A Tale of Two Ghanaians

It was the best of receptions; it was the worse of receptions.

On Sunday this past weekend, I was heading into Accra to a very nice 5-star hotel downtown where I happen to have snagged the wi-fi password, and have been known to camp out for hours enjoying the air conditioning and some of the fastest internet I have found in Accra. Door to door, the trip takes me anywhere from 45 to 90 minutes depending on traffic, with the first leg of my little journey being the 15 minute walk to the junction with the main road (Spintex Road) where I can hop on a tro-tro heading downtown. On this particular Sunday I had done laundry (by hand) earlier in the morning, and so, my trip into town was right smack in the middle of the day. Perhaps poor planning on my part, but the difference between dawn and noon is more like the difference between really hot and really really hot ; either way I am dripping with sweat 5 minutes after stepping outside.

So there I am walking down the familiar copper-red road, kicking up dirt dust with every step, the noonday sun relentlessly beating down on the back on my neck, sporting my trusty yellow backpack with laptop inside, when the brake lights engage on the back of a car that has just driven past, and it pulls over to the side of the road. I continue walking up alongside the car, as the driver leans over to roll down the passenger side window. He is a middle-aged Ghanaian man with a bald head and a kind face. I lean into the open window as he enquires “How far are you going?” “Just to the junction”, I reply. “Hop in.” he declares, “It’s too hot out to be walking long distances.” I respond with gratitude, as I open the door and take a seat. I have made that walk between the junction and my house at least a hundred times so far, and no one has ever pulled over to offer me a lift.

When we arrived at the junction, I said “This is great right here. I can catch tro-tro into Accra at this stop. Thanks so much.” To my surprise, he enquired once more “How far are you going?” to which I replied “Downtown Accra.” He said “So am I, so just stay in and we’ll go.” So, I did. On the 20 minute drive that ensued, I learned that his name was Andy, and that he lived right around the corner from me with his wife and three children (two of which were born in the U.S., and so, are U.S. citizens). He was in the “relocation business,” which, as he explained to me, was basically like a professional moving company that specialized in moving diplomats and aid workers between Ghana and their home countries. He was headed to the immigration office on business, which happened to be right around the corner from where I was headed. “How do you see Ghana?” is the standard question I am always asked, so I spoke of my work and my time so far, and we both agreed that, from a development perspective, Ghana is a very exciting place to be at the moment with lots of promise for itself and to be a leader in Africa as a whole. When he learned that I was American, he spoke of the U.S.-funded highway that is being built West of Accra that will do wonders for traffic, once completed.

All in all, it was a very pleasant trip, and Andy and I exchanged phone numbers outside the Ghana immigration office where he dropped me off. Having met a very nice man and been saved about an hour trek, I walked the rest of the way to the hotel in quite a good mood. Andy was the epitome of what I have come to know as the kindness of strangers in Ghana. But, as I was soon reminded, it is the kindness of MOST strangers. On the sidewalk just outside the hotel, I passed a tall, skinny, dreadlocked man who gave me a scathingly dirty look for no apparent reason. Even that could not damper my spirits; however, it did remind me of another, much less inviting Ghanaian I had encountered months earlier.

Towards the end of my first month here, Dennis and I found ourselves at the bank under another viciously hot midday sun. He was making a very large transfer of funds from another bank, and it was taking a while. Like most bank experiences so far, demand for services far outstripped supply, and the line was out the door. Not able to go inside and also unable to stay in the suffocatingly hot car, I decided to just sit on the shady curb next to the ATM. After a few minutes, dreadlocked man of slight build wearing sunglasses came up to use the ATM and started talking to me. At first it seemed friendly, but I soon realized that his intent was anything but. The short conversation went something like this:
“How are you doing?”
“I’m fine. And you?”
“ Good. So, what are you doing in Ghana?”
“I’m doing public health work with the Pharmaceutical Society of Ghana.”
“Working for pharmaceutical companies…that sounds about right.”
“No, not pharmaceutical companies. I work with pharmacists…Ghanaian pharmacists.”
“Where are you from anyways?”
“I’m from the U.S.”
“Oh, the United Snakes of America…that makes sense.”
“Listen, I am here working with a local Ghanaian NGO, with Ghanaian pharmacists doing public health work to try to make you and your fellow countrymen healthier. I don’t appreciate those United Snakes of America comments like that radio host uses.”
“Ha. Listen buddy. I think you should probably get out of Ghana.”

At this point he was finished using the ATM and turned to leave. But not before forming a gun with the thumb and index finger of one of his hands, pointing it at me and saying “BANG!” So, trying to be the mature one and take the high road, I just resorted to some good old sarcasm as he walked away: “Very nice to meet you too! Have a great day!”

The “United Snakes of America” phrase, I know, he had stolen from a very popular radio talk show host here in Ghana who calls himself “Blakk Rasta”. The show, which airs every day around lunch time, consists of about two hours in which the Blakk Rasta rants about the “white man” and the “imperialist devils from the West.” (Phrases in quotes taken verbatim from his script.) I have never heard him interview a guest or take callers; it’s always just him talking into the microphone. It’s a fantastic feeling to get into a packed tro-tro and hear his program on, only to smile broadly at the people around me. While it would be great if every single Ghanaian held a favorable view of Americans, like power outages and unrelenting humidity, I chalk it up to “all part of the experience” and try to learn something from it. And, indeed, in this case, there is much that can be learned.

I was first introduced to the Blakk Rasta when Charles had the radio tuned to his show as he drove Dennis and me to a meeting a few weeks after I arrived. Dennis explained that the show was very popular among all demographics, and that the Black Rasta was a college-educated man. The first segment of that particular show featured a history lesson of the life and death of Patrice Lumumba: a Congolese independence leader and the first legally-elected Prime Minister of post-colonial Republic of the Congo, who was arrested and killed with the likely support of the Belgian (and possibly U.S.) government(s). Like Ghana’s Kwame Nkrumah, he was a supporter of Pan-Africanism, and to the surprise of no one, the Black Rasta went on for about 15 minutes to lionize Lumumba as a martyr and demonize the West. The second segment was much less structured than the first, and he went on a tirade against the “IMFWorldBank” for another 15 minutes. The basic take-away was that the “IMFWorldBank” has more control over Ghana’s development than Ghana does, and that is a deplorable state of affairs. It was simultaneously a shot at the multilateral development agencies (and, by extension, all Western countries that donate to them) and the current administration in Ghana.

Now, there are a few interesting things about this broadcast on which to reflect:

1.) Blakk Rasta does make some good points. On Patrice Lumumba, yes, the U.S. and its allies did certainly play a role in the deposition and/or killing of some world leaders of sovereign nations, especially during the Cold War, when the Republic of Congo was getting aid from the Soviet Union. These actions are undoubtedly regrettable, and according to the CIA, they don’t do that sort of thing anymore. It is, however, a little much to canonize him, since he did very little that could be considered good for his country while in office. On the other hand, he did implement policies that precipitated a terrible civil war.

2.) The whole “United Snakes of America” phrase is hilarious when put into context. You see, in addition to being a radio show host and DJ, Blakk Rasta is also a reggae artist. His biggest hit single to date, is titled “Barack Obama”: a song he made supporting Obama in the run-up to the 2008 election. When Obama came to Ghana in July of 2009, Blakk Rasta was accorded much attention due to the song. He was interviewed by CNN, the BBC and other Western news outlets, in addition to having lunch and a photo op with the president: an experience he called the pinnacle of his life and career.

3.) His anger at the “IMFWorld Bank” is not completely unfounded, but needs to be much better informed. It is easy to rail at the two multilateral institutions, as they have dropped a lot of money here, with some questionable results. Development is a tricky field; not everything is a success story; and it is very easy to point the blame. That being said, they are completely different institutions with completely different mandates, so you undermine your credibility when you just say “IMFWorldBank.” As in: “The government needs to stop pandering to the IMFWorldBank and have a greater say in the projects that are being implemented.” To Blakk Rasta and many other Ghanaians, these institutions represent some sort of extended colonialism, and there is no difference between them. And he equates the government taking their assistance as being controlled by them and by their agenda. (The meeting Dennis and I were being driven to as we listened to the program was sponsored by the World Bank.)

While the overwhelming majority of Ghanaians I have encountered lean towards Andy’s view of the West, I am constantly reminded, through almost daily scowls I receive from passersby, of those on the other end of the spectrum like Blakk Rasta and the man at the ATM. And, after all the atrocities committed by the “white man” against Africans, I can’t say that I don’t see where they are coming from. (NB: Not all Rastafarians are vehemently anti-West. I participated in a fantastic moonlit drum circle on the beach followed by intense what-is-it-all-about conversations with some very friendly, thoughtful Rastas. I don’t want to paint a wrong picture.)

For me, it is interesting to note how much homage is paid to the views of Blakk Rasta, even by those who don’t agree with what he espouses. In an extreme light, he can be blindly anti-West regardless of the issue at hand and allow that bias to cloud his judgment, never capable of objectivity. However, in a moderate light, he can stand for not eating all that is fed to you without questioning it, for national pride, and for sovereignty, and I think that this is what Ghanaians across the political spectrum can relate to. Indeed, it is exactly this phenomenon that I have seen manifest in many of my work meetings here. Ghanaians, like any other nation of people, are proud, and one of the biggest lessons I have learned is that donors and other “development partners” (the catchphrase du jour) cannot underestimate this sentiment in their policies and interactions with their developing country colleagues. To do this (development) right, by building consensus, takes time, and local stakeholders must be involved in ALL stages of the process: from policy development to implementation. In one of my next blogs, I will discuss how ignoring these lessons might spell failure for a very exciting and promising initiative being piloted across Africa this year (including Ghana) in malaria control.

Ghanaians like Andy look at my skin, and think about the new road that U.S. dollars are helping to build. They want to talk to me and know what sort of work or study brings me to their country. Ghanaians like the man at the ATM look at my skin and they think about the killing of Patrice Lumumba and the development failures preached by the Blakk Rasta. They want to talk to me to tell me to leave their country. It is the best of receptions; it is the worst of receptions. You just have to take the good with the bad (add a few other clichés), walk it off, and keep on going.

The Joy FM / PSGH Easter Soup Kitchen

This Easter Sunday was like none I’ve ever experienced. That’s because on this day every year, PSGH partners with Joy FM, Accra’s most popular radio station, and other organizations to put on the “Easter Soup Kitchen” (ESK) for the benefit of thousands of Accra’s poorest residents. In short, the ESK is a day of giving back, where anyone and everyone can come to get free medical care, clothes and a hot meal. It was a day I’ll never forget.

For me, the day started before dawn, when John and Jonas picked me up in the PSGH truck around quarter to 6, the flatbed already full of boxes of donated drugs and other medical supplies that we were transporting to the Children’s Park in downtown Accra, where the ESK was to take place. We arrived at the park about 20 minutes later to find dozens of volunteers already there, setting up the tables and chairs for the other stations. We quickly began unloading our boxes, so that John could go back to PSGH headquarters to get the second truck load of supplies.

truckload number one

That’s what PSGH brought to the table: the medical care. We had sent out letters about a month beforehand to pharmaceutical companies in Ghana, wholesellers, importers, and even the public sector medical stores asking for drug donations. The response we received was impressive, and over the next 4 weeks we were very busy picking up donations and taking stock of everything we received. That was basically my job, and I spent many days examining active ingredients and expiry dates, counting every single dose that we had and putting it into a nice little Excel spreadsheet. I would then repackage everything and slap a huge, easily-readable pink label on the box to make everything easier come Easter Sunday.

boxes of drugs in our office, each with a pretty pink label and my nice handwriting

As Jonas and I began sorting the boxes by drug type (analgesics, multivitamins, antihelminths (aka dewormers), antimalarials, etc.), we were soon joined by dozens more PSGH volunteers: doctors, pharmacists, pharmacy students, interns, and others who just wanted to help. The Joy FM people had finished constructing the DJ booth and stage and started up the music. When the first song out of the PA system hit my ears (Bob Marley’s “Redemption Song”), I knew it was going to be a good day. Not only was it an extremely appropriate choice on many levels, but it also happens to be my favorite Marley song!

setting up the DJ booth around 7:30 am

so much water!

The people were to start coming around 9, so we spent the next two hours sorting and opening boxes to make the distribution as smooth and quick as possible. We set up several long tables topped with boxes full of different tablets, syrups, creams and solutions. And when the tables could not hold any more supplies, we piled the rest of the boxes behind them, which I was in charge of. We had arranged it with Joy FM so that everyone came to our medical station first, before going on to the clothing and food stations. In the past, many people just came and grabbed food, skipping over our services, so this time they had to get a hand stamp in order to get the food. This was great, because it meant that we would be able to serve the maximum amount of people, but it also meant that it was going to be a madhouse! We had arranged it so that people would:

- first come to one of many registration desks, where a volunteer would write down their age and gender on a form;

- from there, they would move on to the doctor/pharmacist stations where trained health professionals would do a quick consultation, writing down their symptoms, diagnosis and prescription decision;

- finally, they would bring the form to one of the dozens of volunteers doing the dispensing, who would provide the treatment and dosage instructions, take the forms from them and give them a stamp.

And at 9am, that’s exactly what happened; people started pouring in (the vast majority being women and children), and within 30 minutes, everything was running at full tilt. It was a good thing that there were security guards on site to control the lines, because it would have been mayhem without them. The lines were soon over a hundred people long, and I spent the next several hours running around refilling stocks, answering questions from dispensers about what drugs we did or did not have (even though I had converted the spreadsheet into an easy to read list, sorted by drug type, giving doses and expiry dates, and printed out dozens of copies for everyone to use as reference) and finding the hard to find ones from the boxes. In addition to the main dispensing tables, we had set up independent stations for distribution of deworming tablets and oral rehydration solution, and everything seemed chaotic but, all things considered, was running as smoothly as we could have hoped for. (Later, we would do the final calculation and realize that we were treating over 400 people an hour!)

one of the diagnosing tables

one of the dispensing tables

yours truly doing some dispensing

one of the lines for our medical care station

Around 11, we had already run out of some of the creams, and it was clear that we would start running out of some of the syrups, multivitamins and paracetamol. With no signs of the lines lessening, we decided to make an emergency run back to the PSGH offices, where we had extra stocks of some of the drugs. The clothing station opened around 11:30, and then an hour or so later, it was announced that the food was ready to be served. With other places for people to go, our lines were finally becoming a little bit more manageable! Dennis arrived from church around then, and immediately jumped right in. All the volunteers even got free food around 2pm: a welcome respite!

people waiting patiently for clothes and food; security guard and huge pile of clothes at far right

By about 3pm, the last dregs of people were filtering in, and we were able to start packing up. It had been over 6 hours of mayhem, but with over 80 volunteers at our medical station alone (about 10 times the amount of volunteers as last year!), everyone agreed that it had been the most well organized ESK yet! PSGH will conduct another similar free health outreach day, in conjunction with its annual general meeting in August, so stay tuned. We learned a lot of good lessons this time around, so I expect things will be even better managed in the future. It was truly impressive to see the hundreds of volunteers giving up time on their precious weekend to help those less fortunate than themselves, and I was just happy to be a part of it!

See more pictures at the Joy FM website!

A Ghanaian Funeral

A quick note of apology for taking so long to post something new. Jeremy visited, then Lindsay visited, then work got busy. I know excuses are lame, and I was thinking of you guys the whole time....it'll never happen again.

I was informed last month that Charles’ mother, Dora Poku, passed away, and that he would be out of the office for much of the next few weeks planning the funeral with his family members in his home town: a small village in the Brong Ahafo region of central Ghana, about 7 hours drive Northwest of Accra. After a week, a date had been set, and a noticeable buzz of anticipation filled the office with each passing day. The anticipation was a foreign sensation for me, as a funeral in the America is not usually looked forward to. Also, it usually happens less than a week after the death, so there really isn’t a whole lot of time. But in Ghana, it is another ballgame. Funerals are scheduled weeks and often months ahead of time, so that all family members and friends have ample heads up to travel back for it.

poster outside our office notifying people of the upcoming funeral

About a week before the event, we had a little meeting to decide who would/could/wanted to go, how we would get there, and what an appropriate gift would be for the family (It is customary in Ghana to give money as a gift for the bereaved family.). I definitely wanted to go, both to support Charles and to experience a Ghanaian funeral, and so did Dennis, John, Jonas, and Vivian, our executive assistant. It was decided that we would be taking a big coach bus, and that everyone in the office would chip in some cash for the family, with another monetary gift also coming from PSGH itself. A typical Ghanaian funeral spans an entire weekend, so the five of us left on Friday night after work.

The main “bus station” in Accra is basically a huge parking lot across the street from the much smaller government-run bus transportation hub. It is filled with hundreds of buses and vans of various sizes crammed in, in what seems like no particular order. These informal buses supplement and now completely dwarf the insufficient fleet of public transportation options. When we turned into the main entrance to the “station” we were met by dozens of men yelling at us, asking where we were going and steering us in the right direction: their right direction not necessarily being our right direction. But, for the most part, they were extremely helpful, and like many things in Ghana, something that seems to be lawless chaos turns out to have its own very clear order, if not completely observable at first sight. Vehicles going to particular areas around Ghana all congregate in certain areas of the lot on a first come first serve basis. Nothing leaves at a pre-arranged time, but rather when it is full, allowing the next vehicle in line to begin taking on passengers. So, the tickets Jonas bought for us earlier in the day said 8:30pm, but really, it could be any time before or after that, depending on the demand.

We got there around 8 to find our big coach bus about 1/3 full, which meant that we would need about 50 more people before we could shove off and would most likely be leaving well after 8:30. In the meantime, the mobile hawkers selling food and others goods from baskets carried on their heads were in full force at our windows. By the time we ended up leaving around 9:15, I could have purchased a used book, a toothbrush, ice cream, a bandana and so much more. Around 9 we were treated to a full 10-minute sales pitch from a medicine salesman who actually boarded the bus. I was sitting next to John, our accountant, who provided the color commentary for me. He said “It’s quite sad, but watch how many people buy his products when he is done talking.” And John was right. When the salesman went around to collect the fruits of his labor, at least a dozen people bought something.

our trusty red coach bus

When we finally pushed off, I thought we were done with the hawkers hissing and banging on windows and could enjoy several hours of hassle-free peace. But it was not so. As soon as we started moving, a woman in the front row stood up and began addressing the rest of the bus. I didn’t really need John’s translation (but enjoyed it anyways) to know that she was preaching the gospel. John told me that this was very common. She would probably go on for at least half an hour, and then collect whatever money the passengers gave her before getting off and boarding another bus heading back to the station to do it all again. It wasn’t so much the unsolicited preaching that surprised me, but it was the passenger’s reaction to it that really hammered home the whole Christianity in Ghana thing for me. Whereas my reaction to having more religion shoved in my face was to get extremely annoyed and contemplate heckling, everyone around me seemed to really enjoy her presence. They would sing along to the hymns and songs she led, follow perfectly in the call-and-response portions and repeat obedient “Amens” when appropriate. Religion in the parts of America where I have lived really only pokes its head out around holidays (e.g. Easter and Christmas Catholics and High Holidays and Passover Jews) and takes a back seat at most other times in the year. But here in Ghana, religion is everything. It is intertwined with every single facet of life, and it is because of god that everything happens and it is with god that all things are possible. I can’t really stress that enough.

The bus ride was fairly uneventful, where they showed Mel Gibson’s extremely violent “Apocalypto” followed by a new Ghanaian movie called “Chelsea.” Most Ghanaian movies are fairly unwatchable, where the production quality provides ample opportunity to play a game out of searching for the background lights, microphones and wires that should not have made it into the shot, but did. 95% of them are about a love triangle, and in this regard, “Chelsea” was no different. However, the quality was much higher than usual, and the main character of Chelsea, center of the love triangle, was gorgeous, by all standards, which made it much more watchable. (I would later learn that she once dated Ghanaian soccer superstar Michael Essien…obviously.)

The bus dropped us off in Mim, the town next to Charles’ hometown of Bediako, at about 4am, just in time to hear the first Muslim call to prayer over the town’s PA. (Around 10-15% of Ghanaians are Muslim, with much higher concentrations the further north you go.) We caught a lucky tro-tro to go the last 10 minutes, where we were met by a smiling Charles and his brother. Despite the hour, loud African pop music could be heard over the town. As Charles and his brother showed us to the one-room house where we would be staying, we walked by hundreds of plastic chairs arranged in neat rows, as Dennis turned to me and excitedly exclaimed “This will be a great funeral.” The house’s one room sported a big bed and two full couches. We all entered the one room, got settled onto the couches, and then Charles and his brother stood up to face their guests. Charles spoke in Twi, so I was pretty lost, but Dennis provided translation. He explained that it is a formality that needs to be performed the hosts ask the guests why they have come. Dennis responded that we have come to mourn with our good friend and co-worker over the loss of his mother. We then presented the monetary gift from the 5 of us and were instructed to present the other gift, on behalf of PSGH, at the ceremony tomorrow afternoon. With the formalities out of the way, Dennis, Jonas and I stayed there to sleep, while Charles took John and Vivian to other quarters.

A few hours later we were awoken by Charles, telling us that the ceremony would begin around 8am. We took turns taking a bucket shower, my first, (Bediako lacks running water), and then I followed Dennis’ lead by wearing a black suit, feeling slightly vindicated for bringing one with me to Ghana. As we followed Charles’ through the streets of his boyhood town, Bediako by daylight seemed very cozy. Small wooden houses and mud-bricked huts lined the narrow red-dirt roads. We came upon the same lines of plastic chairs which we had walked by the night before, but this time they were all full, whose occupants faced the entrance to what was a walled courtyard. Inside the courtyard, many more rows of plastic chairs lined the walls, all facing inward towards a closed tent. As we entered the courtyard, it was customary to shake hands with everyone already seated. This would turn out to be at least a hundred people, most of who looked at me like I was not unlike an alien. I tried to return their gazes with a strong handshake, eye contact and a solemn nod of my head. There was a microphone wielding MC whose job it was to announce the current arrivals to everyone already seated. This helped somewhat, as they explained that we were Charles’ co-workers who had traveled from Accra. We then took our seats along the back wall of the courtyard (with a nice booklet on each chair), and the next half hour or so was spent receiving others (more handshakes). Most attendants wore black, with all family members wearing shirts and dresses of a color-coordinated orange-patterned fabric, and most spent this time crying. After a while, the family members folded up one side of the tent to reveal the body lying on bed with the casket behind. Everyone then formed a line to circle the body and pay their last respects. This lasted another half hour or so, and it was a little after 9 when we departed back to the house.

I learned that it would be another couple hours before the next part of the ceremony: the church service. At the house, we ate a late breakfast of eggs and bread and then slept a little bit more. At about 11:30, we were again woken up by Charles to go to the service. Charles led us to the intersection of the two main roads at the center of town. The hundreds of plastic chairs had been rearranged in four big groups under tents all facing the main tent in the intersection, under which was the casket, flanked by the family members and the reverend. What followed was the church service, which consisted of the normal choruses, scripture readings and sermon, but which also included a nice biography and then three tributes: from Dora’s generation of family, from her children and then from her church. All of these could be easily followed along in the booklets we received earlier. There was a lot less crying, and a lot more reflection on life and death in this part of the ceremony, and I was amazed at the turnout. There were easily over 300 people there; pretty much the entire town came to a halt so that everyone could pay their respects to their fallen village member. I was personally befriended by a group of children who would not leave my side for the entire service. John got a kick out of it, and kept stealthily snapping off photos, reminding me that there was a good chance that I was the first white person they had ever seen in person.

When the service was completed around 1, everyone got up and walked up a short hill with the casket to the graveyard for the burial. This was actually the shortest part of the whole thing, and only took about 20 minutes. After that, Charles said that it was time for lunch, and he led us to another house, where we were served fufu with light soup and grasscutter meat. Let me do some translating. Fufu is a spongy dough ball of sorts usually made from pounded cassava and always served in soup. Light soup is the standard fare, and just means a tomato-based slightly spicy broth. Grasscutter is the name of a type of bushmeat, a local delicacy from an animal that looks like sort of like a porcupine (but, according to Wikipedia, with the much less appetizing name of a "greater cane rat"). All in all, it was pretty tasty, and we ate in the nice, airy house, drinking fanta and watching another Ghanaian love triangle movie.

throng of people heading up the hill to the burial site

fufu in light soup with grasscutter meat...yum.

After about an hour, we went back to the sleeping house to rest a little bit more before the last bit, which was the formal presentation of gifts to the family. We vegged out and napped a little bit until about 4, when we got dressed (this time without our suit coats!) and followed the sound of the drumming to a street that had again, been lined with the plastic chairs and tents. (At this point, everywhere I walked, I was being followed by little children, yelling “obroni!”, and coming up to me to shake hands or high-five. At one point, a little boy just came up alongside me, put his hand in mine, and walked with me indefinitely. This went on for about 5 minutes, until his mother came and grabbed him apologetically.) On one side of the street, there was a troupe of about 5 or 6 drummers beating away non-stop. There were traditional drums held with your knees and played with hands, stand alone drums played with straight sticks and then a very cool drum in the center which was played with sticks bent at a 90 degree angle. Directly across from the drummers was the family tent, where they all sat, some still dressed in orange and others in regal, flowing red fabrics. They sat behind a wooden folding table atop of which was a glass display case into which all of the gifts were being deposited. Again, the MC was there to announce the arrivals, as well as the gifts, and again, we did a big round of hand-shaking, stopping to give Charles a big hug, before taking our seats.

drummers

I spent the next hour or so, shaking a lot of hands and watching the drummers, as they played for what seemed like twenty minutes at a time. It was very clear that we had now moved from sadness to reflection to celebration, and those crying eyes were replaced with bright, cheerful ones above wide, laughing smiles. Along with the drummers came a lot of dancing, and I successfully parried several attempts from people trying to pull me up to dance. Before we knew it, it was 6 o’clock, time for us to make it back to the neighboring town of Mim to catch the bus back to Accra. As the five of us crammed into a taxi, Charles and his brother approached carrying huge burlap bags filled with yams, cassava and plantains (about 20 pounds for each of us!). They were gifts from the family to show appreciation for us coming all the way to Bediako and for our generous gifts.

It turned out to be the exact same bus that we had taken coming there, so we were again treated to “Apocalypto” and “Chelsea”. We had to stop over in Ghana’s second biggest city, Kumasi, to pick up more passengers, and another sneaky woman came on to subject us to another hour of unsolicited preaching. This time it didn’t seem as bad as before, perhaps because I was very glad to have had the opportunity to experience a Ghanaian funeral. I was able to tune out the preacher and reflect on the past day. So much of international development has to do with quantifiable variables like income, school attendance, and disease prevalence. And while it is of the utmost importance to measure and quantify these things, there are many other variables like the importance of community, ceremony and family that are much more difficult to quantify, but that Ghana and many other developing countries have in spades. All I know is that if that many people show up to my funeral, I’ve done something right.