Culinary misadventures March 23, 2008

After 8 days of being on the road through northern Ghana, we’ve made it back to Accra, safe and sound (of body anyway), but probably by the skin of our teeth. Nothing too out of the ordinary occurred; however, if you’re driving copiously on Africa roads, I am certain that you too would be placed in an actuary’s “high risk” category. Although we had a great driver and a safe vehicle for the trip up to Bolgatanga and back, which was probably about 1400 Km in total, I basically feared for my life anytime I had my eyes open while we were driving.

Not only are the roads narrow, but they also pass through villages and are littered with pot holes, speed bumps and other blemishes, not to mention the randomness you encounter along the way, like bed sheets of yams drying RIGHT ON the highway since the pavement is hotter than the fields. Despite these conditions, the drivers still speed like maniacs. I caught our driver going 140 and 150 on 2-lane highways, down steep hills, plummeting toward ancient 18-wheelers loaded with sacks of charcoal, grain, yams or god knows what, piled to twice the height of the truck itself. I know we came within inches of giant vehicles, but thankfully we never collided. Most of the time I just slept as a defense mechanism against massive cardiac infarction.

In this edition, I think I need to describe for you some of the culinary experiences I’ve had. As you all know by now, I’m training for the marathon at the end of May, which means I’m running daily, but also I’m desperately trying to eat healthily… That is a TALL order in Africa, where most everything is fried. It is virtually impossible to have one meal that is not soaked in oil. Even if it is not deep fried, somehow, the Africans find a way to infuse everything with oil.

Example #1: We were in Sunyani, small town Ghana that TeeBee called “Funyani” since he hoped to have a fun time there. Well, I don’t think he left the hotel (neither did I for that matter, but that was the one city that had this spectacular gym where I ran like mad because there was this other white guy running of the treadmill beside me and I wanted to prove that I could outrun him…I have a bit of a competitive edge, I know).

Anyway, all I wanted for dinner after that was something really light. When I opened the menu at the restaurant, I didn’t know what to do. Ghanaians, for whatever reason, have some kind of obsession with Chinese food. Most every restaurant serves Ghanaian dishes and Chinese dishes, unfortunately, neither is particularly low in fats and oils. This night, I happened to find “Grilled Grouper” on the menu. It was to come with French fries or fried plantain or fried rice. I order my grilled fish with a side salad, thinking, there was no way that they could drench this in oil… Boy was I wrong.

First, I got my salad, which was a meal in itself, but lovely since the fatty dressing came on the side. So I ate my plain salad sans dressing and awaited my grilled fish. When the waiter put the plate in front of me, I had to gasp for oxygen. It was a massive plate, half of which was overflowing with French fries, the other half of which was covered in, well, I wasn’t sure what.

All I could see was a pile of something that was blanketed in a fried egg. Maybe grilled fish usually comes covered in egg, I thought? When I peeled away the egg, I was utterly horrified. There were about 6 pieces of mixed meats—chicken, pork, liver, kidney and FRIED beef! How could this be?! All I wanted was a simple grilled grouper and I got a mixed grill covered in a fried egg with ten pounds of fries on the side? There was nothing I could do. It was 10:30 pm. The kitchen was closing. So I ate the whole thing, minus the innards. This is my problem: I like tasty things and if you give me fries I will eat them. That is why I try to avoid them, but evidently, Africa thinks I need temptation.

The other culinary story of note occurred in Tamale. Teebee had been talking about this place called Dot’s that he used to visit when he lived here 15 years ago. As is common for him, he neglects to understand that things change. He expects everything to be exactly as it was in Ghana 15, 25 and 40 years ago in Ghana. After much consultation with his friends who still live in Tamale, he came to believe that Dot’s had been transformed into “The Drop-in”. Even still, despite the new name, he thought all would be the same. So we went to the drop in for “dinner”. Drop in is basically an outdoor restaurant that is probably tables on gravel, though I couldn’t exactly tell since there were no lights. There was, however, a television that was blasting the news so we positioned ourselves close enough to get some of the light’s reverberations.

The waitress comes over and Teebee asks whats on the menu tonight. “Fried Guinea Fowl,” she replies. Teebee: “…and what?” “That’s it,” she retorts. Awesome, I think to myself. I wouldn’t have expected anything more, really, given the s condition of this place.

Lots of time goes by. Teebee is losing his cool. “The service sucks here. 15 years ago at least there were lights and the honeys (meaning waitresses) knew about customer service.”

The waitress finally comes back, this time with an entire giant pot in her hands. She throws a couple of plastic plates in front of us, opens the pot and says, “Which piece do you want?”

Get this! They fry up Guinea Fowl, then you get to choose your piece out of the pot!

The vein in Teebee’s forehead is about to burst. “How are we supposed to choose if we can’t see anything!” Our other friend lights his cell phone and shines it in the pot. “There are only bones in here! Where are all the good pieces?!” Teebee shouts as I prepare the defibrillator under the table for Teebee’s eventual fate. “Go back and get us some real meat!”

I took 3 wings (it was either that or the back and I was starved from having done hot yoga in my bedroom). They were really tasty. Half an hour later, she came back with a pot full of breasts and legs. Teebee was pacified at best, though he couldn’t wait to get out of the joint and mumbled obscenities under his breath until we finished eating.

“This place has really deteriorated in 15 years. This used to be the place we hung out every night. Now you can’t even see what you’re eating…”

The thing is, whether you can see it or not, here in Ghana, you can never really be sure of what you’re eating. On this point, Teebee and I almost see eye to eye.

The challenges of exercise in Ghana March 19, 2008

Since arriving in Ghana, it has become rather apparent that my mind is lacking in stillness. It is so fidgety, in fact, that its noise and incessant movement has begun to cause ripples and waves to resonate far outside its diameter and well into the world around me.

Back in my more hippy days when I lived in Vancouver and was practicing Yoga everyday, sometimes twice a day and then on the nude beach by sunset, my body was one supple temple and my mind was like still life attracting seagulls to perch atop my head for hours.

Those times are gone. In this weird reality in which I find myself—this compartmentalized life, living half in Africa, half in Canada and all in some dreamland I hope to find one day soon, I have totally abandoned the meditation and the peace of yoga. In recent years, I traded in that form of exercise for long-distance running. Now don’t get me wrong. It’s not like I’m running a half marathon per day like Tabby. But I go through phases in which I do. Most recently though, my chatty mind has taken over all the exercise and left my body to vegetate in a pathetic state of inactivity and self-loathing.

Thankfully, Tabs came to my rescue a few weeks ago and forced me to indulge in shopping therapy. She ended up treating me to the hottest running outfit I have ever owned—a bright blue running tank and (yes hold your breath for this one) a running SKORT! She got herself the very same outfit so that we could run the Ottawa marathon in the same attire and be the hot running babes that we are. So I’ve been running like a ho ever since.

Now, I don’t know much you all know about running in Africa, but I generally would not recommend doing it on the roads in any city. First, the fumes from those old emissions-guilty vehicles render breathing at a resting rate labourious at the best of times. Next, pedestrians have no rights. Third, I am a white woman. I would attract attention if I were covered in a sheet and promenading elegantly, so you can only imagine what would happen if I were to squeeze my body into that hot skort and bounce my way through the streets of small-town Ghana.

Therefore, on this northern road trip, I have been seeking out hotels with gyms. On the whole, I’ve been pretty lucky. And if I haven’t had a gym in my hotel, I’ve been able to find one somewhere in the town. Tamale, however, is another story altogether.

There is no gym or pool at this hotel. So I asked approximately 42 people who work here if there is a gym in this town. It took them something like 8 hours to get back to me. Finally one of the waiters today at lunch came over to me like a sleuth passing on classified information.

“Ma’am, were you looking for info about the gym?”

“YA! That was me,” I respond in a completely opposite tone of voice.

“Well there is this one place.”

“Cool! Where is it? How do I get there?!”

“Ma’am, I should tell you that they don’t use ‘regular methodologies’.”

Somewhat confused, my tone lowers, I lean into him and whisper back, “What kind of methodologies do they use?”

“You know cars?”

“Cars?” I reply totally lost.

“Yes. Cars.

“Yeah, I know cars,” I retort.

“Well, they use car wheels.”

“Car wheels? For what, exactly?”

“You know, to strengthen your muscles.”

“Aha..” I answer. My mind conjuring all sorts of weird images of a tire factory that doubles as a gym with muscle-bound black men running on transport-truck tires. Instead of the word “Goodyear” running along the side, “TREADMILL” is emblazoned on each.

“I can take you there if you want to see if you like it.”

I didn’t go, but now I kind of wish I had to see what the heck he could have been talking about. Maybe I’ll go tomorrow.

So I did yoga instead. That’s the great thing about these hot countries. All you have to do is shut off the air conditioning in your room and you’ve got yourself the perfect hot room! I sweat out all my impurities. But that is when I realized that I have no mental stillness. First, I couldn’t settle on a type of music. Van Morrison was the soundtrack to the first 30 seconds of my session. That quickly changed when I caught myself singing instead of focusing on my breath. Then it was a sequence of Bjork, some acid jazz and finally some classical piano music that actually allowed my mind to rest.

Every time I attempted a balancing position, my body would jerk from left to right, with one leg shooting out one way to find balance and the other arm shooting out the other way to correct for the leg’s overzealous move. Eventually I would just fall onto the bed.

Half way through my session I got bored of doing yoga in my room, so I looked for another place to finish it. I realized that I actually had a key to the patio outside my room. When I got out there, it was enclosed like a balcony on the ground floor. So I hopped the railing with my towels and walked barefoot out to the “courtyard” which is really still a construction zone. But the sun was setting so I thought it was perfect.

I was a quarter-way into my first sun salutation outside when the mosquitoes started biting. “I’m sure the yogis in India don’t let mosquitoes bother them,“ I thought. Well, when I saw two potentially malarial mosquitoes on my legs during my first downward dog, I decided it was time to scrap the “romantic” yogic setting and go back into my room.

I’m rather certain that no yogi would approve of this dismembered practice. At least I’m trying right?

It’s 10:13 pm. I’m eating an amazingly good grilled snapper and salad. If I don’t get amoebic dysentery from the salad I’ll sleep well tonight.

Love to all,

Tir

The perils of childhood March 18, 2008

Every day in Africa, children walk for miles upon miles to get to school. Like independent little adults, they get up before dawn, get themselves ready in the dark, without electricity, without running water. They head out from their little villages along the roadside. They walk stoically along the unpaved shoulders of main thoroughfares for an hour or more every morning and every evening. They put their lives at risk every day as maniacal drivers speed along the highways, as logging trucks swerve across the lanes, avoiding potholes, as vehicles of questionable security try to negociate treacherous hill and curves.

This morning was no different on the road from Sunyani to Kintampo in Brong-Ahafo, Ghana. This morning, a little Ghanaian girl in her yellow and maroon school uniform had almost reached her elementary school, which is located right along this perilous road. She had maybe 200 m left to walk before joining her friends for a day of learning. Maybe she was skipping. Maybe she was singing. Maybe she was laughing with her walking companions. Whatever the case, this little girl had no idea that this would be her last walk to school.

By the time we drove by, her tiny, innocent, mangled body lay on the side of the road. A crowd of community members had gathered around. Her classmates down the road had assembled at the edge of the school yard, mourning the loss of their friend. Soon her family would be notified and would dissolve in pain.

The guy who hit her tried to escape by driving into the bushes. Luckily the military police caught and arrested him almost immediately. Had the community members caught him first, his fate may have been far worse…

These tragedies happen far too often along these roads. Still, short of community members tearing massive holes into the asphalt, doubling as speed bumps (or rather potholes), nothing official is done to slow down the vehicles. There aren’t enough resouces to send kids to school in buses. And so, little girls and boys put their lives at risk everyday just trying to get an education.

As I try to fall asleep tonight, all I can see is the haunting image of that little child whose life ended far too early. May her death not be in vain. May her story be a testament to the desperate need for reforms and for the implementation of safety measures for school children.

One little life was lost today. She may not make the news. Her story may never be shared with the people who have the power to make changes. I didn’t know her. I never saw her alive. However, she is now part of my life. I will carry her image forever. She is a true victim of poverty.