Below I have dropped in the group emails I wrote in the first 4 months of my sabbatical. This is as much for my own reference and for somewhere to keep the text as anything. I won't go kidding myself that a single sod on this earth will ever read the full content of this blog. I certainly won't.
January 14th, 2006 - Ghana
Benoo
Hello everyone
I'm here – Tamale, Northern Ghana! So much to say, so I won't say much. So far I've seen the poorest parts of the capital of the poorest country in the world (Ouagadougou, Burkina Faso) and found there only smiley people doing very smiley people things - chatting, playing games, arguing, crashing their bikes. Somehow very normal indeed and bloody friendly to boot. Also in Ouaga, Mum's friend Mariam's husband, Joanny Traore (a famous Burkina Fason film director, or so he tells me), spent the day giving me something of a tour, including his very laid back indeed production studios, where I fell asleep in the courtyard while his staff made us all green tea – Chinese, very thick, very sweet, very sickly, very nice (tea not staff).
Two bottles of local lager got me drunker than I'd expected that night (which was silly as all I'd eaten since landing was a lump of dry fish on cous-cous) and on Thursday morning I tried to take a simple 4 hour bus journey down into Ghana and Tamale.
28 hours later I arrived, after various shenanigans at customs, where our bus and all of our luggage (by this time I'd befriended Eric, a Brit on VSO in the village of Bongo) went missing for about 3 hours. The driver also got sick ( i.e. bored and not in the mood for driving back at night) and negotiations to find a replacement were even more heated than the rows over how much duty should be paid for all the spring onions stuffed in the boot of the bus. Finally a driver was secured, showed the basics of how a bus works and off we went. He left the door open as we drove away, which wasn't very reassuring, and 15 minutes later he failed to slow down in time for a police barrier - we smashed right through it. Bus broken, lots of shouting, a huge debate over weather the liquid all over the road was water or petrol (it was water – I sniffed it), an incredible stroke of luck that a friendly local wanted to give us a lift to Bolga where we'd find a hotel, followed by a row between him and Eric once we were in Bolga over how he now wanted to charge us well over the odds when nobody else in the car was paying a thing. His 'taxi' also got a puncture, which was my fault apparently… Anyway. Dodgy hotel, no sleep, then Abudulai's friend (I could be talking about anyone south of the North Pole, I think…) gave me a lift as she and colleagues were passing through Bolga on their way back to Accra after lobbying politicians in Niger to do more about gun trafficking into Ghana.
A petrol station in Burkina Faso
Tamale. Straight to the project, meeting Musah and Samed (both very nice, cool, friendly, run Rains and will be looking after me), then to the house – I've jumped, I know, and really landed on my feet. Again I can thank Abudulai for this. It's a 5 bed place just out of town, all walled in and very peaceful. I have my own loo and shower. There's even someone who opens the gate when you approach. He has a machete too, in case you're not someone he wants to open gates for. There's a telly here, a phone, two big fridges and its really very good indeed. I am lucky. There are two Americans staying here aswell at the moment, strangely called Mara and Marit. They're doing some special project linking kids in Boston with kids here, and will be gone in 10 days, but in the meantime they're kindly letting me use their laptops and internet arrangements, so that's pretty good too.
Today is Saturday which means Keep Fit football in town in the morning. Kick off at 6.30. I was there and will probably be there again tomorrow. Every Saturday and every Sunday, first thing, before it gets too hot. Tough playing on sand though – my calves are sore. Meanwhile, I'm sure you'll tell me it isn't the done thing to turn up on your first full day in town, strip off to display your luminous white skin, hairy back and wobbly belly, play in sand for the first time but still put in an extraordinary performance in the hole just off the front two, scoring 4 and making 2 in a 6-2 trouncing, all while running rings round the opposition's star player? And I'd agree. So I opted for being very sweaty, getting tired after about 10 minutes, touching the ball about 8 times in the hour (never running with it), falling over twice and getting kicked three times. It was fun though (and I did score, as it happens, but we lost).
So there we go. That's it really. Had a meeting yesterday at the project to determine a 4 week plan of action that looks set to take in Morris dancing and radio presenting. Which reminds me – Ben H, when you come out, can you bring a dozen stout staffs, a dozen sets of whites, a job lot of jingly bells and some braces please? That should see us right for the dance display and football gala two days before you leave….
And you think I'm joking.
January 21st - Ghana
That's Chief, to you...
Kawula! [Hello, how are you?]
If you're a Comic Reliefer then go and say this to Abudulai. If he's fine then he should say "Alaafay". Here's hoping he says 'Alaafay'.
This is a big email. Its Friday 20th and the end of an intense week that's been at times draining, exciting, inspiring and demoralizing, but never dull. Here are just a couple of the many things that have come my way since Saturday that might be of interest…
On Tuesday morning Shaibu and I went to teach a lesson on community mapping to a junior school of 60 in a nearby rural area.
The building was basic, to say the least, most of it uncompleted. Just six simple rooms in a row, four with walls, only two of those four with roofs. None with equipment. None with lights. None with water. I met the school's founder, the headmaster, and three teenage helpers, themselves still schoolkids.
The lesson was fun, though I'm not sure how productive. There was chaos when I tried to organize them into groups, and delirium when I played a local game, passing rocks around a circle on the floor. But they drew good maps and we gave out glittery pencils to the best group of map-drawers, and Shaibu left them with the simple message that setting fire to scrubland in your community is bad because everything on the map you drew will be burned, including your family and all your friends (tough words, I though, but there's been a lot of fire-starting round here lately, mostly by young kids playing/hunting).
That was a rough experience, things I'd never seen. Distended bellies, tiny kids face down in the middle of the school path, too tired for now to go further, most in clothes that exist only in my world as rags for mopping up oil when the car's been having a hissy fit. But again I couldn't say they seemed unhappy. Perhaps novelty me helped, but they were a smiley bunch too, and for two minutes, when all the teachers and Shaibus were fussing outside like only grown ups can outside, the 61 juveniles inside enjoyed some cross-language silliness, me mimicking one boy's posture and movements until he beamed to life and started mimicking mine, then of course the whole room was playing – giggling chaos. That was nice. (Headteacher came in and told us all to be quiet. I felt dead naughty)
Its an odd thing though, to finally actually see children that hungry, having only of course seen them on the telly before, with that nice Mr Burke. In the flesh, and up close, there's just no mistaking that type of swollen tummy with the type of swollen tummy I often vainly peer at in the mirror, while debating sit-ups and pricey gym memberships.
Anyway. That evening saw another Welcome Match For Uncle Ben (I'd already captained the under 12s boys team to a titanic 1-1 draw against the senior girls team on Monday). Again I stood tall among the junior boys, this time to face the senior team, on a pitch scarred with ditches, bushes, guinea fowl and rocks (of a size you might chock a plane's wheels with). One of the helpers at the school that morning had been Olu, and he was here this evening as senior team goalie, an extremely charming bloke and about 6'5" tall. I had told Olu at the school that I would put 3 past him that evening, and that my little 11 year old friend Okocha would score another 3, and that I was sorry in advance for humiliating him and his teammates in front of their elders.
When half time came, we, the juniors, were 2-0 down (some of the seniors had taken to sitting down when a teammate had the ball) and my presence had helped that score line only insofar as I gave the ball away for their opener. Anyway, everyone seemed happy, and I was exhausted – just pleased to get into the shade, out of the dust, off my feet. (Shaibu told me before the game that I was to play the first half and enjoy the second from the sidelines, with the elders.)
Unfortunately Coach Shaibu changed his mind, determined that my pride should be restored and that I should end up on the winning team. So back on I came, rejoining the teams in the centre circle while Shaibu barked substitution instructions at both teams, apparently confusing the hell out of everyone. And after a couple of minutes play I could see just why. I can now guess that what had been barked was something along the lines of "Mr Carpenter has come a bloody long way to be with us and it's a huge honour and so he's bloody well gonna score, and his team, the juniors, are bloody well gonna win, so give him the ball whenever you can, but subtly, so he doesn't notice what we're engineering – THAT INCLUDES YOU, SENIORS… GIVE MR CARPENTER THE BALL WHENEVER YOU CAN, AND DON'T TACKLE HIM, OR MARK HIM. And yes, I know we've brought on an extra player for you juniors and have taken off one of the seniors, now stop going on about it…"
And so followed an utterly cringe-making 30 minutes of football – 10 men reluctantly trying to help 12 boys to score three goals – everyone's sporting integrity retired hurt. The senior team may only be teenagers, but they're bloody good, bloody strong, incredibly fast, and they obviously don't know how to lose. I really felt awful for them being ordered to degrade themselves for me.
While awaiting a corner my poor marker said to me "Don't worry. I'm not marker. You score…", and wandered off! I had to physically manhandle him back into position between me and the goal! Two minutes later and the ball went bouncing tamely into Olu's area – he caught it. Shaibu blew his whistle - "Penalty!!!" I hid, laid in a ditch, tried to blend in with the guinea fowl, made like a rock, but he found me and I had to take the kick. Olu didn't move. 1-2.
The last 20 minutes were equally uncompetitive but I couldn't contrive to score a goal that wouldn't have insulted the seniors, despite Olu twice rolling the ball to my feet on the edge of his area. In fact, at the death our opponents finally ran out of ways to miss. Final score: 3-1 to the seniors. [I know some of you will think I should've done all I could to get them the victory they wanted for me, but it seemed so contrived andunnecessary – I ended up marking my markers and playing first time passes every time. Sorry, but it was awkward, you know!?]
So that's it really. Well, it isn't. Much else has happened, but I'm aware this is now an enormous email, so I'll stop. Sorry – I've often resented these massive, indulgent, waffling emails from people off on their travels, but now that I'm here doing it myself I can see how easy they are to prattle off, so resent away, I suppose! But if you do want to hear how I've been offered (and will now probably accept) honorary chieftaincy in a nearby region, along with a title and over 100 football pitches of land to do with as I please, or how big the bug was I fought with yesterday (it was much like the scene in King Kong where our hairy hero fights off the giant mozzy things), then just ask.
I hope all's well for you and yours, wherever you are, be that Blighty or beyond.
Love
Ben
P.S. Ben H – no need to bring the morris dancing equipment. I've told them you'll demonstrate bodypopping and need only a mauve shell-suit.
P.P.S. If you're anywhere near Abudulai, check he has everything he needs.
January 27th, 2006 - Ghana
That's 'Zhi Sung Naa', to you...
Another extraordinary week in this extraordinary place…
Afternoon all,
PLEASE NOTE – There are two versions of this email - one that my parents will see and one that they won't (Booth boys note that this includes your parents too). Due to the next couple of paragraphs, this is the one they won't. Thanks in advance for keeping this between us…
My parents' version won't mention how a week ago Wednesday I came down with malaria and ended up in a local hospital, semi-conscious, on a drip for about 3 hours, nor how for the week following I did little but remain housebound, swallowing nameless pills, emptying my bowels and becoming too familiar with the toilet wall (it is plain white, but with a few interesting cracks and marks).
Exactly 7 days (the minimum incubation period for the malarial parasite) after being bitten by a mosquito on my first day in Africa (back in Burkina Faso) I found myself crawling around the toilet floor at 3 in the morning – feverish panicky mind, hefty stomach ache, sweat dripping from my hair, fluid evacuating my premises via the nearest available exit. I put it all down to the gooey yellow aubergine omelet I'd suffered the night before, and went back to bed. Feeling very much a white-man-whuss, I cried off work with food poisoning, but by the afternoon I could barely lift my head, had put on my fleecy hoody (it was over 30C out) and texted my host to get me to the hospital.
It was an interesting place, Tamale hospital, and, most 'interesting' of all, I'm told it's the best hospital in Northern Ghana. There were goats in reception (Marit told me later), and two TVs, both on full volume, distorting their noise to the middle of my brain. One was showing a Michael Jackson video (the one with the light-up paving slabs). The second was the hospital obituary channel, lamenting recent deaths on-site. You can guess what the young woman on screen had died of, the first and last time I glanced up…
Once I was convinced that all needles were only used once, I was jabbed, tapped (my friend and colleague Musah acting as nurse's assistant, there being no such thing otherwise) and left on a bench behind a screen to soak full of stuff – pints of goo oozing in through the top of my hand. I was well looked after by Doctor Ama, a friend of my host, but it was still significantly less than no fun at all. It was pretty scary turning up to such a run down place as feeble as I was, completely in the hands of a hospital with no bottled oxygen, no sterilizing equipment, no X-ray and whose top two floors have been shut down for years with no money to staff them, let alone clean them.
Before my visit I had thought my colleague Shaibu to be a foolish traditionalist for not taking his broken ankle to the hospital, relying instead on local medicine (a witch doctor) and a really good sit down. Now I can see he may have made the best choice, even though his bones have set out of line and he will never walk properly again, his professional football career over. At the hospital they told me the same as he – they would have cut off his foot. No plaster of Paris, no X-ray, so people are splinted up and hobbled off, or… they lose it. I look now with a whole new fear at the football pitch potholes. I worry that bit more as I dangle without helmet off the back of Shaibu's motorbike, en route cross-country to another remote village school.
I'm better now though, thanks. Pretty well, at least. No football, too feeble, but should be back playing on Saturday – 10 days after getting sick. What amazed me about the whole thing was the speed with which it comes over you. At noon I felt a little fluey, tired, but by 4 I was out of it, a zombie, and in trouble if I didn't have friends with doctor friends, and other friends with cars. Shaibu, bless him, brought me 15 bananas on Thursday, 2 pineapples on Friday, 2 jumbo papaya on Saturday and a dozen oranges on Sunday. I need fruit and rest, he would tell me. Everyone's been lovely, looking after the puny white man, especially Marit and Mara, my American housemates (who've now deserted me), who kept me in water and sane, unstilted
conversation.
Africans react quite differently to malaria, putting me to shame. Assia helps look after this house, and was diagnosed with malaria this morning. As far as I can tell they've given her a couple of paracetemol and told her to put her feet up. Actually… they may not even have told her that, as she was heading here this evening to mop the floor. I told her to put her feet up and she's on the sofa now watching TV…
Bloody awful TV.
Meanwhile, in other mundane news, last week Shaibu brought the messenger for the Chief of the Bohunaili area to the house. They had unbelievable news and it took a good hour to get it through to me – due to the news being unbelievable. In brief, I'm being made a chief…
- The Chief of Bohunaili has decided that I am to be made an honorary chief of the Kumbungu District on Wednesday February 8th. This is called enskinment (because chiefs in northern Ghana sit on animal skins. In the south they sit on thrones, or stools, so there it's called 'enstoolment') and seems to be quite a big deal. I'll be dressed up to the nines in traditional Chiefware, everyone will bow to me, I will be wafted with fronds by fair maidens, the works.
- I have been given a title – Zhi Sung Naa (the Zhi is pronounced like the 'ji' in 'Beijing'), meaning Good Sitting Chief or Well Settled Chief. My land (see below) will be named after me. Well Settled Chief Land, I suppose.
- I'm being given land the size of over 100 football pitches, to do with as I please. If anyone wants to live or earn on my land they must ask me first. Any monies made on the land can be taxed by me.
- On my land I might build my palace (we're not talking Buckingham. A palace here is just the hut the chief lives in, although Shaibu insisted excitedly that it would definitely have air-conditioning. It should also be the biggest hut in the village, but as there are no others this shouldn't be a problem.)
- I visited the Chief yesterday in his palace, surrounded by the village elders, to accept his offer. While at the palace I was given a sheep, to mark the occasion. He shat on my leg while I posed with the Chief for a photo. The bad news is that I'm expected to cook my sheep into a stew and serve him at a celebration do after my enskinment. This is the only way to get the Chief's and elders' blessings into me.
- But I like my sheep and have other plans. I've called him 'Essien' (Michael Essien plays in midfield for Chelsea and Ghana) and given him a home in the yard where he likes to eat Abudulai's expensive bushes and shout a lot. Yesterday he had a family and knew where he was. Now he has me and suspects soupdom. I'd be shouting too. Sure, he shat on my leg in front of the chief. Sure, he shat in the water I gave him, shat on the food I put down for him, generally just shits all over the shop while getting all knotted up in his tether before fighting with me while I untangle him, but he's nice, he's my friend, and I don't know what to do. [Any suggestions on how to avoid making Essien stew most welcome (NB the chief must remain unoffended, the people at the gala must be fed with something they think is Essien stew and Essien himself needs an escape route to sheep freedom. I may have to smuggle him home on the plane as my hairy little brother.)]
So these are just some of the entertaining aspects of being made Chief. What I should also try and convey is the honour of what is happening to me, that it is not something I should or am taking lightly. In many ways it is of course hilarious – went to Africa, got made Chief, wore funny hat, got lots of land, did a bit of a dance, came home. But the chieftaincy system here is incredibly strong and goes back through the centuries as the primary source of rule and governance. This kind of gesture is extremely rare. My children and their children and so on and so on, will inherit the title of Zhi Sung Naa and have the land and that community as their home forever more. It's in the history books of Dagbani and Ghana, or will be, and is above politics to the people here.
I was told today that, while politicians come and go, are chosen for a temporary term, chieftaincy is for all time and can not be moved. Some have apparently bought their way to the status I'm being given, and in other parts of the country people lose their lives for it. Some years ago in the Yendi district of Northern Ghana, there was a serious bout of conflict between the two tribes whose people alternated accession through enskinment. Lives were lost in a night of violence that is yet to be resolved, and, as a point of interest, there has been and will be no celebratory drumming until it is. So no drums at my enskinment.
Anyway, I know I'm going on about it, but I feel it all needs reporting, somehow, that this gesture shouldn't be lost on me. God knows what they think I've done to deserve it. Perhaps it's more a case of what I might do… but that's a suspicious footnote that seems cruel to assume. Ignore it.
Other things – Shaibu and I ran over a dog on our motorbike the other day. We couldn't avoid it without falling off. So… bump, and bump – he brushed under my feet, went silent for a second, then screamed like a human. It was truly horrible. We stopped and looked back, but couldn't have helped. It was dragging itself off to the verge, crying and wailing. I hope he died quickly. Sorry, little dog.
More pleasantly, I'm trying and failing to get sick of pineapple. It's just too gorgeous.
Yesterday Shaibu and I took a feasibly sized class in Savelugu – just 30 or so kids compared to the 80+ we'd tried to handle previously – at a much better funded school than the one I mentioned last week. The classrooms had roofs, boxes of chalk and nobody fell asleep. Unfortunately this also means that my furry pencil giveaways are of much less interest.
So, we've been getting kids to draw maps of their communities, marking down everything important to them – water hole, their house, Chief's house, friend's house, mosque, play area, football pitch, paths, farmland, etc… I draw a map of my home area first, showing them how connected and interdependent everything is. They are asked to think about the same, how their village has various areas and divisions but that it works as a unit, working to provide for all it's people. They get it, it's great, and we give out special pencils to the drawers of the best map, before discussing with them how important it is to not start fires on wasteland (something young kids are doing more and more – for fun and for hunting) as it spreads wildly, destroying one or other of the interconnected components we've asked them to think about, and thereby effecting everyone and everything. The teachers so far have thought it a great lesson, and yesterday we had time to ask the kids if they had any questions for me. They did:
Question 1 – "How many wives do I have?" (I said kind of one)
2 – "Who is my Chief?" (ummm… we have a mayor. Ken Livingstone… maybe the Queen?… Sven Goran Eriksson?)
3 – "Am I Muslim or Christian?" (errr… England isn't as religious as Ghana… errr… I went to a Christian primary school…)
4 – "Is it true that there's no cure for AIDS?" ('fraid so, use a condom…)
5 – "Where did AIDS come from?" (something to do with South American monkeys?! Use a condom…)
6 – "Why do wars start?" (greed. Use a condom…)
"You've been a great audience – good night!" I mean crikey, they were only 10 years old! I thought they might ask what my house was like or whether I knew David Beckham, but this was a vain and shallow supposition. They wanted answers to much more significant questions. Really quite refreshing.
All that said, my digital camera with its little screen is consistently the most exciting thing in the world to children and many adults here. I take a picture, which is fine, then turn the camera to show them themselves on the tiny screen. It causes a stir, every time, and yesterday at that school it nearly started a riot, especially when I filmed them and played it back. Kids were punched to clear a view. I had to call a halt to the screening…
Finally, signing off, this thought struck me the other day, with the help of my sister. We share a time zone, the UK and Ghana. It's the same time, on the same day, same month, everything. Tick tock, look at the clock – that's the time it is here. I wonder if that brings any of my ramblings closer to you? It does to me. I know that sat here typing this its 7.38 a.m., and it's 7.38 a.m. in the UK too, and you're all getting up or thinking about getting up, considering the day's first ablution and feeling glad its Friday… And here in this world that seems so different and distant and is so hot and hungry and vibrant and lacking, I'm only 5 hours flight away. No time at all really – it took me 8 hours to drive home from Manchester once.
And so we're neighbours, in a very real and literal sense. We share a time zone, we share our sunsets and our sunrises – the kids I mentioned in my email before have just slept through the same night that you did. This is a parallel place, not a different place – it's Cardiff or Sheffield or Southwold – not just a lost time zone in a different day. It's a shame there are so many economic borders between us or we might just look out for our neighbours more, in the way people look after their neighbours here. My sister pointed all this out to me, and a penny dropped – just how close we all are.
Ben gets here on Sunday. I look forward to that. It's much more interesting having someone to share things with and this house has got lonely very quickly since the Americans left.
Happy weekends everyone.
February 10th, 2006 - Ghana
Zhi Sung Naa thanks...
So, it's been a while. Are you well? I am, now. Again, I'll warn youand apologise – this is a long email…
News – Essien the Sheep (given to me by the Bohunaili Chief and expected to feed a party after I was made Chief) has been saved! Even across continents I can sense that you're over the moon. How did I manage it, you're wondering? Did I tar and feather his matted hair and throw him over the wall with a "Go now my boy, you're free! Peck that ground! Strut and squawk! They are your family now – you're a guinea fowl, proud and short! NEVER LOOK BACK!"
No. The truth is that a couple of weeks after accepting the Chieftaincy offer, confusion arose and, to a number of people (none of whom seemed to be me) To Chief or Not To Chief? became a pressing question. After much deliberation, Not To Chief came the answer – it was deemed a good idea, politically and against the backdrop of the work I'm doing here, to politely ask for a 'postponement' of my enskinment. It's all fine, the Chief understands (he's coming round for tea on Sunday), no great offence caused, and no need to have a huge kafuffle tomorrow, dressing me up and dancing about and so on. And, of course, no need to eat Essien!*
It would've been fun, of course (the enskinment, not eating Essien) – fascinating and flattering, but to be honest I'm relieved to remain a simple Ben Carpenter. I'm no fan of hierarchy, of labeling one person above another, and will be happie
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