one should I take’ I sort of mumbled out loud while looking at both of them. The girls in the shop didn’t hesitate. ‘The blue one makes your booty look waaaaay bigger’. For a moment I was confused. But then again I realised I have had this happen before and how much I love this country. ‘But is that good or bad’, I asked, just to be sure. ‘Madam, of course that’s good. Take the blue one, men like big booties not small small booties’. And so I did. Leaving behind my gym membership card, and secretly sticking out my bottom a bit more while bringing back my shoulders.