And to be honest, I can't wait. Tomorrow, after nearly four months of heat, dust, accounting, gorillas, dust, elephants, pygmy villages, dust, dust and dust I will be flying home tomorrow night.
For my last week I am being looked after by Isaac at Richbone and Madame Florence at the Sarfoa Memorial School. These are two organisations that had an AfID volunteer last year, and I'm here to see how they're getting on. So I've spent most of this week looking over accounting reports again, checking for errors, inconsistencies, and making any suggestions I can for how things could be done better. As always, I have been very well looked after. Food arrives regularly in gargantuan quantities though it is, as always, highly delicious. I am already searching out recipes for groundnut sauce, red red and the like for when I get home, though I don't know what I'll do about fried plantain or yam chips - suggestions welcome. I feel I'm going to have a second dose of culture shock when I arrive.
Perhaps strangely, after my family and my cat, the thing I am most looking forward to is having access to a washing machine. Ghanaians always manage to look immaculately turned out every day of the week, but sadly, my efforts at handwashing have not been kind to my clothes. It doesn't seem to matter how many times I wash them, once a layer of African dust is ingrained, no amount of soap seems to remove it. There were a few days in the Central African Republic / Cameroon where, quite honestly, I gave up. Although my socks have been soaped vigorously many times since, none of them have quite returned to their original colour. They may be destined to spend the rest of their days cleaning cars.
But, really, that's just about it. As the tears begin to flow, the final credits begin to roll, I would like to thank, oscars style, all those who made it possible. To YPWC, Kumasi Street Children, Richbone and Sarfoa School for looking after me and listening to my tedious accounts talk with good humour and patience. To Guy and Simon at www.fromhere2timbuktu.com for an incredible trip through Cameroon and the CAR. To AfID for giving me the excuse I needed to be here at all.
And finally, to you, my dear readers (reader?). It has been, after all, a most excellent adventure. I'll see you all soon.
Thursday, 28 April 2011
Saturday, 9 April 2011
Talk to the hand
Travelling from Tamale to Bolga, I had arrived at the tro tro station when there was only one seat left. This had obvious advantages - as soon as I was boarded, the bus was ready to leave. However, it also meant that before we left, I hadn't had time to dash round buying water and provisions for the journey. After an hour and a half in the hot, dusty bus I was beginning to regret this, and had been looking out for any opportunity to buy from the roadside. As we approached a toll booth, therefore, I saw my chance. I could see that there were a number of vendors lining up our bus, and I was ready with my money.
Predictably, the tro tro was mobbed as it slowed down. Immediately we were within touching distance, a number of hands thrust themselves through the window, clutching hard boiled eggs, bananas, tissues and, thankfully, sachets of chilled water. But this wasn't a scheduled stop - once the driver had paid the ticket, we would be gone, and the trade therefore had to executed swiftly. There was no time here for protracted greetings, pleasantries, or even price negotiations. Without thinking, I snatched a sachet of water from one of the hands, and was surprised as I offered payment to see the hand disappearing from view. Undeterred, I held a 20 pesewa coin out of the window, and saw a hand, presumably owned by my water seller, reach up and snatch the coin. The hand then quickly came back through the window, holding a 10 pesewa coin - my change, which I snatched in return.
The whole thing was concluded in a couple of seconds, in true City of London fashion, clinically and anonymously. Almost. I had no idea which of the sea of faces outside the window I had bought from, but my counterparty - guided perhaps by the colour of the mysterious hand - had identified me, and as the van pulled away I saw a teenage girl with a huge pallet of water sachets on her head waving and beaming sweetly at me through the window.
Predictably, the tro tro was mobbed as it slowed down. Immediately we were within touching distance, a number of hands thrust themselves through the window, clutching hard boiled eggs, bananas, tissues and, thankfully, sachets of chilled water. But this wasn't a scheduled stop - once the driver had paid the ticket, we would be gone, and the trade therefore had to executed swiftly. There was no time here for protracted greetings, pleasantries, or even price negotiations. Without thinking, I snatched a sachet of water from one of the hands, and was surprised as I offered payment to see the hand disappearing from view. Undeterred, I held a 20 pesewa coin out of the window, and saw a hand, presumably owned by my water seller, reach up and snatch the coin. The hand then quickly came back through the window, holding a 10 pesewa coin - my change, which I snatched in return.
The whole thing was concluded in a couple of seconds, in true City of London fashion, clinically and anonymously. Almost. I had no idea which of the sea of faces outside the window I had bought from, but my counterparty - guided perhaps by the colour of the mysterious hand - had identified me, and as the van pulled away I saw a teenage girl with a huge pallet of water sachets on her head waving and beaming sweetly at me through the window.
Saturday, 2 April 2011
Mount Cameroon
Mount Cameroon, an occasionally active volcano, is the highest mountain in West FArica at around 4100m. It is also, depending on which entry from my guidebook you read, the second or sixth highest on the whole continent. Personally I don't care which - all I know is it hurt my legs. Big time.
We climbed up via the so-called 'Guiness Route', a steep, direct trail that climbs through forest, passing a basic hut before clearing the treeline about half an hour's climb later. This first stage was hot, hot, hot, hot, hot and, even at this point I found myself struggling to keep up with the guides and porters. We spent the first night at hut 2, at around 2800m, where all the first timers on the mountain were obliged to perform a dance to appease the god of the mountain. This mainly involved jumping up and down and slapping yourself all over with branches - fortunately, it worked as he didn't erupt at all while we were on his patch. Following the dance, all the white men were given new Cameroonian names, and I don't think I'm the only one who promptly forgot mine.
We weren't the only inhabitants of Hut 2. Lying back in my sleeping bag, already exhausted after only the first (relatively short) day, I felt something scuttle across the top of my head, and flashed my torch down to see a fat brown mouse running away at the side of the luxurious plank and straw bed I was lying on. He was a bit fatter by the morning - not having closed my pack properly, I lost 2 Air Nigeria cakes and 3 bars of chocoltae that I had been saving for a celebration on the summit.
The second morning, we breakfasted early and were on the move shortly after 7.30. Once again I struggled to keep pace with guides and porters and, when Matheus had disappeared over a ridge and out of sight yet again, I fell in behind a Spanish / French couple who were on a self drive trip from Spain to Cape Town. They were moving at a more comfortable pace that I could probably have maintained for 3 days, but alas, it wasn't to be. As we reached hut 4, Matheus looked accusingly at me.
"I wait you," he announced.
"Quite right. I pay you," I thought, but diplomacy won the day and I was briskly parted from my new found, Steady Eddie climbing partners. By now, the first of my leg-foot ailments was beginning to trouble me - "up" blisters on the backs of my heels, caused no doubt by the steep incline, were becoming painful. They were later to be joined by "down" blisters on the front of my toes, so that, by the end of the climb, I could only find respite of any sort by walking on the flat, an opportunity that is all too rare on the side of a mountain.
We reached the summit shortly after 11 am and, having posed for a series of triumphant pictures beside the illegible summit sign, began our descent by another, less steep route. Tjhis, I thought, would be the easy bit. It wasn't. For the rest of the day, I picked my way across old lava flows, scree and sand while keeping a firm eye on my guide receding into the distance. By now I was a bit concerned, as the trail on this part of the route was anything but clearly marked, and clouds were sweeping across the side of the mountain with increasing regularity. I resolved to pick up my pace, and my thighs began to ache as I struggled yet again to keep up.
By the time we got into the camp at Mann Springs that evening, I was hobbling. One of my up blisters had started bleeding and I was walking in a ministry of silly walks fashion. Although we had made quite good time - the French Spanish couple arrived more than an hour after us, despite being on the summit only a few minutes later - I only wanted food, then bed. We had a shelter of sorts - no hut, fewer mice, and a thunderstorm to serenade us through the night.
On the final morning, we startedearly. This actually made quite good sense; although we had camped by the treeline, the first hour or two of walking took us across open ground, past views of Small Mount Cameroon and the sea, and we cleared this before the sun was too hot. Once back under the trees, my down blisters and thighs started to dictate to me. My lesg were now quite shaky, and I was apprehensive about even the most simple things - steeping over a log, and wondering whether my leg would give way when I landed. "keep going keep going' urged Matheus, who was now following me and, for the first time, not moving ahead after 30 seconds.
Evetntually we walked into the village of Bokwanga, to the sound of Sunday choirs coming from the churches. As I dropped my pack by the side of the road, I didn't bother to ask if this was the end. There was tarmac, and taxis. Whatever, the plan, there was no way I was walking any more.
We climbed up via the so-called 'Guiness Route', a steep, direct trail that climbs through forest, passing a basic hut before clearing the treeline about half an hour's climb later. This first stage was hot, hot, hot, hot, hot and, even at this point I found myself struggling to keep up with the guides and porters. We spent the first night at hut 2, at around 2800m, where all the first timers on the mountain were obliged to perform a dance to appease the god of the mountain. This mainly involved jumping up and down and slapping yourself all over with branches - fortunately, it worked as he didn't erupt at all while we were on his patch. Following the dance, all the white men were given new Cameroonian names, and I don't think I'm the only one who promptly forgot mine.
We weren't the only inhabitants of Hut 2. Lying back in my sleeping bag, already exhausted after only the first (relatively short) day, I felt something scuttle across the top of my head, and flashed my torch down to see a fat brown mouse running away at the side of the luxurious plank and straw bed I was lying on. He was a bit fatter by the morning - not having closed my pack properly, I lost 2 Air Nigeria cakes and 3 bars of chocoltae that I had been saving for a celebration on the summit.
The second morning, we breakfasted early and were on the move shortly after 7.30. Once again I struggled to keep pace with guides and porters and, when Matheus had disappeared over a ridge and out of sight yet again, I fell in behind a Spanish / French couple who were on a self drive trip from Spain to Cape Town. They were moving at a more comfortable pace that I could probably have maintained for 3 days, but alas, it wasn't to be. As we reached hut 4, Matheus looked accusingly at me.
"I wait you," he announced.
"Quite right. I pay you," I thought, but diplomacy won the day and I was briskly parted from my new found, Steady Eddie climbing partners. By now, the first of my leg-foot ailments was beginning to trouble me - "up" blisters on the backs of my heels, caused no doubt by the steep incline, were becoming painful. They were later to be joined by "down" blisters on the front of my toes, so that, by the end of the climb, I could only find respite of any sort by walking on the flat, an opportunity that is all too rare on the side of a mountain.
We reached the summit shortly after 11 am and, having posed for a series of triumphant pictures beside the illegible summit sign, began our descent by another, less steep route. Tjhis, I thought, would be the easy bit. It wasn't. For the rest of the day, I picked my way across old lava flows, scree and sand while keeping a firm eye on my guide receding into the distance. By now I was a bit concerned, as the trail on this part of the route was anything but clearly marked, and clouds were sweeping across the side of the mountain with increasing regularity. I resolved to pick up my pace, and my thighs began to ache as I struggled yet again to keep up.
By the time we got into the camp at Mann Springs that evening, I was hobbling. One of my up blisters had started bleeding and I was walking in a ministry of silly walks fashion. Although we had made quite good time - the French Spanish couple arrived more than an hour after us, despite being on the summit only a few minutes later - I only wanted food, then bed. We had a shelter of sorts - no hut, fewer mice, and a thunderstorm to serenade us through the night.
On the final morning, we startedearly. This actually made quite good sense; although we had camped by the treeline, the first hour or two of walking took us across open ground, past views of Small Mount Cameroon and the sea, and we cleared this before the sun was too hot. Once back under the trees, my down blisters and thighs started to dictate to me. My lesg were now quite shaky, and I was apprehensive about even the most simple things - steeping over a log, and wondering whether my leg would give way when I landed. "keep going keep going' urged Matheus, who was now following me and, for the first time, not moving ahead after 30 seconds.
Evetntually we walked into the village of Bokwanga, to the sound of Sunday choirs coming from the churches. As I dropped my pack by the side of the road, I didn't bother to ask if this was the end. There was tarmac, and taxis. Whatever, the plan, there was no way I was walking any more.
Friday, 1 April 2011
Shakin it down with the pygmies
I've heard it said about the Ba'aka that they tend to enjoy anything that intoxicates them. That's possibly true - we were constantly followed around with requests for "monsieur, un cigarette, un cigarette", and they have many interesting brews and concoctions of their own. They also love a good party. A few days ago, the night before the net hunting excursion, one such party took place. It seems to be a tradition that the celebrations are held the night before a hunt to ensure success and, having stood a round of drinks for the village, that night we were the guests of honour.
Things kicked off early. That afternoon, local election hustings had been held in Bayanga, the town a short distance from our village. We couldn't really understand what the candidates were saying, but it was clear that beer had been a key part of the proceedings. On the way back from Bayanga, we were overtaken by a group of Ba'aka women who had clearly been 'enjoying' the political debate and, having heard that there was a party tonight, were now, like most of the surrounding villages, coming along to join the fun. "Danser, danser!" we were encouraged as we walked along the path, and we were given several demonstrations of how to swing your hips, pygmy style.
By around 7pm, shortly after dark, the music had started. Everyone was gathered around the fire in the centre of the village, and the drums started first, setting up a steady rhythm against which the singing, chanting, clapping and general merriment lasted until dawn. Central to all this was the dancing - in a slow steady line around the fire, and the white guys, several feet taller than their hosts, joined the line.
The drinks on offer were not to my liking. I had a flagon of some kind of brew that we had paid for - it tasted of vinegar and dishwater and, despite my generous serving, didn't feel particularly alcoholic. I also had a smaller serving of something, definitely stronger, which tasted of old bootlaces. I decided I'd leave them to do the drinking, and just enjoy the atmosphere - this was, after all, no half hearted traditional dance display put on for tourists. Gathered around the fire, men, women, young and old were singing, dancing, drinking and smoking together. Everyone was invited, and many had walked great distances to be where it was all happening.
Tonight, our village was the place to be.
Things kicked off early. That afternoon, local election hustings had been held in Bayanga, the town a short distance from our village. We couldn't really understand what the candidates were saying, but it was clear that beer had been a key part of the proceedings. On the way back from Bayanga, we were overtaken by a group of Ba'aka women who had clearly been 'enjoying' the political debate and, having heard that there was a party tonight, were now, like most of the surrounding villages, coming along to join the fun. "Danser, danser!" we were encouraged as we walked along the path, and we were given several demonstrations of how to swing your hips, pygmy style.
By around 7pm, shortly after dark, the music had started. Everyone was gathered around the fire in the centre of the village, and the drums started first, setting up a steady rhythm against which the singing, chanting, clapping and general merriment lasted until dawn. Central to all this was the dancing - in a slow steady line around the fire, and the white guys, several feet taller than their hosts, joined the line.
The drinks on offer were not to my liking. I had a flagon of some kind of brew that we had paid for - it tasted of vinegar and dishwater and, despite my generous serving, didn't feel particularly alcoholic. I also had a smaller serving of something, definitely stronger, which tasted of old bootlaces. I decided I'd leave them to do the drinking, and just enjoy the atmosphere - this was, after all, no half hearted traditional dance display put on for tourists. Gathered around the fire, men, women, young and old were singing, dancing, drinking and smoking together. Everyone was invited, and many had walked great distances to be where it was all happening.
Tonight, our village was the place to be.
My smelly, smelly towel
Possibly the least useful purchase I made before I came away was a 'travel towel'. These are often highly recommended, folding into a remarkably small size, and I have frequently heard them praised for their marvellously absorbent qualities. Personally, though, I think that a cotton t shirt does the job just as well, if not better, and has the advantage of having more than one use. The worst thing about the towel is that it needs constant washing, tending to fester and stagnate rapidly when wet. Even if hung on a washing line immediately after each use, it can render a room uninhabitable after only a couple of days without being washed.
After a few days in the rainforest, with no running water, the towel was an unwelcome companion in my tent, and so I draped it over the top of the tent in the sun - firstly so I could breathe inside the tent, and secondly because I hoped it might prove marginally less offensive when properly dried out. Coming back from the net hunting trip, however, I found that it had gone. Noticing me looking for something the Ba'aka, who had maintained a 24 hour vigil over our tents since our arrival, were greatly concerned. We were here as honoured guests, and for something to have disappeared or, unthinkably, to have been stolen, was a matter of the utmost importance. The Ba'aka, in my short time with them, I found to be some of the friendliest, gentlest people I have met, and I knew from my conversations with Simon and Louis that they don't steal, they simply don't. Personally, I wasn't overly fussed about the towel, but this was not now important. Returning my property so that everyone's honour could be restored was all that now mattered. Sure enough, within the half hour, one of them emerged from the forest holding a crumpled blue square. It turned out that a dog had dragged it away into the forest, and if it smelled bad before, now it was truly, truly repellent. Trying not to let my revulsion show through my gratitude, I buried it deep within my rucksack.
If our belongings had been carefully guarded before, they were doubly so now. Returning later in the day, I found that a soaking wet pair of striped underpants had been hung on top of my tent. The lessons of the towel had been fully learned, and I would not be given the chance to report my pants missing. Not wanting to seem ungrateful by pointing out that I'd never seen those pants before and didn't really want them on my tent, I left them there to continue drying. Later I noticed that they had been hung above the seating area of the village as a sort of flag, and sometime after that, they were gone altogether.
I hoped fervently that no little helpers had packed them in my bag for me.
After a few days in the rainforest, with no running water, the towel was an unwelcome companion in my tent, and so I draped it over the top of the tent in the sun - firstly so I could breathe inside the tent, and secondly because I hoped it might prove marginally less offensive when properly dried out. Coming back from the net hunting trip, however, I found that it had gone. Noticing me looking for something the Ba'aka, who had maintained a 24 hour vigil over our tents since our arrival, were greatly concerned. We were here as honoured guests, and for something to have disappeared or, unthinkably, to have been stolen, was a matter of the utmost importance. The Ba'aka, in my short time with them, I found to be some of the friendliest, gentlest people I have met, and I knew from my conversations with Simon and Louis that they don't steal, they simply don't. Personally, I wasn't overly fussed about the towel, but this was not now important. Returning my property so that everyone's honour could be restored was all that now mattered. Sure enough, within the half hour, one of them emerged from the forest holding a crumpled blue square. It turned out that a dog had dragged it away into the forest, and if it smelled bad before, now it was truly, truly repellent. Trying not to let my revulsion show through my gratitude, I buried it deep within my rucksack.
If our belongings had been carefully guarded before, they were doubly so now. Returning later in the day, I found that a soaking wet pair of striped underpants had been hung on top of my tent. The lessons of the towel had been fully learned, and I would not be given the chance to report my pants missing. Not wanting to seem ungrateful by pointing out that I'd never seen those pants before and didn't really want them on my tent, I left them there to continue drying. Later I noticed that they had been hung above the seating area of the village as a sort of flag, and sometime after that, they were gone altogether.
I hoped fervently that no little helpers had packed them in my bag for me.
Not goodbye, only au revoir........
So a couple of days ago, I bid farewell for now to the Kumasi Street Children project. I have spent a few fantastic weeks with them. Over the last four weeks, I have helped them with their budgets and analysis, as well asspending some time seeing the projecys and witnessing many of the comings and goings from the drop in centre where the children come to rest during the day.
At lunchtime, we had a small farewell gathering in the office. Everyone was there, and as Sister Jospehine opened with a short prayer giving thanks for my time with them all and praying for my safe onward travels, I actually felt a bit choked.......to put it simply, the warmth, the welcome and simply the total goodness of the people here is something that can really be a bit overwhelming. And to be honest, that isn't something I've always associated in my mind with accounting - it definitely wasn't in my BPP textbooks.
As a parting gift, they gave me a traditional African shirt which immediately and permanently became my favourite item of clothing. As you will see from the pictures, I am now officially the coolest obruni in town - please take note.
And so, I caught the bus down to Accra, ready for my next trip to Cameroon. On my last evening with YPWC, Ma Boampong baked me a farewell cake, and left me with another one to eat on the bus the following day. And, as an extra special treat, I was given a bowl of lettuce leaves and Heinz Beanz with already substantial final breakfast. Naturally, I ate everything.
I'm going to miss Kumasi. It's a town with great energy and life - the markets, the street traders. The drivers in the tro tro station who know where I need to go and wave me over to the right car as soon an I approach. The taxi driver who still tries to persuade me to part with 10 cedis for a private car when there's a share taxi right next to him, leaving in a few minutes.
Above all, this is somewhere where I have made many good friends. I'll be coming back to Kumasi sometime in April, and then will be going home....that will be difficult. But for now, I'll be seeing them all again soon.
At lunchtime, we had a small farewell gathering in the office. Everyone was there, and as Sister Jospehine opened with a short prayer giving thanks for my time with them all and praying for my safe onward travels, I actually felt a bit choked.......to put it simply, the warmth, the welcome and simply the total goodness of the people here is something that can really be a bit overwhelming. And to be honest, that isn't something I've always associated in my mind with accounting - it definitely wasn't in my BPP textbooks.
As a parting gift, they gave me a traditional African shirt which immediately and permanently became my favourite item of clothing. As you will see from the pictures, I am now officially the coolest obruni in town - please take note.
And so, I caught the bus down to Accra, ready for my next trip to Cameroon. On my last evening with YPWC, Ma Boampong baked me a farewell cake, and left me with another one to eat on the bus the following day. And, as an extra special treat, I was given a bowl of lettuce leaves and Heinz Beanz with already substantial final breakfast. Naturally, I ate everything.
I'm going to miss Kumasi. It's a town with great energy and life - the markets, the street traders. The drivers in the tro tro station who know where I need to go and wave me over to the right car as soon an I approach. The taxi driver who still tries to persuade me to part with 10 cedis for a private car when there's a share taxi right next to him, leaving in a few minutes.
Above all, this is somewhere where I have made many good friends. I'll be coming back to Kumasi sometime in April, and then will be going home....that will be difficult. But for now, I'll be seeing them all again soon.
Checkpoints
We were driving across Eastern Cameroon, heading for a remote and obscure crossing point into the Central African Republic. As we drove, the landscape, scenery, roads and people gradually changed. The buildings became more basic, often using no more than materials taken from the rainforest. The concrete and corrugated iron constructions of Bertoua and Batouri, the last two sizeable towns we passed, were replaced, first with mud and thatch houses then, increasingly, by the thatch, leaves and grass houses built by the Ba'aka, or "pygmies". Across this ever changing landscape, two things remained constant - the logging trucks, stirring up thick clouds of choking red dust which lingered in the air long after they had passed, and the police or security 'checkpoints'.
At each of these checkpoints, some attempt was made, with varying degrees of subtlety and guile, to levy 'fines' for incorrect paperwork. Each time we were greeted by a military official and heard the request for 'les papiers personels', the passports were handed over and the rigmarole began. Many of the guards, poorly trained and seemingly barely literate, clearly had no idea what they were looking at. One officer, noticing a photo attached to the visa in my passport, carefully checked this photo against my grimy face peering out of the car window, and made sure that I knew I was under scrutiny. Satisfied that the bedraggled, filthy specimen in the back seat was indeed the subject of the visa photo, he handed the passport back, apparently now happy that the visa was valid. The fact that he had diligently been checking an expired Tanzanian visa from 2006 appeared not to have been noticed. I wasn't going to point out his error.
Further on, another official sat scrutinising with great care a Malian visa from a little over a year ago. When Simon tried to point him to the correct page in the passport, he jabbed at the visa page with his finger. "Bamako!" he insisted, with wide eyed indignation. True, Bamako is the capital of Mali, and also the name of a village we had passed through some 30 minutes before - possibly the source of the officer's confusion. We left him carefully running his finger down the page on behalf of the Malian authorities. As he did so, a female officer walked past, greeting us all with a hi-5 and a click of the fingers, an interesting new variant on the 'finger snap handshake' I became familiar with in Ghana. Here was a new tactic.
"Monsieur, mon frere," she began, looking me in the eye in a manner which I found a little unnerving, "pensez de moi. Vous pouvez aider moi, n'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? Monsieur, mon frere."
This was a new one on me. Hearing this kind of wheedling, whining plea from a uniformed official doesn't often happen in Essex, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Asking her what sort of 'aider' she had in kind could have been construed as opening negotiations, and simply refusing could have been awkward - however inappropriate her behaviour, she still had a police badge after all. In the end I settled on the tourist's best line of defence - blank incomprehension. My french is pretty rubbish you know.
The most blatant and useless example of cheating, however, came from one of the few officers who actually managed to find the right visas in our passports. Handing one passport back through the window, he played what he imagined would be his trump card. "Le visa, c'est fini!" he declared hopefully. This was so pathetic I actually felt quite sorry for the guy and almost dashed him a few thousand CFA out of pity. Almost. From where I sat, I could clearly see the visa page - "Delivre le 21 fevrier 2011. Validite 3 mois". The visa still had two months to run.
"Non, monsieur, le visa n'est pas fini. Vraiment, c'est pas fini." The gendarme turned away from the car, his shoulders slumped with disappointment and, with a "merci monsieur!" and a cheery wave, we drove off into the afternoon heat.
At each of these checkpoints, some attempt was made, with varying degrees of subtlety and guile, to levy 'fines' for incorrect paperwork. Each time we were greeted by a military official and heard the request for 'les papiers personels', the passports were handed over and the rigmarole began. Many of the guards, poorly trained and seemingly barely literate, clearly had no idea what they were looking at. One officer, noticing a photo attached to the visa in my passport, carefully checked this photo against my grimy face peering out of the car window, and made sure that I knew I was under scrutiny. Satisfied that the bedraggled, filthy specimen in the back seat was indeed the subject of the visa photo, he handed the passport back, apparently now happy that the visa was valid. The fact that he had diligently been checking an expired Tanzanian visa from 2006 appeared not to have been noticed. I wasn't going to point out his error.
Further on, another official sat scrutinising with great care a Malian visa from a little over a year ago. When Simon tried to point him to the correct page in the passport, he jabbed at the visa page with his finger. "Bamako!" he insisted, with wide eyed indignation. True, Bamako is the capital of Mali, and also the name of a village we had passed through some 30 minutes before - possibly the source of the officer's confusion. We left him carefully running his finger down the page on behalf of the Malian authorities. As he did so, a female officer walked past, greeting us all with a hi-5 and a click of the fingers, an interesting new variant on the 'finger snap handshake' I became familiar with in Ghana. Here was a new tactic.
"Monsieur, mon frere," she began, looking me in the eye in a manner which I found a little unnerving, "pensez de moi. Vous pouvez aider moi, n'est-ce pas? N'est-ce pas? Monsieur, mon frere."
This was a new one on me. Hearing this kind of wheedling, whining plea from a uniformed official doesn't often happen in Essex, and I wasn't sure how to respond. Asking her what sort of 'aider' she had in kind could have been construed as opening negotiations, and simply refusing could have been awkward - however inappropriate her behaviour, she still had a police badge after all. In the end I settled on the tourist's best line of defence - blank incomprehension. My french is pretty rubbish you know.
The most blatant and useless example of cheating, however, came from one of the few officers who actually managed to find the right visas in our passports. Handing one passport back through the window, he played what he imagined would be his trump card. "Le visa, c'est fini!" he declared hopefully. This was so pathetic I actually felt quite sorry for the guy and almost dashed him a few thousand CFA out of pity. Almost. From where I sat, I could clearly see the visa page - "Delivre le 21 fevrier 2011. Validite 3 mois". The visa still had two months to run.
"Non, monsieur, le visa n'est pas fini. Vraiment, c'est pas fini." The gendarme turned away from the car, his shoulders slumped with disappointment and, with a "merci monsieur!" and a cheery wave, we drove off into the afternoon heat.
Thursday, 17 February 2011
Two placements
I have two projects currently on the go. The first, Young People we Care, works to promote the interest of young people and to enable their participation in a range of global issues, as well as educational projects on issues like human rights, HIV........no small undertaking. We currently have a number of 'big' projects in the pipeline, and I'm trying to get the budget process going for these - at the same time to clean up some reporting issues that are lingering from a few months back. I have drafted a set of policies that (I think) cover all the day to day areas of finance that need to be maintained, so I am keen to see that this will be picked up and implemented before I go.
YPWC is lucky to have a hugely dedicated and enthusiastic team - representatives from all over Ghana, as well as an increasing network of contacts across Africa and around the world. The volunteers and staff directly working for YPWC joined us all in Kumasi last weekend for the staff retreat, a great opportunity for me to finally put some names to faces and emails - also good to meet Emmanuel again. Last time I saw him was in Accra - shortly before 'that' bus journey. I think it's fair to say I might not have been at my most coherent last time we met (I'd been travelling for around 18 hours, at which point he immediately imformed me that I had many more to go). I hope I gave a better account of myself this time.
Today I visited the creche, where very young children are to be looked after in a safe environment while their parents are working or in education. I would like to report an uplifting, inspirational experience, but found quite the opposite. The creche is in the middle of Racecourse, a slum area of Kumasi. Most of the buildings here (including the creche) are now marked with a red X, the date 18/02/11, and in most cases, the word 'remove'. The Racecourse settlement, as well as being illegal, is a clear social problem which the authorities are attempting to tackle head on. As I visited, the staff were carrying out anything salvageable - the toys, chairs, the water tank and even much of the building wood was being carefully stacked and carted away before the bulldozers arrive in the morning. The creche had been built by the Street Children Project, and they now have to find a new site - and start again. The area is being 'developed' - into what I'm not sure, but I saw many people sitting in their marked homes, obviously making no attempt to pack and leave - what is not clear is exactly where these thousands of people will go.
Somewhere behind all of this fits the role of the accountant. I think I said in one of my earlier blogs about how the aim of the game is to build capacity, to enable and facilitate, rather than simply to do the accounting work myslef. This is often challenging - language barriers, cultural differences (time limits and deadlines don't quite carry the same weight here that they do at home) as well as the working hours (not usually 9-5, more often 'as and when') mean that a great deal of adjustment is required by me. And although there's a huge amount of capability in both organisations, I need to keep remembering that, while it may be obvious to me why a budget statement and reconciliation is a good idea, that might not always be immediately obvious to everyone here.
So that's it. Six weeks (nearly) - two jobs, and a huge amount of work still to go. Am I making a difference? Who knows. What have I achieved? I can list everything I've done, but what will the lasting impact be? Anything? I certainly hope so. And what will I, and my new colleagues be saying about this placement in six months, a year, two years? Will it all have helped?
That, I think is a question for another day.
Sunday, 13 February 2011
Owabi Wildlife Park
Last week I went to Owabi wildlife reserve, probably the least visited nature reserve I've ever been to. I guessed correctly that I was the only visitor on that day. As we were getting ready to walk round the trails I commented casually to my guide 'You don't seem to get many visitors'. Not so, I was assured. 'One day last week, we had 3.'
"You wait here", I was told "I get some things". When he came back with the 'things', I realised that I was about to walk off into deep undergrowth with a moneybelt and expensive camera, alone with a man carrying a machete with a foot-long blade. And yes, I hesitated, if not for long.
Generally, the best time to see animals is early morning or late afternoon when it's cooler and they tend to be a bit more active. So what exactly I was thinking of heading there shorlty after 1.00 I don't know. As expected, it was fairly quiet, though briefly, about half way round the trail, we saw some shaking branches in the tops of the trees - a group of monkeys had been resting in a clump of bamboo by the path and were scurrying to safety higher up. Apart from this the park, as well as being free of tourists, was very tranquil and peaceful. The lake sits behind the Owabi Dam, apparently built by the British sometime in the 20s, and where most of our water in Kumasi comes from.
After walking along the top of the dam, we headed back to the park office. 'If you have money left you can give me some dash,' the guide kindly offered, presumably anticipating my appreciation at the machete only being used on branches. If you have money left? Well I will have money left, but I might need some of it....................still, fair's fair, so I paid the entrance fee of 5 cedis and gave 2 cedis as a tip. Inexplicably I then received five receipts for 10 cedis each, though I declined to lecture about audit trails and proper accounting controls. It didn't seem the right time, although if AfID want to add Ghana Wildlife Parks as a partner I suspect they could use some help. I walked the mile or so back to the last village and found a 'classy' blue Chevrolet tro tro to take me home.
"You wait here", I was told "I get some things". When he came back with the 'things', I realised that I was about to walk off into deep undergrowth with a moneybelt and expensive camera, alone with a man carrying a machete with a foot-long blade. And yes, I hesitated, if not for long.
Generally, the best time to see animals is early morning or late afternoon when it's cooler and they tend to be a bit more active. So what exactly I was thinking of heading there shorlty after 1.00 I don't know. As expected, it was fairly quiet, though briefly, about half way round the trail, we saw some shaking branches in the tops of the trees - a group of monkeys had been resting in a clump of bamboo by the path and were scurrying to safety higher up. Apart from this the park, as well as being free of tourists, was very tranquil and peaceful. The lake sits behind the Owabi Dam, apparently built by the British sometime in the 20s, and where most of our water in Kumasi comes from.
After walking along the top of the dam, we headed back to the park office. 'If you have money left you can give me some dash,' the guide kindly offered, presumably anticipating my appreciation at the machete only being used on branches. If you have money left? Well I will have money left, but I might need some of it....................still, fair's fair, so I paid the entrance fee of 5 cedis and gave 2 cedis as a tip. Inexplicably I then received five receipts for 10 cedis each, though I declined to lecture about audit trails and proper accounting controls. It didn't seem the right time, although if AfID want to add Ghana Wildlife Parks as a partner I suspect they could use some help. I walked the mile or so back to the last village and found a 'classy' blue Chevrolet tro tro to take me home.
Thursday, 3 February 2011
Getting to town
The whole how to get to town thing, I've decided, has been blown out of proportion. I have been hearing rumours since I arrived along the lines of "You will never find your way around without an escort......" "You need a crash course in local language and a bewildering array of place names..........." "Transport is a problem in Ghana" etc etc. But as of this week I beg to differ. After a couple of trips into town, I decided that the route looks learnable, and determined that I would bravely give it a go.
Getting in to town is easier than getting back. As you wait by the main road and a tro tro stops, if the driver's mate shouts 'Kejetia Kejetia Kejetia Kejetia' this means he is going your way. You then push your way into the tro tro, or often I use my Obruni Privilege Pass which entitles me to sit in the front. A tro tro, in case you were wondering, is a kind of Toyota van, usually, it appears, a scrappage or accident write off from Europe (tip: don't lean on the doors while you're going along, they tend to fly open as you go round corners). They are designed to comfortably carry 10-15 people. Generally in Ghana they'll squeeze in a few more.
Gettting back needs a little more care, as not all the tro tros will be going in the same direction. This was the nut I really felt I needed to crack. On Monday afternoon, I was in the centre of Kumasi, and my opportunity arose. I ambled arond the tro tro station for a bit, wondering how to find a car for Abuakwa (the direction I needed to go in). It would have been cheating, I decided, to call any of my Ghanaian friends and pass the phone to a hopeful looking driver - private taxis, by the same token, were equally off limits. That said, a taxi driver did try to quote me 10 cedis to take me home when asked for directions. How I laughed - you think I'm a mug? "Too expensive," I scolded, "share taxi".
"OK then you stand in line" he countered, his enthusiasm for my custom mysteriously lessened. So I did stand in line and after 10 minutes or so, clambered into the next tro tro for Abuakwa. "Apatrapa" (where I needed to get out) I confidently announced to the driver's mate as I got in, and some 20 minutes later was strolling down the road to my front door.
Will 1, Kumasi Transport 0.
There's something a bit pathetic, I know, about someone my age swaggering in delight at being able to use public transport. They're only buses FFS, and I'd been here nearly 2 weeks before I dared to try this. Admittedly, I'm also aware of pride coming before a fall. Having posted this, there is now NO WAY at all I can afford to get lost in Ghana's often chaotic transport network. However, if a later blog opens with the words "I'm posting this from somewhere (I think) in Ghana - but to be honest I'm lost", you'll know what's happened, and jeering rights will be granted accordingly.
I'll let you know if it happens
Getting in to town is easier than getting back. As you wait by the main road and a tro tro stops, if the driver's mate shouts 'Kejetia Kejetia Kejetia Kejetia' this means he is going your way. You then push your way into the tro tro, or often I use my Obruni Privilege Pass which entitles me to sit in the front. A tro tro, in case you were wondering, is a kind of Toyota van, usually, it appears, a scrappage or accident write off from Europe (tip: don't lean on the doors while you're going along, they tend to fly open as you go round corners). They are designed to comfortably carry 10-15 people. Generally in Ghana they'll squeeze in a few more.
Gettting back needs a little more care, as not all the tro tros will be going in the same direction. This was the nut I really felt I needed to crack. On Monday afternoon, I was in the centre of Kumasi, and my opportunity arose. I ambled arond the tro tro station for a bit, wondering how to find a car for Abuakwa (the direction I needed to go in). It would have been cheating, I decided, to call any of my Ghanaian friends and pass the phone to a hopeful looking driver - private taxis, by the same token, were equally off limits. That said, a taxi driver did try to quote me 10 cedis to take me home when asked for directions. How I laughed - you think I'm a mug? "Too expensive," I scolded, "share taxi".
"OK then you stand in line" he countered, his enthusiasm for my custom mysteriously lessened. So I did stand in line and after 10 minutes or so, clambered into the next tro tro for Abuakwa. "Apatrapa" (where I needed to get out) I confidently announced to the driver's mate as I got in, and some 20 minutes later was strolling down the road to my front door.
Will 1, Kumasi Transport 0.
There's something a bit pathetic, I know, about someone my age swaggering in delight at being able to use public transport. They're only buses FFS, and I'd been here nearly 2 weeks before I dared to try this. Admittedly, I'm also aware of pride coming before a fall. Having posted this, there is now NO WAY at all I can afford to get lost in Ghana's often chaotic transport network. However, if a later blog opens with the words "I'm posting this from somewhere (I think) in Ghana - but to be honest I'm lost", you'll know what's happened, and jeering rights will be granted accordingly.
I'll let you know if it happens
Tuesday, 1 February 2011
Graduation Ceremony
Set in a pleasant open area in front of the main buildings, well shaded by trees and canopies, the ceremony started, according to the program, at 10.00 prompt. The 'prompt' was undoubtedly to indicate an actual clock time as opposed to a Ghanaian 'sometime' - if that had been the understanding, chances are we'd still be there now. To my surprise, 'prompt' seemed to work and we got underway only a few minutes after 10. Maybe 'prompt' is the magic word to get something to happen on time here. I'll try it sometime.
After various formalities, including a procession of dignitaries, professors and visting speakers, we all settled down to the main business of the morning - speeches. Lots of speeches. To say that these were long and drawn out would be like calling the Sahara 'a bit sandy'. Frequently, a speech would continue for 10-15 minutes, you'd be thinking 'this one must be nearly done' and then the speaker would 'introduce' the actual speaker. After an hour and a quarter, I checked the programme notes, and saw that we were on item 7 of 15. At one point, shortly after 12.00, the audience burst out into a spontaneous round of applause and cheering. I assumed they had been roused by something the speaker had said, until George Senior leaned over and explained to us. It turned out that this was the Ghanaian way of dropping polite hints to their honoured guest speaker, the Rev Dr Fred Deegbe, that he might like to speed things up a bit. Quite. To his credit, he took the hint with semingly good grace and left the stage. The succession of speeches was alleviated by occasional displays of drumming and dancing from a local cultural group, and some shrill renditions of chorale-like music from the college choir, with a booming synth-organ accompaniment.
Finally, at around 12.45 - 1.00, they decided to award some degrees. As each name was read out, you could tell how many supporters the student had (and where the family was sitting) by the level and location of cheering that broke out in response. Having sat through the morning so far, I doggedly kept my place in the program, determined that George would be well represented for his few seconds in the limelight. We didn't let him down.
As each student got their certificate, they wandered away from the presentation area, and as the announcer implored them meekly to return to their seats, everyone took the opportunity to mill around and take photos of the new graduates with their friends and proud families.
We then spent a very pleasant afternoon socialising with George and his college friends. First of all, we went to an upmarket hotel for a chinese meal, ate quietly, looked through the fence at the swimming pool, and then drove on to another friend's house for some drinks, more food, and more photos. Finally, we rolled home at the civilised hour of 7pm.
Wednesday, 26 January 2011
A Day in the Life
By popular request - well, Apeksha tells all the volunteers to write one of these, so here it is. Warning - contains accountancy stuff.
I normally get up around 7.30-8.00. Breakfast, like the other meals I get here is huge. It usually consists of some scrambled eggs, several pieces of fried toast, 2-3 cups of tea and usually some kind of porridge or rice pudding or similar. I wasn't entirely sure at first what the porridge things were made from. One, I found out is rice water - basically boiled rice with a small amount of starchy liquid that gives it a gloopy, porridge like consistency - I've often accidentally cooked this for myself at home. Another one tastes like semolina except it goes solid if you let it go cold. It is, I am told, a Ghanaian dish called 'Egh Ogh Ugh' (I think I misspelled it although the pronunciation is close enough) - they laugh when I try and say the name. Once I asked what one of the other porridge concoctions was made of. 'Actually,' said Shantell, 'It's Quaker Oats.' That traditional African staple.
I normally start work round about 9 - 9.30. On typical day, I'll go in to the office (just across the yard from the house) open up my emails and look at the plans etc that I prepared during the first week or so. I've set myself some targets based around understanding / auditing the finances of the organisation, providing training in Excel reporting and setting up some clear guidelines on how I think the finance set up should be organised.
A lot of the time I'll be working on my own, as nearly all the YPWC volunteers (including George the finance man) have full time jobs. While this means that my actual contact time with the team is often limited and progress is slower, it also means I can concentrate on the work I'm doing, and write some REALLY BIG training manuals. So far, aside from writing out plans and submitting them to the others, I've audited the cash vouchers and receipts, completed a reporting template for the cash vouchers with a basic expenditure report linked in (George has filled it all in and brought the books up to date), got half way through some training manuals for Excel (with loads of screen shots and things) and have also been through a set of accounts that is due to be submitted to a donor. The basic report was good, but needed a few corrections made to formulas and calculations. I talked through with George as we did this, and was pleased that he then sent it back to Koomson explaining what we had changed and recommended for future reports.
Documenting the work you do is hugely important. Even on a slightly longer placement like this (some of AfID's assignments are as short as two weeks) you need to be sure that you are building capacity rather than dependency - whatever you do, you have to be sure it can carry on when you've left. 'Sustainability' said Shantell when I told her this. Though I didn't like to say at the time, that is a management buzzword, and like all management buzzwords, it can irritate to the point of distraction. But, like most management buzzwords, it can also describe very accurately what you're trying to achieve.
So, I carry on like this through most of the day. At some point I normally go out for a walk to see what's going on in the neighbourhood and say hello to all the local children (schoold here seem to be on constant breaktime). I don't normally eat lunch - too hot and the rest of the meals aren't exactly small. As you may have noticed, excursions like this also provide most of my bloggable material.
Later on the afternoon, some of the other volunteers will come to the office. This gives us all a chance to catch up on what's been happening and is particularly important for me as I can use some of this time to take George through what work I've been doing.
In the evening, I'll usually eat around 7 pm (typically fried fish or chicken with sauce and some sort of rice, noodles or yam chips and salad, with papaya or pineapple after). Then, I might go back to the office if there's people still there and things I can still do, or read, listen to my music or watch the news. Bedtime is generally about 9.30 - 10.00.
I normally get up around 7.30-8.00. Breakfast, like the other meals I get here is huge. It usually consists of some scrambled eggs, several pieces of fried toast, 2-3 cups of tea and usually some kind of porridge or rice pudding or similar. I wasn't entirely sure at first what the porridge things were made from. One, I found out is rice water - basically boiled rice with a small amount of starchy liquid that gives it a gloopy, porridge like consistency - I've often accidentally cooked this for myself at home. Another one tastes like semolina except it goes solid if you let it go cold. It is, I am told, a Ghanaian dish called 'Egh Ogh Ugh' (I think I misspelled it although the pronunciation is close enough) - they laugh when I try and say the name. Once I asked what one of the other porridge concoctions was made of. 'Actually,' said Shantell, 'It's Quaker Oats.' That traditional African staple.
I normally start work round about 9 - 9.30. On typical day, I'll go in to the office (just across the yard from the house) open up my emails and look at the plans etc that I prepared during the first week or so. I've set myself some targets based around understanding / auditing the finances of the organisation, providing training in Excel reporting and setting up some clear guidelines on how I think the finance set up should be organised.
A lot of the time I'll be working on my own, as nearly all the YPWC volunteers (including George the finance man) have full time jobs. While this means that my actual contact time with the team is often limited and progress is slower, it also means I can concentrate on the work I'm doing, and write some REALLY BIG training manuals. So far, aside from writing out plans and submitting them to the others, I've audited the cash vouchers and receipts, completed a reporting template for the cash vouchers with a basic expenditure report linked in (George has filled it all in and brought the books up to date), got half way through some training manuals for Excel (with loads of screen shots and things) and have also been through a set of accounts that is due to be submitted to a donor. The basic report was good, but needed a few corrections made to formulas and calculations. I talked through with George as we did this, and was pleased that he then sent it back to Koomson explaining what we had changed and recommended for future reports.
Documenting the work you do is hugely important. Even on a slightly longer placement like this (some of AfID's assignments are as short as two weeks) you need to be sure that you are building capacity rather than dependency - whatever you do, you have to be sure it can carry on when you've left. 'Sustainability' said Shantell when I told her this. Though I didn't like to say at the time, that is a management buzzword, and like all management buzzwords, it can irritate to the point of distraction. But, like most management buzzwords, it can also describe very accurately what you're trying to achieve.
So, I carry on like this through most of the day. At some point I normally go out for a walk to see what's going on in the neighbourhood and say hello to all the local children (schoold here seem to be on constant breaktime). I don't normally eat lunch - too hot and the rest of the meals aren't exactly small. As you may have noticed, excursions like this also provide most of my bloggable material.
Later on the afternoon, some of the other volunteers will come to the office. This gives us all a chance to catch up on what's been happening and is particularly important for me as I can use some of this time to take George through what work I've been doing.
In the evening, I'll usually eat around 7 pm (typically fried fish or chicken with sauce and some sort of rice, noodles or yam chips and salad, with papaya or pineapple after). Then, I might go back to the office if there's people still there and things I can still do, or read, listen to my music or watch the news. Bedtime is generally about 9.30 - 10.00.
Friday, 21 January 2011
Meeting and Greeting
It's disturbingly easy to make friends in Ghana. Most days before I start work, I wander around the local area for a bit. It gets me some exercise, lets me buy some water and seems to give the locals a bit of light entertainment too. I tend to stick out a bit as I'm walking around - I try to be inconspicuous, but I have to accept that I just don't look Ghanaian. Within my few streets that I know, I am acquiring semi celebrity status. Most of the chat revolves around football, or just smiling a bit and saying 'how are you?' Sometimes, particularly at weekends, I'm invited to sit down and have a longer chat about football - hopefully like this I can get a Premiership-based social life going. This afternoon, I got chatting to 3 guys outside the front of the house - finding out names and football allegiance, repeating their names back to them and failing (brings the house down every time), and then shaking hands and leaving. Bog standard conversation that I keep on having. This time however one of the guys, who hadn't said much till then, leaned forward, said something like 'I wan be fren' (I couldn't smell any alcohol), embraced me, nuzzled his head into my shoulder and planted a sloppy wet kiss on the side of my neck. Hummmmm. Cultural differences and all that I get, but I don't think that's normal...............anywhere. And if anyone's interested, I'm sure he said he was a Chelsea fan.
There are rules of etiquette when you're out and about. After not kissing strangers on the neck, the most important of these is to greet people enthusiastically, especially if they greet you. This might cause me problems, as I am learning that a high proportion of the background chatter in the street comes from people yelling specifically at me. If I hear 'Hey Obruni!' [white man] - well as Little Britain might say, I'm the only Obruni in the village, so they must be talking to me. When I can't tell what's being said, it gets more tricky. I know from local gossip that's found its way back to me that one neighbour who called out to me one day got no reply. In Africa especially this is the height of rudeness. My solution - every time I'm out and about, if I hear a noise, I assume it's directed at me. Rightly or wrongly I wave at the noisemaker with a "GOOD MORNING!!!"
If they weren't greeting me before, they are now - they all love it, and I get a big smile and a wave back. Works every time.
Tuesday, 18 January 2011
Have we had an audit?
A fairly simple question as a rule. If an auditor has visited you, sifted through your stuff, written a report to say you're either ok or a bit fishy, sent you an excessively large bill - chances are, you have been audited.
Right?
Well, so I used to think. The last volunteer to work here left a report which, amongst other things, clearly said "No auditor is appointed. Needs to be resolved urgently". So, naturally, I picked this up when I arrived and asked innocently "do you have an auditor yet?" The answer, I understood, is yes. We had an audit and it was fine. We found a new auditor who gave a special rate.
Now, dear reader, an auditor is not a ghost that passes fleetingly in the night. It is a big, clunky, cumbersome beast that leaves a mighty trail in its wake (the most telltale footprint is usually the aforementioned bill). It doesnt normally take great jungle lore to spot when theyve paid a visit.
Except, I genuinely have no idea. I cant find an auditors report, nor have I found any audit fees in the receipts I've trawled through. I can't find any accounts, I can't find a letter from an auditor, and no one knows where these things might be. Like the falling down tree that noone hears - if noone saw the audit, did that audit take place?
Spooky.
Right?
Well, so I used to think. The last volunteer to work here left a report which, amongst other things, clearly said "No auditor is appointed. Needs to be resolved urgently". So, naturally, I picked this up when I arrived and asked innocently "do you have an auditor yet?" The answer, I understood, is yes. We had an audit and it was fine. We found a new auditor who gave a special rate.
Now, dear reader, an auditor is not a ghost that passes fleetingly in the night. It is a big, clunky, cumbersome beast that leaves a mighty trail in its wake (the most telltale footprint is usually the aforementioned bill). It doesnt normally take great jungle lore to spot when theyve paid a visit.
Except, I genuinely have no idea. I cant find an auditors report, nor have I found any audit fees in the receipts I've trawled through. I can't find any accounts, I can't find a letter from an auditor, and no one knows where these things might be. Like the falling down tree that noone hears - if noone saw the audit, did that audit take place?
Spooky.
Sunday, 16 January 2011
Work in Progress
After spending a day or two recovering physically and emotionally from my overnight bus ordeal, I met some of the key members of the team on Thursday. I had spent the earlier part of the week looking over a very helpful report left by the previous volunteer, so had some idea what to expect. We discussed budgets, auditors, excel reporting and, at some length though without resolution, how to get to (and from) town. The mutual conclusion (such as it was) was that I'm going to find it dificult, going on impossible without an escort. This last point, I'm afraid, may come to dominate my future dealings with Kumasi.
Following the meeting, and various inputs from George, I spent part of the next day or so putting together an outline plan for what I intend to do. Feeling myself already adjusting to a laid back, unhurried pace of life, I hope that my ideas won't prove too ambitious. I'm also vaguely aware of a potential culture clash of cosmic proportions. Life here seems so relaxed that I fear emailing a vast spreadsheet with statements like '1.1 - scope of this report' and '2.2 - objectives with target completion date' will prove to be a bit out of place, like going to work in a wetsuit, or playing the bagpipes at 2am.
But, all in all I am happy with my first week. I'm semi-acclimatised and am slowly getting to know the area where I'll be living. I am being housed, fed and watered like a king. Annoying things like getting my mobile sorted are in the pipeline. And now, at least, there are some beans for me to count.
Wednesday, 12 January 2011
The Road to Kumasi
The Sirius Mystery - Robert Temple (looked boring anyway, didn't want to read it. Really)
Insect repellent (remedied at Amsterdam while waiting for delayed flight)
Hand sanitiser (not a great thing to forget)
Camera memory cards (rather more serious)
My flight landed a few hours late, due to some connection problem. Coming through immigration, there was a huge and lengthy queue (Accra airport seems to have a number of international flights, all of which arrive within a few minutes of each other). The stoic Brits in the queue waited patiently, muttering quietly about inefficiency or 'charming African character' depending on their disposition. A few of the Ghanains, however, were more vocal in their disapproval - one chap stood for several minutes shouting from the back of the queue at the officials before pushing to the front, shouting, vaulting over the barrier, shouting, banging the desk, and shouting a bit more A few more in the crowd began to shout as well, whether in support or not I couldn't tell. It seemed to me a tad unwise though to be openly supporting the guy, whether you sympathised (I did) or not. A 'crowd scene' looked to be potentially developing.
A brief confusion followed, during which several passengers walked through the customs check without stopping or handing over their customs declaration - not sure if that's allowed, but as I slipped through with themI saw a young English girl in tears. Her mother had her arm comfortingly round her shoulder saying 'don't look, just keep walking, keep walking.' Bless. And, er, welcome to Ghana.
Shortly afterwards I went on my first overnight bus trip in Africa. www.ypwc.org (more about them later) sent their Accra rep to the airport, who duly took me to a bus station full of coaches named 'Hallelujah' and 'Amazing Grace'. I boarded 'The Lord is my Shepherd', and a gentleman climbed in with a plastic bag full of DVDs. He began what I initially assumed was a sales pitch, but as I looked at the titles (the Passion, St Paul, Samson and Delilah) I was less sure whether he was evangelising or selling. Some the titles confused me a bit ('The Arse of the Apostles' - I think I might have misheard 'Acts'), but eventually he left, my wallet no lighter and my soul resolutely not saved.
The following morning, I arrived at Kumasi bus station or rather, was turfed out by the side of the road. A characteristically African melee of stalls, traders, hawkers and passers by greeted me as I retrieved my rucksack and looked vaguely around for ideas about what to do next. Culture shocked and unslept for over 24 hours, I was possibly now vulnerable to touts, so was wary when a 'helpful' taxidriver asked me where I was going. Bleary eyed, I handed over my welcome letter from YPWC, before realising that he had no idea where the address was (to be fair it was a PO Box number). He eventually managed to get through to George, before taking me a short distance from the bus to wait. While waiting, I had the first of a number of conversations about Chelsea FC (my opinion - they're losing - good), and gradually began to regret classifying my new buddy Mike as a 'tout'. I've been told many times that Ghana is one of the friendliest, unhassliest countries in Africa, and finding only help - in the middle of the night, in a city, from a stranger, in my hour of need? Surely a good sign.
Yes, I think I'm going to like it here. .
Saturday, 8 January 2011
Packing
A travel writing 'tip' I once saw said something along the lines of 'start in the middle of the action, not in the departure lounge'. I feel therefore that I ought to open this blog with a swashbuckling account of an elephant stampede, the roaring of a pride of hungry lions, or an inspiring narrative of how I singlehandedly transformed the fortunes of an entire continent but........I'm in Essex, I can't sleep and it's drizzling a bit so instead, dear reader, I'll tell the tale of me doing my packing. Are you sitting comfortably?
My rucksack is two thirds full, mostly it seems with paperbacks. For the most part I'm keeping to an African / travel writing theme:
Cameroon with Egbert - Dervla Murphy (struggling to get into this at the moment, though I highly recommend 'Full Tilt - Ireland to India with a Bicycle' by the same author).
The Sirius Mystery - Robert Temple (apparently very controversial, but follows on from a trip to Mali a year ago)
The Masque of Africa - VS Naipaul (no idea what this is about, never read anything by Naipaul either, so should be interesting)
Hidden Bhutan - Martin Uitz (wrong continent I know, but I had a brilliant trip there a few months ago)
The Year of the Flood - Margaret Atwood
The Motorcycle Diaries - Che Guevara
And an autobiography by Stephen Fry, also (with a view to a bit of travel after the assignment) Bradt guides to Cameroon and Ghana and the Lonely Planet on West Africa. Oh, and various papers / books provided by http://www.afid.org.uk/
I always try to travel light, my view is that whatever I take I'll have to carry round with me, so don't take anything I don't need. I always take the same rucksack my parents bought for me when I was 12 - so it's not a full size rucksack, but it forces me to keep everything to a minimum. I could, and probably should, have brought a grown up rucksack by now but......well it's been my main travel buddy for nearly a quarter of a century (help, I'm getting old!) and, to be honest, I can't help being a bit sentimental about it.
Apart from the books, it seems to be mostly filled with Malarone - about 1500 boxes of the sodding things. I'm also taking a few clothes and a toothbrush.
Things that I know I've forgotten* include:
First Aid Kit
Insect Repellent
*List to be extended on arrival in Accra.
And that, as the saying goes, is that. If anyone is still reading, stay with me. If anyone's not, that's good too - no shame in chuntering away to yourself in cyberspace............the next one will be more eventful, I promise. Maybe.
My rucksack is two thirds full, mostly it seems with paperbacks. For the most part I'm keeping to an African / travel writing theme:
Cameroon with Egbert - Dervla Murphy (struggling to get into this at the moment, though I highly recommend 'Full Tilt - Ireland to India with a Bicycle' by the same author).
The Sirius Mystery - Robert Temple (apparently very controversial, but follows on from a trip to Mali a year ago)
The Masque of Africa - VS Naipaul (no idea what this is about, never read anything by Naipaul either, so should be interesting)
Hidden Bhutan - Martin Uitz (wrong continent I know, but I had a brilliant trip there a few months ago)
The Year of the Flood - Margaret Atwood
The Motorcycle Diaries - Che Guevara
And an autobiography by Stephen Fry, also (with a view to a bit of travel after the assignment) Bradt guides to Cameroon and Ghana and the Lonely Planet on West Africa. Oh, and various papers / books provided by http://www.afid.org.uk/
I always try to travel light, my view is that whatever I take I'll have to carry round with me, so don't take anything I don't need. I always take the same rucksack my parents bought for me when I was 12 - so it's not a full size rucksack, but it forces me to keep everything to a minimum. I could, and probably should, have brought a grown up rucksack by now but......well it's been my main travel buddy for nearly a quarter of a century (help, I'm getting old!) and, to be honest, I can't help being a bit sentimental about it.
Apart from the books, it seems to be mostly filled with Malarone - about 1500 boxes of the sodding things. I'm also taking a few clothes and a toothbrush.
Things that I know I've forgotten* include:
First Aid Kit
Insect Repellent
*List to be extended on arrival in Accra.
And that, as the saying goes, is that. If anyone is still reading, stay with me. If anyone's not, that's good too - no shame in chuntering away to yourself in cyberspace............the next one will be more eventful, I promise. Maybe.
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