Elvis moves on the work floor

Work meetings here often have a slow start. First you do introductions of participants. Then you pray, you listen to opening statements by important people. Or semi-important people who can not be by-passed. By the time you talk business people are sleepy, read the newspaper under the table, or full-out sleep, leaning on one arm, not even trying to hide their closed eyes.

But then there are Energisers! The best thing ever. I used to think energisers were drinks that made you run longer. But I learned here energisers are way more fun than some sugary drink.

An energiser here means that one of the participants volunteers and does either a funny dance, sings a song or makes people write their name with their hips. This last one is my favourite as for most people this looks like some exaggerated Elvis moves or some very unsubtle reference to sex and of course this causes a lot of laughter.

Interestingly, nobody is bailing out and all participants fanatically follow the leader in front of the group. If you’d do the same thing in a meeting with Dutch government people I'm guessing they would get nervous and say there is no way they will participate in such a childish thing. Truth is they are scared they can not dance of course. And that’s because we don’t dance enough around the bonfire.

I won’t withhold today’s energiser from you. We could stay in our seats though. It was a story.

"A boy was of the right age and wanted to get married. He found a nice lady and presented her to his father. But the father said; "oh sorry, you can’t marry her. She is your sister". His father had had some sort of affair and she was the result. (*all participants laugh out loud*)

So the boy went away and found a new lady. But when he presented her to his father he got the same response. “You can’t marry her, she is your sister too”. (*at this point all participants laugh out even louder*)

The boy was sad but he found a new lady. But again, the father said she was also his sister. So the boy was getting desperate and went to his mother and told her the whole story. But the mother said; “oh son, don’t worry be happy. You can marry all three of them because you are not your fathers son”. (*Participants stay quiet and make upset noises*).

But at least, they were all wide awake. A story about sex did the trick today, but I'm hoping to learn a sexy dance in tomorrow's meeting :-)

Camping with UNHCR

A refugee camp gives you much food for thought. Not only the obvious thoughts like ‘wow this is really really sad’ or ‘wow imagine this was me living here and my only belongings were that bag of dirty clothes’. But also ‘oh my God, what should we do’. And ‘oh my God, I never knew refugees could be difficult and demanding’. 

In a country where many people still live on less than a dollar and 25 cents a day it is hard to expect the Ghanaians to be really welcoming to even more poor people from Ivory Coast to share the scares resources with. Yet, that doesn’t even seems to be the problem at the moment. Surprisingly one of the ministers even warmly welcomed them last week. But some Ivoirians are somehow under the assumption that they will get a nice house when they get here. So when they see the UNHCR tents on the hot and dusty camp site, they refuse to get out of the bus. And they don’t like the maize and beans and would rather eat cassava and complain about this. Everybody who reads this blog regularly knows that I am not a huge fan of most Ghanaian local dishes. I guess I just never had imagined I had something like that in common with a refugee from a country where they possibly chop off your head with a big knife…

Crappy buses and trucks older than mankind, loaded with hundreds of people and tons of colourful luggage on the roof cross the border with Ghana each day now. They slowly make their way through the potholes in the road and dangerously lean towards one side sometimes, almost tipping over. People’s heads and arms stick out of the windows as there are way too many of them on one bus. Nobody but some UN cars drive the other way, towards Ivory Coast. It’s mainly women and children who are coming. Their husbands stayed behind to protect their property or fight back home. When I was looking at the choked border town I suddenly felt propelled from nice and quiet Ghana, where people pray to Allah and God hand in hand and couldn’t be bothered to fight each other because of their ethnic group or political affiliation, into the reality and results of a brutal conflict in the neighbouring country. Women and children fleeing their homes because they are scared to be raped. Or scared somebody may kill them. 

Walking around in the camp was a bit embarrassing. Many UN agencies and organisations had been walking around there already and I was afraid another white car and another white face raised expectations that could not be met even higher. I wanted to talk to people but was scared they would ask me for things I couldn’t give to them. Some people said ‘thank you’ which was even more embarrassing as I haven’t done anything. Then a little boy and his two sisters invited me in their tent as le soleil was too hot the boy said. There was nothing in their tent but some blankets and a sleeping baby. In my poor French I asked him about his school at home. It had been closed for a long time he said, but he used to have books at home to study. His favourite subject was history. And I realised that, besides the different food preferences, liking history was my second thing in common with this little boy. And that we should really quickly get 10.000 copies of the set of French textbooks we have in the office and distribute them.

Mollen

Ik weet wie de Mol is. En dat is een verschrikkelijke RAMP. Want ik ben nog maar bij aflevering 4 op uitzendinggemist. Iedereen die niet Wie is de Mol kijkt zal hierover zijn schouders ophalen en wellicht zeggen dat die kernreactors die telkens bijna ontploffen in Japan pas echt een ramp zijn. Maar echt, jullie vergissen je. Prioriteiten mensen, serieus. En het is nog mijn eigen schuld ook. Had ik maar aan het werk moeten gaan op deze maandagochtend in plaats van een rondje maken langs al mijn favoriete blogs.

Ik las alleen de eerste zin –Patrick is de Mol- en de grond zakte onder me weg. NEEEJ. NEEHEEE. Hoe kan ik mijn hersenen wissen? Hoe zat het ookal weer met de Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind? Dilemma is of ik nu toch nog verder zal kijken. Dat klinkt eigenlijk als tijdsverspilling. Maar ik zat me juist zo verschrikkelijk te verheugen op dat ik vanmiddag naar huis ga en weer achter mijn laptop kruip voor een aflevering. Het is een beetje als toen ik bijna mijn tentamens niet haalde door het nieuwe boek van Harry Potter. En ik heb het ook gehad met de Ondekking van de Hemel. Het enige waar je aan kan denken is ‘hoe kom ik zo snel mogelijk thuis’ en ‘met welk excuus kan ik mensen zo snel mogelijk de deur uit werken/afpoeieren aan de telefoon’. Ga denk ik toch maar in denial, al is het maar om mijn girls crush Anna Drijver nog wat meer te zien. Maar behoorlijk mislukt is deze maandag al wel. En het is pas kwart over 8.

Oscar for best short film goes to...

Schools in Ghana. Sometimes they are fun and the kids seem happy. But more often after a visit I feel like crying as their eyes are hollow and the teacher’s cane seems to be the only teaching material that is used in the school. As you can see from this video (shot by my fiancé; I cut out most parts where he zoomed in on my legs and other body parts) Ghana is still facing numerous challenges, particularly concerning the quality of education. Due to the rapid increase in school enrolment after the abolishment of school fees, classrooms have become over-crowded in many areas. Half of public primary schools do not have latrines and nearly 40 percent of them do not have running water. Schools generally lack textbooks. Less than 60 percent of primary teachers have had proper professional training. And teachers just make the children repeat, repeat and repeat. Which is clearly not very effective as after 6 years of primary school only 36% can read and write.

But the kids make me smile too. And I really hope that our work contributes to a slowly but steady change in the educational system. A change towards a more child-centred pedagogy which makes the children enjoy learning new things. And a system which helps them develop their full potential, encourages them to participate in class, ask questions and express their opinions. But it’s a long way to go.

Upper East Region I love you

The art of cooking

Seamstresses can make perfectly fitting dresses here, just by looking at your body and looking at a picture of a dress you like in a magazine. And some cooks can do the same thing by looking at a picture of a plate of food or by just reading the menu and assuming what would be the ingredients. But sometimes they make a tiny little endearing mistake. Friend E is American and therefore needs her burgers every once in a while. When we had lunch together last week she ordered a vegetarian burger. But this attempt to be a bit healthier than eating a normal burger turned into a weight watchers meal. She got a bun with a bit of lettuce and ketchup. And no, they didn’t forget the vegetarian burger, because they had no such thing. Friend C had a cook who proudly announced he had made crème caramel for dessert. But really, it was a fried egg with some jam on top. I’m guessing she ate the whole thing not to disappoint or discourage him.

And again, same American friend E was all excited the other day about the cheese nachos with guacamole on the menu. She ordered them, but they were covered with rasped carrot. We wondered how that had happened. After some deliberations (do they like carrots on their nachos here?) we settled on that it must have been the interpretation of the orange cheddar cheese of the picture. We didn’t settle on whether it’s the American's own fault though, as they don’t know how to make cheese. But really, órange?

Honorable title of Mother

In the category of 'wow is this my life? and 'only in Africa' I found myself learning all about birth and delivery today in the UNDP office. Yes, you read that right. In the office, so with colleagues. My dear friend C is leaving Ghana tonight to go deliver her baby in Canada, but not before her female colleagues had thrown her a surprise baby shower. And surprising it was.

Where normally people here get already all giggly by even the slightest suggestion of sex and are uncomfortable seeing a little glimpse of underwear peaking over your pants, today we openly discussed all there is to know. Men were ordered to leave the room and about 25 women gathered in a circle. And while friend C's face was getting paler every minute, the UN nurse took us carefully through all the steps.

She started off with saying that sex during pregnancy was fine, as it was ok to 'water the tree a little' now and then. (husband D, the only man who -as an exception- was allowed to stay in the room was still laughing at this point). But as the nurse went on with detailed descriptions of what happens when you push too much, scissors and other vivid characteristics of contractions and labour, he also started to look as if he had put too much baby powder on his face.

The nurse concluded her advise with saying that after delivery friend C would love her own mother even more, but that it will all be fine and she will earn the honorable title of Mother that 'you just won't get for nothing'. Then it was time for presents, some fried chicken and hugs. And I realised that's how they do it here. No doctors, no special yoga classes, no million books on what to expect when you are expecting. Just a group of women with experience introducing young women into the secret society of those women who have already done it.

Friend C did not hear anything she didn't know yet as her iphone gives her all the details she needs, but the attempt was very sweet. And she will have the best of both worlds, going home now to the comforting luxury of good hospitals and healthcare. But I wonder when the time is there whether she will also think about the lovely advises from her African sisters.