Tulip fever

I really, really meant it last year when I said "Next year I will definitely try to be there again" but things don't always work out the way you want them to. Fenced in by non-negotiable deadlines, I will once again spend Queen's Day in laborious London instead of anarchic Amsterdam. So, like last year, yesterday I once more dug that orange top out from under a pile of more frequently worn clothes to join the London version of Queen's day. We in London have to celebrate it a few days early though, as unfortunately over here we can't get the day off for it.

At least it looks like this year London had one up on Amsterdam. The weather yesterday here was gorgeous. It was the first real Spring day we've had in months, blessed with sunshine and warm temperatures. The forecast suggests that you guys back in the Motherland may not be so lucky this year. So basking in the sun we sat, surrounded by the other orange people, listening to Andre Hazes' songs and eating a patatje met. For one day a year I am not ashamed to set free my inner Dutch girl. Something true for many of us Cheese Heads in London apparently as once again I ran into some familiar faces! London can sometimes suddenly be very small.


The walk afterwards -by sheer coincidence- let us straight into a magnificent tulip garden. It wasn't part of the celebrations and I didn't even know it was there but it certainly was an appropriate find. The fitting ending to such a delightfully Dutch day of course was dinner at the local Pancake house with a starter of bitterballen. Stuffed beyond belief on this healthy diet of saturated fats, I look back on a great day but not without some secret hope that maybe next year...

Queen's Day in London 2008

Run like the wind

My new flat is practically on the doorstep of Battersea Park. As one of the biggest (and most beautiful) parks in London this is prime running territory. For weeks now the park has seen ever swelling numbers of sweaty sports maniacs congregating for their obligatory laps. Some suffer alone, others travel in packs. At first I thought it was just the spring weather that had urged these people to dust off their running shoes. It is more than that though. This weekend running is London's number 1 religion as thousands of fanatics take over the streets for the London marathon.

I must admit, I don't really get marathons. A number of my friends have done them or intend to do them but, although I admire their tenacity, I do secretly think they are a bit loopy. Let's not forget: the man accredited for first accomplishing this feat did not live to collect any medal. It is unnatural, unhealthy. Why anybody would deliberately put their body through this pain is beyond me. Then again, I am a real couch potato these days so who am I to judge?

There are 6 men in London right now who seem not the least bit impressed by those 42.195 kilometres. After all, there are no lions. Did I just say "no lions"? Indeed. Amongst the participants will be 6 Maasai warriors who intend to run and dance their way to Buckingham Palace wearing full warrior gear and traditional footwear. Used to running and hunting for days on end a little marathon poses no challenge to them. They are doing this to raise money for their village and to bring fresh water to their families. Of course I do still think they are loopy but their cause is a worthy one. I wish them happy hunting.

Brown paper packages

Even when they are not tied up with string, they are still amongst my favourite things. There is nothing like coming home after yet another 10 hour working day to find one of these little gems waiting for you, especially if they contain one of my other favourite things: books. Although most of the time I prefer getting lost between the shelves of my local Waterstones, occasionally I allow myself to get lost between virtual bookshelves instead. Study books and books that are hard to come by tend to appear on my doorstep in those beige wrappings.

I had just started reading Rushdie's The Moor's Last Sigh when my parcel arrived. This is a book that I picked up at the Spui book market before I even moved to London but which has been sitting on my shelf ever since. I have been a bit wary about it as I have read Rushdie before to mixed effect. Midnight's children I still found somewhat enjoyable although very difficult but Fury put me off Rushdie for a very long time. The only reason I finished it was sheer determination not to be defeated by a book! Then last year, amidst raving reviews, I decided to give Rushdie one last shot with Shalimar the Clown. I don't know if Rushdie is like an expensive whiskey that you only learn to appreciate over time or if my own grasp of literature has improved but I absolutely loved this book. Rushdie uses language not merely as a tool for telling a story but uses words and sentences like a painter uses colour. It is not the individual images that matter but the painting as a whole. What before had seemed like endless digressions and pointless ramblings suddenly all connected. Enough reason to give Rushdie another chance. But now he has been temporarily suspended by the arrival of my brown paper package.

One of my new acquisitions is Nina Siegal's A little trouble with the facts which I read cover to cover in a single day. It's a wonderfully witty story about once high-flying Style reporter Valerie Vane who tries to redeem herself as a serious journalist by investigating the murder of a well-known graffiti artist. You will probably not have heard of Nina Siegal yet as this is her debut novel. I didn't just stumble upon her book either. Nina moved to Amsterdam around the same time I moved away from there and nearly ended up living in my apartment. She is still living in Amsterdam, working on her second novel. If she manages to capture Amsterdam in the same way she did the world of journalism she has definitely got a new fan.

Two other of my more recent reads that deserve mention come in the direct aftermath of my Ghana trip. My trip to Elmina prompted several of you to recommend Arthur Japin's De zwarte met het witte hart. I have just finished it and wish I had read it before going to Ghana. It's a poignant tale, based on a true story, about two Ashanti princes uprooted from their familiar world to be educated in the Netherlands. The two boys respond very differently to this new and often unwelcoming environment. Reading it made me feel much the same way as I did walking around Elmina castle. Embarrassed about a past that isn't quite mine yet somehow also is.

The other book is Giles Bolton's Poor Story. Working for the same organisation that was the reason for my own trip, Bolton explores why Africa keeps getting shortchanged in the global economy and why our aid money is not being used in the most effective way. The latter issue is particularly interesting to me as it reverberates with one of the projects I am currently working on. In the mean time, the one bookcase that occupies my shoe box has become so full that even double parking my books is no longer a solution. I better go easy on those brown paper packages for a while.

Easter snooze

Sorry I dropped off the radar (read: RSS feed) there for a bit but I do have a really good excuse. That is, I have been not busy enough. Uh? Not busy enough? Indeed. I have been too lazy rather than too busy.

To my pleasant surprise my employer has been generous enough to add on two more days to what was already a blissfully long Easter weekend. I haven't set foot in the office since last Wednesday and don't have to go back until tomorrow. Don't get me wrong -I like my job- but after weeks of 10 hour days and deadlines that are somehow always yesterday it is really nice to have a break.

My initial thoughts were that I should make the most of this time by getting out of London. Prohibitive flight prices quickly put an end to that notion. Then I figured I should explore London further; walk around, maybe see a museum or two, stimulate my cultural side. The miserable weather has been my perfect excuse not to do any of that. Instead I have spent many happy hours on my bed, watching lowbrow movies such as Shrek 3 and Harry Potter V, sipping tea and eating chocolate. Comfortable in my cocoon while outside the watery snow flakes dance.

Tomorrow I'll return to my deadlines and long days but today I celebrate the third day of Easter. Now where is my egg?

Hidden treasures

Enough of politics for a little bit, entertaining as it is. It cannot always be about tickling the left side of the brain; the right side needs stimulation too.

Last weekend I ran into a marvelous little treasure in the most unexpected of places. As a surprise for my grandfather's 97th (indeed: 97!) birthday I had flown back to the Netherlands and spent a weekend in my native Amersfoort. I cannot say I feel a lot of kinship with the city but it is undeniably a pretty town. Just how pretty it can be I discovered under the attic beams of the local cobbler! My shoes needed desperate mending and, it being the only pair of shoes I had brought with me, the cobbler was kind enough to fix them for me while I waited. Amazingly, I then learned that he and his twin brother are well-known local artists with a gallery above the store. In socked feet I browsed through their beautiful paintings of an Amersfoort as I have never seen it. Snow covered and idyllic, these paintings evoke images of a time long gone, yet feel as true a reflection of the city as can be. Beautiful colours, wonderful lines.



I'll bet your cobbler can't do that!

Criminal minds

My office operates an open floor plan. On the busiest of days we have about 12 people sharing that space, yet for all those big brains churning it is usually quiet like a crypt, safe for the sound of fingers rattling on keyboards. I don’t particularly like working in dead silence so I do what a lot of us do: I plug in to the radio. To keep my mind properly confused that is usually Dutch radio; staying in touch with what is going on back in the motherland I guess. Most of what I hear only fleetingly passes through my brain and doesn’t stick but today I heard a Postbus 51 commercial that had me lift those fingers of the keyboard and take notice:

"In the Netherlands we are working together to prevent people from developing terrorist thoughts. See what you can do at Nederlandtegenterrorisme.nl."

Please do me a favour and read that again. Notice anything odd? That is right: it doesn’t warn for terrorist actions; it doesn’t even urge you to be watchful for terrorist activity; it says you should be aware of terrorist thoughts. Welcome to the world of the Orwellian Thought Police. I can just imagine the red phones ringing hot with dutiful citizens reporting their neighbours for saying scary things like Allah Akbar or for buying fertiliser, bleach and a kitchen knife. In addition to a debate over freedom of speech, it now seems we also need a debate about freedom of thought.

I wonder what the logical extension of this is. Under what law would we prosecute people for harbouring terrorist thoughts? Perhaps even more importantly: what exactly IS a terrorist thought? Am I having a terrorist thought wondering what it would take to blow up the White House? Or perhaps if I publicly expressed my sympathy for certain undesirable causes? I am considering putting in an order for the Anarchist's Cookbook just to see what happens.

Would it be a coincidence that this message hits the airwaves just as paranoia is reaching uncharted heights? A penny for your thoughts.

Nothing to fear but fear itself

... the only thing we have to fear is fear itself -- nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance.

Franklin D. Roosevelt, Inaugural address, 1933

As with many famous quotes this one too has taken on a life of its own to brake free from its context. President Roosevelt uttered these words to persuade the American people that the power to overcome the Great Depression was within them, if only they stopped being paralysed by fear of the Depression. It is essentially the circular reasoning of a self-fulfilling prophecy. If you stop being afraid, that what you are afraid of will go away. Economic theory holds that there is something to be said for Roosevelt's call to confidence. Recession and economic downturn are very much dependent on the mood of the day and much less so on cold, hard facts and figures. The question is if it holds true in other sectors as well.

Michael Moore built an interesting, albeit somewhat oversimplified, case in his award-winning documentary Bowling for Columbine that fear is what is driving American society over the edge: people have guns because they are afraid of people who have guns who are afraid of ... and so on and so on. A self-reinforcing spiral of fear. Fear is also what is gripping the Netherlands these days. Everybody is holding their breath to see what will happen when Geert Wilders' movie Fitna will be released. Nobody really knows yet what this movie is about but it is expected to be a heavy-handed accusation against the Quran and Islam. It is feared that this will incite reactions in the Islamic world similar to that provoked by the Danish cartoons in 2005. There is fear that Dutch embassies in Islamic countries will find themselves under attack, that Dutch business abroad will suffer and that the country itself has a bullseye for terrorist attack painted on its back.

I am not naive. I know there are people out there crazed and outraged enough to cross the line between lawful, proportionate opposition and unlawful, disproportionate action. I lived a mere 5 minute walk away from where Theo van Gogh got his throat slit and had a note pinned to his chest warning Ayaan Hirsi Ali that she would be next. One of my former colleagues was startled to learn she had been teaching chemistry to terror suspect Samir A. shortly before his (second) arrest. All this is very real. Still, I cannot help but wonder if we are building our own self-fulfilling prophecy with this mass hysteria. The message it seems to be sending is that this movie is apparently such a big deal that it calls for a likewise response.

I am a firm believer in freedom of speech so if Wilders wants to make his movie, that is fine by me. I am, on the other hand, also a firm believer in the freedom to ignore that speech. Can't we all just shrug our shoulders over this and agree everybody is entitled to their opinion even if we don't agree? If only we could all stop being so afraid of each other...

Another year goes by

A year ago today I used this blog to draw attention to the kidnapping of Ingrid Betancourt, a Colombian presidential candidate fighting for a better future for her country. One year on she is still being held somewhere in the Colombian jungle. Her campaign manager and friend Clara Rojas was recently released after a much publicised intervention by the Venezuelan president Hugo Chavez. This has sparked renewed hope that Ingrid Betacourt too might be released soon. The truth, however, is that the two women were separated by the FARC a long time ago and nothing is known about the current whereabouts of Betancourt. Footage released some time last year shows her looking gaunt and severely worn down by the now 6 years of captivity she has had to endure but at least it showed she is still alive.

It s difficult to imagine what her family and that of all the other hostages are going through. We can only hope that by the time another year has gone by, Ingrid Betancourt and all the others will have been reunited with their families.

Home sweet home?

Well, that's it. I'm back in grey London which feels markedly colder than when I left it almost two weeks ago. I am still feeling a bit shell-shocked to be back here, having only so recently been sweating it out under the sub-Saharan sun. I spent yesterday paying one last tribute to Accra by visiting the 'tourist attractions'. It does give you a good feel for how far behind the local tourist industry still is that I managed to do all this in just about three hours and that was on foot.

The National Arts Centre is a highly inflated name for what is basically an open craft market where you can buy wood carvings, beadwork and above all kente. I had no intention of buying but wondered around a bit nonetheless. Although window shopping alone is of course not much appreciated by the local stall holders, I was surprised how easily they gave up when I made it clear I was only looking. The Istanbul Bazaar was much harder to navigate. I paid tribute to Ghana's founding father at the Kwame Nkrumah Memorial and tried to get close to Osu Castle. Unfortunately, the presence of a certain someone in Ghana made it impossible to navigate this part of the city with police patrolling everywhere. The Ghana National Museum, finally, turned out to be a rather odd assembly of Ghanaian artefacts mixed with random replicas of Greek statues. Much as I encourage you all to visit Ghana, I would recommend you aim to spend not too much time just in Accra.

And now I am home. At least, I am back in London. It's a bit strange to call it home for I have actually spent more nights in my Accra hotel than I have in my current room so far! And there I had a nice shower and WiFi access, two things that are still lacking where I live. At the current weak dollar it is even cheaper. Still though, I cannot deny that I am quite happy to be back in the land of plenty.

The End of a Journey

It is my last day here in Ghana. I have finished my interviews, which means I am a free woman today. My flight is a redeye so I don’t have to be at the airport until late this evening. My hotel, on the other hand, is kicking me out by noon so I will have much time left to explore Accra one more time before I head back to cooler climates. Having meandered my way through the city for over a week I feel I have seen much of what there is to see. Even my souvenir shopping is largely done already as I am not inclined to stuff my –shoebox sized– room any further with wood carvings and also, Accra is not exactly the Walhalla of shopping. I will probably head over to visit some of the last things on my must-see list.

During my time here, I have shared much of what I saw with you but the number of impressions exceeded what I could keep up with in this blog. Just to give you a flavour of the things I was not able to write about:

• The first time somebody makes that hissing ssshh sound at you, you find it offensive. Soon enough though you realise it is simply the Ghanaian way of saying ‘hey’ to get your attention.

• Ghanaians drive Dutch cars. I don’t mean Dutch brands (are there any?) but vans that actually still have the Dutch advertisements printed on them: Verse vis van Vishandel Smit or Loodgietersbedrijf Jansen, een vertrouwde naam. It turns out there is a lively trade in second-hand vehicles between the Netherlands and Ghana!

• A smoking ban would not meet with any resistance here. In fact, it would go practically unnoticed: Ghanaians just don’t smoke. Even drinking appears to be uncommon. Given the sheer number of homeless people I have seen, it is remarkable to see so few drunks or druggies. Every country has its own set of problems I suppose.

• Coca-Cola rules the world. Even in the tiniest of villages along the road, stalls are still covered in those red-and-white advertisements. On the local TV I saw a villager in the North of Ghana being interviewed about the draught there. He shrugged and answered they always still had Coca-Cola and, if necessary, he would wash himself with it. That’s the power of marketing for you.

I could go on but basically I think you should come experience it for yourselves. I have found Ghana, at least the part of it I have visited, to be very accessible and welcoming to strangers. Even for a woman travelling on her own, Ghana feels quite safe. Unfortunately I have not had a chance to see the fabled beaches further east but I have been told they are breathtaking and worth a visit in itself. Ghana does not yet have the developed tourist industry of, for instance, Thailand but it makes up for that in authenticity if that is what you are after. The current government has committed itself to making Ghana a middle-income country by 2015. Having seen some of the country for myself I don’t consider that a very realistic target but one that certainly deserves a try. Tourism is perhaps one way of helping it get there.

O ye of little faith

It is probably true for many parts of Africa but from my limited experience I can assure you that, at least in Ghana, the missionaries of the old days have succeeded astonishingly well in their attempts to bring The Book to the ‘dark continent’. Although the Northern part of Ghana is chiefly Muslim, the more southern parts are dominated by Christianity and my, these are some very Christian people indeed! Many of the cars, and in particular the tro-tros, aptly carry slogans such as “Go with God” and “Trust in Jesus”. Perhaps sound advice given the state of most of these vehicles.

Being driven around in taxis a lot means I get to strike up some interesting conversations with the drivers. Aside from the obvious “where are you from”, “how long are you in Ghana” and let’s not forget the infamous “do you have a husband” (so far I have only been proposed to twice but then again: I often lie to that question), three times now I have been asked what church I attend. I will invent a fake husband if I need to but this is a question I feel compelled to answer honestly. In the eyes of many Ghanaians though I am telling them the unthinkable when I explain that I do not belief in God at all. The looks of disbelief I receive are quite amusing. They cannot understand that I choose to live a life without God. I have tried explaining that my whole family and many of my friends feel the same way but this only widens the gap between us further. One of them even offered to bring me to his own church, so desperate was he to point out to me the error of my ways.

Most taxi drivers are very friendly and I have a small collection of phone numbers of these guys who insist I call them if I want somebody to show me around Accra; a kind offer but one I am likely to decline. Somewhere in this city though I now know there will be three people praying for the redemption of my damned atheist soul.

Bush people

I sure did pick an interesting time to be in Ghana! My visit here touches the CAN2008 on one end and George Bush' African Five-Nation Tour on the other. He is scheduled to arrive in Ghana tomorrow for an official state visit. As I think goes without further explanation, I will not be part of the cheering crowds that seem to be following him on this tour so far. Not only has he been messing up the world in a major way, he is now also messing up my schedule!

The emphasis of the Five-Nation Tour is on health care issues in Africa so given the obvious overlap between my job here and his, Mr Bush has been stealing away people from my interview list. I found myself rebuffed this morning by the Director General of one of Ghana's principal Health Services because he was scheduled at a meeting in preparation of the Tour. I still have a long way to go before I take priority over the U.S. President I guess.

One of the main issues under discussion is further support for programmes to fight three of the most destructive diseases in the world, particularly in Africa: tuberculosis, malaria and HIV/AIDS. Bush' own pet project is the PEPFAR, a snappy acronym for the "President's Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief". In itself it is difficult to be against any plan that aims to combat HIV/AIDS. The problem lies, however, in the strategy with which it tries to do so. The Bush Plan is based on the so-called ABC strategy: Abstinence, Be faithful, Condoms. It is a message that rings incredibly naive to me. HIV/AIDS is not a disease of bad morals; it is a serious public health issue that needs a much wider array of weapons to fight it. The reason I am in Ghana is that we are trying to support a programme that will hopefully increase access to essential medicines for those too poor to afford them. Let's hope that message does not get snowed under in the chorus of those that preach abstinence is the way.

The Evil Trade

After a 3 hour bus ride I have returned to Accra. Thanks to one of my well-connected new-found friends here I was able to escape the city for the weekend to go to Elmina. I had several reasons for wanting to visit this fishermen’s village west of Accra. The first was that Accra is no more Ghana than Amsterdam is the Netherlands or London is England. At least by going to Elmina I was able to see a bit more of the country, if only a tiny bit. The other reason I felt I had to see Elmina is because of what it is and because of what I am.

As a Dutch traveller you sometimes find yourself confronted by something only the British, the Portuguese, the Spanish and to some extent the French and Belgians can probably relate to: the confrontation with the darker side of your nation’s past. The Dutch history in Ghana is one of the darkest chapters in our history. Elmina castle was once the focal point of the most evil of all trades: the slave trade.

Between 1637 and 1872 the Dutch occupied this massive 4 story slave fortress in which at any time over a thousand Africans would be held in dark dungeons, waiting either to die right there or to be shipped to the plantations of the Americas. In the roughly 300 years this destructive trade plagued the African continent over 12 million people were stripped of their humanity and treated as a commodity like any other. A very profitable commodity if they survived the ocean voyage.

Visiting this castle together with descendents of those that passed through the Door of No Return was a humbling and moving experience. You can visit the dungeons as well as the officer quarters. The castle is now a World Heritage Monument, a status it fully deserves and which should hopefully allow it to be maintained in the amazing condition it still is more than 500 years after it was built.

The horrors inflicted here are not forgotten and should never be. Next to the cell for condemned slaves the people of Ghana have fixed a memorial plaque that says it all:

In everlasting memory of the anguish of our ancestors. May those who died rest in peace. May those who return find their roots. May humanity never again perpetrate such injustice against humanity. We the living vow to uphold this.

Abroni on the move

Yesterday I finally had a chance to wonder around Accra since I had only one afternoon interview scheduled. I have been studying my guidebook well and knew that Accra does not have all that much to offer in terms of tourist attractions. It is not exactly Rome or London around here. Ghana on the whole does not have the same appeal to tourists who come to see wildlife as for instance Kenya or Tanzania, although at the moment it is certainly a lot safer than the former. The CAN2008 will certainly have helped put Ghana on the tourist maps but overall it is still relatively untouched by the tourist industry. I would not go so far as to call it unspoilt as I feel that Ghana could probably benefit from some more of the tourist dollars. There are plenty of abroni’s like me in my hotel (including a group of Dutch girls all with blond corn rows) but somehow you don’t really see them anymore once you venture into downtown Accra. Probably they are all at the beaches.

I started the day in Jamestown, a fishermen’s village part of Accra that my guidebook euphemistically calls ‘atmospheric’. I would not have been surprised to see the word ‘authentic’ there instead. By authentic I mean that there is no layer of veneer slapped on it at all. The fishing boats laying on the beach all look extremely worn and there is a putrid smell of fish and open sewer everywhere. It is fascinating to see how different other people’s lives can be from your own, even if you don’t envy them theirs. As the only white person for miles around, and a woman at that, I attract quite a lot of stares. The nice thing about Accra though –and here I agree with my guidebook– is that it is perfectly safe for me to do this. I did not get harassed once and certainly never felt in any way threatened. Sure, there are an awful lot of random people asking me how I am doing but where is the harm in that? I wouldn’t recommend trying this at night but then, I also would not recommend that for certain areas of London.

My next stop rang a familiar bell as I found myself standing in ‘Oxford Street’, a nickname given by the locals to a street in the Osu district which is well known for its many restaurants. Don’t picture anything even approximating the London version though. We are talking mainly street stalls here and the selection of goods is fairly monotonous. At the moment it is mainly football shirts and Valentine’s gifts. I also passed by the N’kruma monument and the Independence Square so after just one morning I can already tick off many of the must-see-while-in-Accra check boxes. On the list still are Osu Castle, Makola Market and of course the beach.

If only I still had my camera I could show you pictures of all that I see. Instead, you will get my thousand words.

To give or not to give

Ghanaians are friendly people. They smile a lot and in general are very helpful. Behind the smiles though lurks an undeniable and pretty ugly truth. That is that Ghana really is a very poor country. I have been to developing world countries before but never have I felt it so much in my face as now. Maybe it is because the places I have been are a bit away from the tourist spots but I get the impression it is the same everywhere. I have seen some very miserable looking shantytowns along the road with open sewers running through. One of the most difficult things I have encountered here is the begging.

Given that traffic for most of the day is hopelessly stuck anyway, all the main roads are filled with beggars and street vendors, slaloming between the stationary cars. The vendors sell the oddest collection of things you have ever seen. The ice water bags and plantain chips I get but who buys exercise equipment, kitschy cuckoo clocks or foam rubber puzzles of the human body through their car window? The mismatch between supply and demand is enormous. So many people are selling but so few people are buying. Even more heart breaking than those vendors balancing their merchandise on their heads are the beggars. I have literally seen old ladies in wheelchairs being shoved in front of the –fortunately very slow driving– cars, begging for money. I have been approached by a young guy on crutches for the second time in two days asking me for money to eat. He may not remember me but I do remember seeing him the day before on that same spot. As do I remember the old man with the blind, hollow eyes being lead by the hand by his grandson. He too sits there every day in the scorching sun.

I don’t know how to react to all this. There are so many of them that I feel there would be no end to it. So instead of forking out some small change, which even on my modest salary I could easily afford, I hide behind my sunglasses and look into the distance. I do feel miserable though being this evil witch who does not flinch. Of course I know this is a problem that cannot be solved by my few cedis. On the other hand, all my instincts tell me that nobody has ever been better off without money to buy food than with it. I honestly don’t know what to do. Any thoughts on this?

Tro-tro-trotting around Accra

It is my third real day in Accra and slowly I am beginning to see a bit more of the city, although I am yet to catch my first glimpse of the ocean. Work has been keeping me so busy I even end up skipping lunch, racing from one part of the city to the other. All this racing is done by taxi which is the most convenient way to get around. Taxis are pretty much omnipresent. Most of these are rather dingy looking things that look like they have been taped together but they are surprisingly efficient. The even cheaper alternative to using taxis would be to use the local system of tro-tros. These are basically mini-vans that have been converted to transport a horrendous amount of people. The roads are filled with these vans that are –sometimes literally– bursting at the seams stuffed with around 20 people plus all of their luggage. Combine that with the suicidal Ghanaian style of driving and it is no wonder that traffic is one of the major causes of the poor life expectation Ghanaians have.

Most of my trips across town start at my temporarily assigned office. That is right: I have an office! It even has its own door and a phone, which is more than I can say on a normal workday. What makes me feel even more special though is the location of my office. Let me give you a hint: they serve stroopwafels with DE ‘roodmerk’… yes indeed, my office is situated right here. Funnily enough that has nothing to do with my own nationality. The reason is that for particular matters in Ghana the UK is represented through the Dutch Embassy and, without boring you with the details, my work here basically is a consultancy job on behalf of a UK government department.

Classy as it may seem, of course the purpose of my trip is not to sit in the office all day. For that I would not have needed to take a flight all the way to Accra. I am here to meet with people and to listen what they have to say. I do have a schedule of appointments but already that schedule is proving to be a bit of a pain in the neck. Many appointments have not been confirmed or were confirmed at times other than those in my schedule. I find myself chasing people up and down trying to see who I can meet when. Given that I do not know how far any of these places are from each other, getting the logistics right is a challenge. And then even when I manage to be in the right place at the right time, that does not necessarily mean my conversation partner is as well. I hope to be able to talk with at least a fair share of the people on my schedule, particularly as some of them work for organisations I hold in high esteem, but we will have to see how everything works out.

My hotel unfortunately is a bit too far from the centre to just wander off in the evenings. The best view I have had so far of inner-city Accra came when my taxi driver could not find the hotel and plunged us into rush-hour chaos. This weekend I definitely intend to get my time on the beach but for now it’s all work and no play.

Akwaaba!

Akwaaba is the first word that greets you when you arrive in Ghana. That and the Africa Cup of Nations. I managed to arrive in Accra on the day of the final of the biggest event of the year and it is obvious. Funnily enough I have done this before. Four years ago I arrived in Lisbon the day after Portugal lost the Eurocup final to Greece. The thing that struck me then was the bountiful flag waving everywhere. It's the same here now. Almost every car, building or shop salutes the Black Stars of Ghana. They didn't win the Cup but that somehow does not seem to matter much.

The other thing that greets you is the heat. I know it is a cliché but it is hard not to notice the oppressive heat that envelopes you as soon as you leave the air-conditioned shelter of the airport. Ghana is still on the northern hemisphere but so close to the equator it really does not make much difference that it is 'winter'. The only relief from time to time comes from the Harmattan which is still blowing.

My work schedule hasn't allowed me much time yet to see the more touristy side of Accra although in a way that has made it more interesting. I find myself in places tourists have no business being and get to see a more rounded picture of the city that way. I do stick out like a sore thumb in many of these places though: an abroni in heels and brandishing a laptop. I have never more wished to be a Chameleon.

During my interviews I am at times still struggling with the Ghanaian flavour of English. As a former British colony, English is the official language of Ghana but it is peppered with many other local languages and pronounced in a tongue quite distinct from my one. The theft of my digital recorder does not help since now I only can listen to everything once. I can't keep asking people to repeat themselves the whole time! It is challenging but the people I speak with all make it quite easy for me as they seem more than happy to meet with me and take time out of their busy schedules. I have my next appointment in a few hours when I am expected at the Ministry of Health. I better start preparing...

The long day

[Actually, this is yesterday's post but since I did not yet have a chance to post it, you all get it today! :-) Today's post hopefully tomorrow. Call it the time difference...]

Here I am, sitting in my Accra hotel room. And what a journey it has been. Did you ever have one of those days where you just felt the universe had it in for you? Where you feel like a rag doll tossed about my some invisible hand? Like that little ball in a pinball machine, taking hit after hit after hit? I have, and today was one such day.

My beef with Heathrow airport and British Airlines is not new. There is a reason I avoid these conjoint twins as much as I can. Yet again, they have done nothing to convince me otherwise. As I am still without internet access in my new home I had to check in the old-fashioned way, that is: at the airport. I arrived two hours before my flight and was dealt the first hammer blow of the day when the BA lady with a completely deadpan face informed me the flight was overbooked and she did not have a seat for me. No explanation, no apologies and…no seat! I was referred to the service desk (if ever there was irony in a name) where I found myself surrounded by dozens of others with the same problem. This business of overbooking is a nasty practice and one that I deeply feel should be made illegal. It just will not do that you pay for a flight only to find yourself barred from getting on it. At least misery makes company so I managed to make my first Ghanian friend before even getting to Ghana but still. It was an agonising wait, praying a seat would free up. I have to admit I played it dirty. I pulled the I’m-on-important-business -and-have-to-get-there-now rabbit out of my hat and so managed to get on the priority list. I scraped by by the fingernails when just enough volunteers came off the flight for me to be able to take that last seat. The mad dash through security that followed did not leave me any time to buy lunch, get cash or let alone buy a travel adaptor.

Although I was thankful to have a seat I didn’t exactly win the best seat in the house. I was assigned a place in the row reserved for passengers with small children. That means 9 people in a row of 6 chairs, 3 of whom are under the age of 3. Starting to get the picture? I spent 7 hours seated next to a woman with a 2-month-old baby that was being breast fed for at least three of those hours. The highlight came when his mother happily informed me her son had just peed on her trousers. If karma exists I clearly must have done something really bad at some point in my life because the day spiralled down further from there. Picture white linen trousers and an ill-advised bottle of red wine…. Got it? Now add in sunglasses snapped in half and a camera and voice recorder that have miraculously disappeared from my luggage. Feeling exhausted already? I sure am. Sigh. It has been a long, long day.

But now here I am at last: in Accra. I haven’t seen much more than the airport and the hotel so you will all have to wait before I can tell you anything other than that it is pretty hot. Greetings from Accra!

The tipping point

It's the final countdown. In 24 hours from now I will be on a plane on my way to Ghana. My suitcase is packed with a motley assortment of clothes, notebooks and first aid supplies. My passport is nestled safely against my ticket and I have left copies of my important numbers everywhere. Logistically speaking I am all set and ready. Mentally... well, I'm getting there.

This trip is an amazing opportunity. This is why I quit doing what I was doing and moved to London. This is my big moment. And I am a bit nervous. Not about where I am going, I think that will be a wonderful experience. I am nervous because this feels like my 'tipping point'; the moment where words stop being just words and are put into action. Everything I have learned in the last 15 months has led me to this point. Now I have to make it happen; I cannot screw this up. I feel like a stage actress moments before her big premiere. She has studied the lines, she knows her part but when that curtain goes up: rehearsal time is definitely over! Just her and the audience.

I know I can do this and have to trust that if my boss had any doubts about that, he would not have sent me here. Time to stop worrying, pull all my confidence together and simply dive in to enjoy the waters. Wish me luck!

Africa for dummies

Well, for beginners is actually what my guidebook has to say about Ghana. Amazingly enough Ghana is one of those countries for which there are hardly any guidebooks. My rummaging through the shelves of the dedicated travel bookshop yielded just a single one. There is no Lonely Planet even. There is one for West Africa all lumped together but just Ghana on its own apparently does not draw enough of an audience. I like the idea of going somewhere that is off the beaten tourist track.

For the sceptics amongst you out there who still think I wasted my money buying yet another guidebook that I will not use: think again. My ticket is booked and I have spent a fair deal of my time this morning getting my visa sorted. Armed with two completed application forms, two identical pictures, two names of referees in Ghana and my passport I showed up at the Ghana High Commission. In the waiting area I was treated to 30 minutes of documentary on the cocao industry. Not very entertaining but it killed time. Once I finally made it to the visa desk I was brusquely rebuffed since my forms were not correct: I had neglected to complete them in CAPITAL letters. Right..., no point in arguing that one so with my tail between my legs I moved away to fill out two new forms. Then of course I had managed to overlook the fact that payments are cash only, something incompatible with my nature as a plastic fantastic girl. Off to the cash point I went and at attempt number three I finally managed to get a stamp on my form. Next week I can pick up my visa.

There is more preparation to a trip to Ghana than just a visa so the afternoon was taken up by a visit to the travel clinic. My poor left arm suffered multiple jabs and I am kitted out with anti-malaria pills and pills to fence off that old traveller's favourite. It is a bit of a mood killer, all these practicalities. I even had to buy some new outfits as my business clothes are all more designed for the British climate than the African one. I can't very well show up for my interviews in a strappy top and sandals, can I?

All this is to stay that I have crossed the point of no return. Twelve days from now I will take off for Accra and will spend 11 days there, interviewing a multitude of people whose names I do not yet know. Assuming I won't have any trouble accessing the internet, I will keep you posted from there. Stay tuned!