20 Days
Twenty days. I just don’t know. One minute I’m in love with the place and I think this is exactly what I’ve always wanted to do: find amazing stories, meet exotic, interesting people, write about the things that I feel so lucky to see and experience in an interesting and compelling way and travel all the while. The next minute I think I can’t get out of this confusing, frustrating, dirty, foreign, lonely and sometimes boring hellhole. I have a feeling that once I get back to Toronto, my resolve will quicken to leave, but then I’ll settle slightly and wonder whether I should just stay, find interesting things to do in the city or finagle my way to a bureau like the West Coast and take my chances that I’ll get back to Africa the next time I get bored. I hope I’ve filled this journal with enough positives to remind me why I wanted the adventure in the first place.
Things I’m not likely to miss: being woken every morning around 5 a.m. by the sound of sweeping; scanning the bathroom every time I go in there for signs of cockroaches and other unwanted insects or lizards; bucket showering, then realizing two minutes after I’ve toweled off that my feet are not only caked in dirt, but I’m sweating so much again that another shower would be nice; the stink of my clothes; open sewers; creepy men grabbing my hand as I walk down the street, or making that annoying kissy noise; taxis, their idiot drivers and their damn horn honking; poor customer service, in all it many splendored forms; hearing “sorry, you do not have enough units to complete your call,” the words “I’ve done my best.”
Things I will miss: the stories, first and foremost. They’re interesting, compelling and important. They’re exotic. They’re fascinating. They take me to places I’ve never been and get me access to people I would never otherwise meet. They make change. They shine light. I’ll miss having that Eureka moment, when I find myself standing under an almond tree in the middle of the savannah under a gorgeous blue sky and thinking: “how did I get so lucky!?” The stories are without a doubt incredible and I’ll miss thinking about them, thinking about ways to entice editors, writing pitches and writing stories, even on things like the Ghana Stock Exchange.
I’ll miss groundnut stew; eating on the street; the carefree pace of weekends, the way everyone just sort of slows down and does nothing. There are no errands, no trips to Home Depot, or little jobs to be done. There is only rest. And the pool. I’ll miss sitting outside watching football and West Life videos at Epos; the tiny goats and their cute little babies; the shy, brilliant smiles kids give, their calls of “obruni!”, their little waves; bargaining, strangely enough; stumbling across a herd of sheep in the middle of a busy street; the street hawkers selling everything from inflatable globes to rat poison; burgers at Champs; the off-the-wall conversations at work that remind me how lucky I am to experience journalism in the developing world; sitting under the stars on a Wednesday night listening to the rhythm of African drumming; the clarity that comes from simply looking up and searching for Orion’s belt and finding the big fat African moon shining down like a spotlight; the waving grass of the Savannah, the round mudhuts; the generosity and friendliness of strangers; FanYogo… mmmmm, calcium; fabric shopping, hell, any kind of shopping; being able to buy breakfast out the window of a tro-tro; tro-tros, for all they’re worth; the mates, now that I have a new-found respect for them; baobabs their weirdly spindly branches and big, fat trunks; the energy of life in the market; kebabs; grilled tilapia; the fact that it’s always patio season. Always.
There are some things I’m so proud of achieving while I’ve been here. I’m so proud that I can go anywhere in a tro-tro and that I’m not too afraid or too posh to do it. I’m proud of the way I’ve been able to laugh at myself and make others laugh in situations like bargaining with taxi drivers or Arts Centre sales guys or even in interviews that would normally stodgy or staid. I like being the friendly white girl who can tell a joke. I’m proud that I’ve been able to stand on my own two feet and freelance. I wish I’d been able to do more for my Ghanaian journalists, more for their skills and abilities, but I’m so proud of the way I’ve been able to hone my own skills. I’m proud of the fact that this experience for me was so positive, both professionally and in some ways personally. It was a lemon at the beginning and it would have been easy to sink into a funk that kept me from achieving anything – in the manner of Prue or Joanna or even Tanya – but I think I did well. I’m proud that I’ve managed to travel on my own and make it work. I’m proud that I’ve made friends here that I respect, admire and valuable, even if they are few in number. I’m glad I didn’t sacrifice myself for the company of a few silly, vacuous expats. I’m proud that I’m able to wash my clothes in a bucket and find myself enjoying it, that I remember to bring toilet paper with me when I’m traveling, that I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of planning to drink boiled water. I like that I like Ghanaian food and eat it often and happily.
I wish, again, that I’d done more to effect change among the journalists I work with. I wish I could have convinced them to do things a little differently, to focus on different ideas, to question with a little more intelligence and analysis the policies that affect people and, somewhat more importantly, really question the people who make them. I wish I had made more Ghanaian friends, that I would leave here feeling like I will keep in touch with even one Ghanaian.
I wish I’d met someone and fallen in love, even if it would have ended in heartache.
Things I’m not likely to miss: being woken every morning around 5 a.m. by the sound of sweeping; scanning the bathroom every time I go in there for signs of cockroaches and other unwanted insects or lizards; bucket showering, then realizing two minutes after I’ve toweled off that my feet are not only caked in dirt, but I’m sweating so much again that another shower would be nice; the stink of my clothes; open sewers; creepy men grabbing my hand as I walk down the street, or making that annoying kissy noise; taxis, their idiot drivers and their damn horn honking; poor customer service, in all it many splendored forms; hearing “sorry, you do not have enough units to complete your call,” the words “I’ve done my best.”
Things I will miss: the stories, first and foremost. They’re interesting, compelling and important. They’re exotic. They’re fascinating. They take me to places I’ve never been and get me access to people I would never otherwise meet. They make change. They shine light. I’ll miss having that Eureka moment, when I find myself standing under an almond tree in the middle of the savannah under a gorgeous blue sky and thinking: “how did I get so lucky!?” The stories are without a doubt incredible and I’ll miss thinking about them, thinking about ways to entice editors, writing pitches and writing stories, even on things like the Ghana Stock Exchange.
I’ll miss groundnut stew; eating on the street; the carefree pace of weekends, the way everyone just sort of slows down and does nothing. There are no errands, no trips to Home Depot, or little jobs to be done. There is only rest. And the pool. I’ll miss sitting outside watching football and West Life videos at Epos; the tiny goats and their cute little babies; the shy, brilliant smiles kids give, their calls of “obruni!”, their little waves; bargaining, strangely enough; stumbling across a herd of sheep in the middle of a busy street; the street hawkers selling everything from inflatable globes to rat poison; burgers at Champs; the off-the-wall conversations at work that remind me how lucky I am to experience journalism in the developing world; sitting under the stars on a Wednesday night listening to the rhythm of African drumming; the clarity that comes from simply looking up and searching for Orion’s belt and finding the big fat African moon shining down like a spotlight; the waving grass of the Savannah, the round mudhuts; the generosity and friendliness of strangers; FanYogo… mmmmm, calcium; fabric shopping, hell, any kind of shopping; being able to buy breakfast out the window of a tro-tro; tro-tros, for all they’re worth; the mates, now that I have a new-found respect for them; baobabs their weirdly spindly branches and big, fat trunks; the energy of life in the market; kebabs; grilled tilapia; the fact that it’s always patio season. Always.
There are some things I’m so proud of achieving while I’ve been here. I’m so proud that I can go anywhere in a tro-tro and that I’m not too afraid or too posh to do it. I’m proud of the way I’ve been able to laugh at myself and make others laugh in situations like bargaining with taxi drivers or Arts Centre sales guys or even in interviews that would normally stodgy or staid. I like being the friendly white girl who can tell a joke. I’m proud that I’ve been able to stand on my own two feet and freelance. I wish I’d been able to do more for my Ghanaian journalists, more for their skills and abilities, but I’m so proud of the way I’ve been able to hone my own skills. I’m proud of the fact that this experience for me was so positive, both professionally and in some ways personally. It was a lemon at the beginning and it would have been easy to sink into a funk that kept me from achieving anything – in the manner of Prue or Joanna or even Tanya – but I think I did well. I’m proud that I’ve managed to travel on my own and make it work. I’m proud that I’ve made friends here that I respect, admire and valuable, even if they are few in number. I’m glad I didn’t sacrifice myself for the company of a few silly, vacuous expats. I’m proud that I’m able to wash my clothes in a bucket and find myself enjoying it, that I remember to bring toilet paper with me when I’m traveling, that I’ve gotten used to the rhythm of planning to drink boiled water. I like that I like Ghanaian food and eat it often and happily.
I wish, again, that I’d done more to effect change among the journalists I work with. I wish I could have convinced them to do things a little differently, to focus on different ideas, to question with a little more intelligence and analysis the policies that affect people and, somewhat more importantly, really question the people who make them. I wish I had made more Ghanaian friends, that I would leave here feeling like I will keep in touch with even one Ghanaian.
I wish I’d met someone and fallen in love, even if it would have ended in heartache.
posted by Palmer in Africa at 9:44 AM
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