Ghana on the Flip-Side: Malls, Nice Cars, and Boulevards

Update: for those of you alarmed by my last post, my host mother is alive and well! In fact, she “feels strong.” No need to panic, and sorry if I made you worry. I was very worried myself when I wrote that post, and it definitely showed! But I repeat, my Ghana Mama is a-okay and she thanks you for your concern. Now on to more frivolous topics…

This weekend I took a trip to Accra with a co-worker for a wedding, and noticed the same funny feeling I got a few weeks ago at a concert in Tamale, the third largest city in Ghana: I felt like a small-village girl overwhelmed by the big city. Now, this is a strange sensation for me because, although I don’t pretend Edmonton is a gigantic and booming metropolis, it definitely isn’t rural and I’ve been a city-girl all of my life. Being knocked off my feet by glitzy and impressive city slick was a new and uncomfortable feeling!

Peering over my shoulder and leaving New Ebu in the red dust on my way to the big city!

To start the day off, the two hour journey from Cape Coast to Accra turned into a nearly four hour journey. Why, you ask? Was it because of too many goats on the street (GPM > 100)? No. Perhaps a flood had washed away the dirt road. Nope! Okay then, it must have been the bus breaking down in a remote area. Oh ho ho, not even close! The reason the journey nearly doubled in length was simple: traffic. Absolutely packed streets, cars lined up for kilometers in eight lanes, straight-up gridlock at 9 a.m. on a Saturday. It was at this point I began saying “boy, we’re sure a long ways from New Ebu!” to myself, which made me feel especially like a bumpkin yet I still couldn’t help but repeat it many times that day.

After we arrived at the church and other attendees started to filter in, I noticed that all of the girls were impeccably dressed and groomed. Their hair and makeup was immaculate, their dresses matching, and their shoes shiny and heeled. I looked down at my own three cedi (two dollar) sandals which I thought were fancy when I bought them and felt glad that I was wearing a full-length skirt.

I liked her dress so much I asked to take a picture of it. How embarrassing!

After vows, singing, a long and thorough education on how the devil can enter and ruin a marriage, and consuming an unholy amount of sugary beverages, baked snacks, and ice cream, we headed to Accra Mall as it was still early in the afternoon. Before reaching our destination, in the cab ride over I had already snapped about 20 pictures and said “boy, this ain’t nothing like New Ebu” to myself about 50 times. The cars on the smooth, paved roads were mostly new, shiny, and not European write-offs. There were several-story buildings on every street. There was strange and impressive architecture prevalent in buildings that were national theaters and condominiums. There were boulevards separating the roads and traffic controls at every intersection!

Wait, where are we again?

Arriving at the mall, I knew I should brace myself for impact: if you’ve ever heard of reverse culture shock, you’ll know that it should happen when you leave the place you’ve traveled to. However, from what I knew about this mall, I had a suspicion that this could be a small oasis of reverse culture shock packed into 200,000 square-feet of unabashed consumerism. Now, I don’t want you to think I’m a sissy, but walking into the mall’s largest store, “Shop-rite”, I felt my pulse and breath quicken. Too much signage, too many choices, too many people. Luckily, I remembered my training at handling reverse culture shock (even of the pseudo variety) and, with this, was able to relax my breathing and recall faint memories of myself calmly and casually shopping in a center like this oh-so-long ago (well, not that long ago).

Shop-rite! Look here! Lowest Prices! Guaranteed! You're being watched! Take a trolly!! Yum food!

We explored the rest of the mall to discover an abundance of overpriced clothing and accessories, a disproportionate number of lingerie stores, and a movie theatre airing the final installment of Harry Potter, which regrettably, we didn’t see.

After seeing enough of Canada–I mean, Accra Mall, we headed to a relative and lecturer’s house on the University of Ghana campus for dinner before journeying back. The neighbourhood was groomed and surprisingly green, a big change from the red dirt covering the grounds of New Ebu, but hey, we sure weren’t in New Ebu anymore! Pulling up at the house, I felt like I was on the set of an American college comedy, one where the all of the houses are huge and castle-like and white. The lecturer`s house was huge and castle-like and white. Thankfully, the family had prepared fufu and groundnut soup with fried fish, all of which I was able to eat with my hands (actually just my right hand). This reminder of village living helped to stave of the pseudo-reverse-culture-shock that the decor and setup of the interior could have otherwise induced.

The entertainment center in the drawing room... whatever a drawing room is.

After that comforting meal, I was on the long tro-tro ride back home to the village and was able to think about the things I’d seen in the context of the average Ghanaian. Surely, the average Ghanaian lives in a place like New Ebu, right? Nope! By a slim margin, a majority of Ghana’s population now lives in urban centers (although I’m not sure what an “urban center” is defined as, however I am sure New Ebu is not one). This means that even though the average Ghanaian may not be able to afford luxuries such as high-end weddings, artsy condominiums, and one-stop shopping, these things are still a very visible part of their reality. I assume that the average poor Ghanaian would feel worse in a place where the glamorous life was within sight but so far out of reach, and that the poor farmer in Ebu that I’m trying to help through working with Pinora is actually much happier than many Ghanaian city-dwellers. If this is true, was does that say about development? If urban populations theoretically have much more opportunities to change and improve their lives, then does that necessarily mean they are happier? Is happiness a factor to be considered when doing development work? It sure is for me, and hopefully the contrasting experiences of village and city living will give me the wisdom I need to go about pursuing development in a way that’s conducive to its central driver: human happiness.

 

Sickness: A Short Story

As I come back to New Ebu on a high from the buzzing energy of the retreat I’ve just returned from and greet my host mother, I notice that something is different. She welcomes me back in the usual way, but her eyes are tired and she’s a little quieter than usual.

“My waist, it hurts.” Her expression is strange, but the message is clear: she’s sick. I ask her if she’s gone to the clinic. She hasn’t but she shows me some pills she bought from somewhere (it’s not clear where) that she’s been taking. I contest their necessity and insist that she goes to the clinic in the morning if she’s not feeling well.

I head to my room and am able to quell my worries easily enough before falling into a deep sleep. I awake the next morning feeling slightly off-kilter myself and, preoccupied by my own issues, I only quickly assess my host mother’s health. Superficially she seems fine, so I’m on my way to work. Half way through the day, I go home sick and sleep through the rest of the day and night. The following day I have to rush to work so I just quickly greet my host mother and am on my way. After a productive day, I head home once more, when I finally take notice that she still isn’t well. On top of that, my host sister had had a small accident and injured her leg. I assure them that we will go to the next village over to see a doctor tomorrow. She says that she doesn’t have insurance and that she’ll just wait it out, as “only God knows what’s wrong with us.” I tell her not to worry, and that we’ll head to the clinic in the morning.

The same feeling of discomfort and unease is around me as I try to make conversation and go about our daily routines. Nothing is to be done though. My host mother insists that we will just have tea and bread for dinner so no cooking needs to be done, and conversation is one-sided and absent of her usual laughter. I try to make myself useful by insisting on making dinner, but find myself incapable of finding any of the required tools or ingredients, and she ends up having to accompany me to a neighbouring compound to take some burning charcoals. As I walk up to the ladies sitting in the compound yard, they are quiet, and the skies are grey. There is no laughter, no hilarity at the white girl who can’t do anything. My host mother takes the charcoals in silence and I smile and greet the women. They are kind enough and greet me back. Today is probably like any other day for them. Not exciting, not new, not different, as I had seen it weeks ago. This was life in New Ebu. People got sick. People who couldn’t afford to get sick got sick.

Under that gloomy sky, I thought about how I neglected to think of my host mother in my own moment of sickness. I thought about the many cedis I had spent on my hospital visits. I thought about the many cedis I had spent on things much more frivolous than doctor’s visits. I felt sickened by my selfishness. I thought about how, in the week I was gone, three people from New Ebu were buried and that when I asked why, the response from my host family was “only God knows” since they couldn’t afford to see a doctor.

Today I’ve seen a side of rural Ghana that is a sad reality for so many people here. Tomorrow I will take just one of these people to a hospital so I hopefully don’t have to see the sadder reality faced by most rural Ghanaians.