We're in Africa

Yes we are.  How did we get here?  Well, about a year and a half ago or more we started pining and planning for an adventure and, in an effort to prove we weren't all talk, we decided to actually do it.  Sam quit his job in Vancouver (my job helpfully quit me first), we packed up all our belongings, and drove ourselves back to Toronto into welcoming arms and homes.  One month later, we were on our way here.  Our adventure starts with two and a half months of volunteering in Ghana and continues, we hope, for at least as much time again traveling through West and North Africa, and on to the Mediterranean.

We arrived in Accra, via London, on Sunday February 1st at night.  I've probably never been more scared than I was during our first night in Accra.  The ride from the airport to the apartment of the Village Volunteers In-Country Coordinator, Gunadiish, where we were staying the night, put the fear of Africa in me pretty substantially in the short 15 or 20 minutes it took us to get across the city.  The streets weren't busy with cars but well after dark there were still people milling about, sitting beside the road in little ramshackle booths lit with kerosene lamps, and listening to music on their portable radios - a scene which, in the dark, gave Accra the look of one extensive shantytown.  Sam and I both reflected later that we felt totally and utterly lost, and that if we were let out of the cab right there we would have had absolutely no idea what to do.  Furthermore there were the smells (exhaust, diesel fuel, dust, and smoke from roadside fires sticking in the backs of our throats) and the heat, which was absolutely oppressive.  To make matters somewhat worse Gunadiish's sister, who met us at the apartment (Gunadiish was, somewhat ironically, out-of-country) had to spend the night at the hospital with her baby and so, all alone, we locked ourselves into the strange place for the rest of the night.

Needless to say it wasn't a good night and, when the panic closed my throat enough and the heat made me dizzy enough, I started to be sick.  By the time Paul, our host, arrived in Accra from Have village by the next day midday I was in rough shape (Sam, holding it together partly from taking care of me, was faring better).  Though, once we left the "death room" (as we will now affectionately call it) and started to get on our way, things improved immeasurably.  We visited a medical clinic to be sure that I was well, and I was prescribed some of the drugs I'd brought with me to combat a mild stomach bug that turned up in my blood test and which may have, but likely didn't, cause my vomiting.   Finally, around 6:00 pm Monday evening with the sun going down, we were ready to head on to Have.

In the daylight the roadside huts of Accra were all little shops selling everything from water (in the ubiquitous 500mL plastic sachets) to food to cell phone credits to flags to clothes to haircuts to anything else you could imagine.  As we drove along (Paul's friend Constant from Have picked us up in his car) kids and adults alike would weave in and out of the traffic on foot selling, it seemed, whatever they could get their hands on.  During our drive through the city and on to the village Constant bought two drills, a belt, and a brush, and gave a man an iron, Paul topped up his cell phone balance, and they both had an evening snack on this drive-through shopping mall of Ghana's roads.

Where we are staying is the EDYM (Environmental Development Youth Movement, pronounced "Edim") farm, about 10 minutes beyond the town of Have, towards Kpandu ("Pandu") in Volta Region, Ghana.  EDYM was founded and is run by Paul Kpai, a man in his late 30s, maybe, or early 40s, who was born here in Have but has been educated as far away as Cuba.  Paul started his studies in Agronomy but now studies Social Science because he believes very passionately that a solution to both some of the poverty and the environmental degradation in the area (caused by deforestation and unsustainable farming practices) can be solved by engaging with the youth of the community and teaching them about the environmental problems and their solutions.  Paul has also started a bit of a trend in Have, and seems to be at least partially responsible for encouraging some of the more affluent, educated, and successful members of the community to settle in Have after having business success elsewhere, and contributing to the growing prosperity of the village.  (As Paul eloquently said, We cannot all go to work in the city.  The city, after all, was a village once where somebody decided to stay.)

In fact it seems that Paul is also a sort of gardening consultant to the whole town, where we constantly met people who said "Paul told me to plant these trees here, for shade" or "Paul grafted these trees for me, for this exotic fruit."   Paul hopes that the EDYM farm will soon serve as a training centre, though at present it works mostly as a nursery where Paul's particular specialty and passion is the Moringa tree.   (Moringa apparently has very many nutritional and health benefits, but I'd encourage you to google it rather than take my poor explanation.)

Paul lives on the farm now, as does Chachu (or "Mr. Richard" a 24-year old farm hand), but Paul hopes to move the EDYM offices (now in town) and his brother Emmanuel's Moringa tea operation (now at the family complex in Have as well) to the EDYM farm.  Paul calls the farm the "EDYM Village" or sometimes, with a laugh, "Our Holy Village," but so far Paul, Chachu, Sam and I are the only villagers.  Florence, a middle aged woman who does our cooking, comes to the farm each day.

In our first days here there has been much to adjust to and more than a few surreal experiences.   I would say that the heat was absolutely intolerable except that, somehow, we have been tolerating it and continue to adjust to being constantly wet.  Sam's thermometer perpetually reads about 35 degrees Celsius, but he thinks it's broken and surely hotter, and this is also in the shade of our room.

Until recently Paul rented a couple of apartments in Have for volunteers but this was expensive, particularly in the sometimes long months between stays, and so Paul has been endeavouring to improve the accommodations on the farm so that it can be a home to volunteers from now on.  We are the first, and so not everything is in place yet and some kinks are still being worked out.  The first night we had no mosquito net and when it arrived the second night and was installed, with some concerted and confused effort by Paul and Sam, it proved to have several holes in it (like most things here, it seems, it was bought used), though we've mostly figured out the technique for blocking them.

The water for showers (stored in a tank outside the building) ran out our first Thursday, causing a mild bout of panic and frustration in Sam and me (we didn't have much except the guarantee of a shower) forcing us to realize that we still had some settling in to do in this very foreign place.  Paul was away that night and so the refilling of the tank was put off until the next day.  Since then, we've come to realize that this is a fairly commonplace occurrence and soon enough Constant will show up with the water truck (his pick-up loaded with barrels of water) and, one bucket brigade later, we're back in business.

The same night as the water fill-up a volunteer electrical crew showed up to hook up the generator to power our much-needed fan (maybe needless to say, the farm doesn't have electricity).  Sam and I watched sheepishly as the group (some young guys from the town, starring Mike, an electrician and teacher at one of the schools) worked hard to get the motor running for us two pathetically sweaty white folks.  The generator runs very erratically and guzzles fuel (Sam guesses it's about 30 years old, at least) but it's enough to run a fluorescent tube light outside and send a little stand-fan spinning like crazy.   It's loud too and stinks of petrol and exhaust (which, mercifully unlike Accra, none of this countryside does) but just as we've learned to sleep with the other incredible noises, we've learned to sleep with that too.

And then there are the night noises.  About three meters from our room the farm has a water reservoir (a big hole that collects rainwater and where frogs live).  The frogs are nocturnal, we figure, because as soon as it gets dark they start wildly croaking at an incredible volume, and birds start squawking, and crickets start chirping, and the farm dogs start howling all in what can only be described as an unholy racket.  I've only ever heard sounds like this before on the (heretofore absurd) sound-machine "Jungle" setting, and never at such an alarming volume.  It's ridiculous, to say the least, and you will share in our stupefaction just as soon as I can post a file from my handy sound recorder.

On the food front, Florence is slowly introducing us to Ghanaian food.   (To call Florence a cook might be giving her too much credit but she cooks for us and works hard, in small fits between naps, to feed us three meals a day.)  Her specialities and our favourites so far include chicken (hacked up into little pieces bones and all, as near as we can tell, and fried) with spaghetti, fried chicken and rice, and fried plantains and beans (once the beans stop tasting like dirt, it's good-ish).  We have also had the privilege of trying the Ghanaian staple of fufu (mashed cassava with yam or plantain in a veerry gooey ball) which you eat out of a communal bowl with your fingers and dip in a meaty, brothy soup.  To quote the author of our of our books on Ghana, "It's probably fair to say that while you wouldn't want to travel in Ghana without trying fufu, you're unlikely to miss it when you return home."   Let's say, we're getting used to it.

As for our activities, within a few days of our arrival we were taken to meet the chiefs of the local village (adjacent to the farm) and all of the traditional authorities in Have.  We were also taken around to meet the teachers and headmasters at all seven local schools, since the children will be coming to see me each day at the library.

The library in Have was built a little over a year ago with the help of Village Volunteers (our sending agency) and donations raised.  This was Paul's doing as well, I think, as he is engaged not only at the farm but also in helping to establish other useful programs in the community.  The library had been intermittently open, when volunteers come I think, but a volunteer from the community is being trained now and will be ready to begin in April, when I leave, and so the hope is that this is the official opening of the library for good.  This is where I will be every day.

Sam, on the other hand, has the slightly less auspicious and coveted job of working on the farm.  So far this has involved filling thousands of little plastic bags with poop (well, dirt and poop), lining them up, and pushing Moringa seeds into them.  The bags are small (little black plastic planting bags or sometimes the discarded 500mL water bags) and the pile of poop is big, but eventually he'll get to 5000 bags full and then the next job (planting vegetables maybe?) will begin, and so on.  All we know now - we think - is that 5000 Moringa seedlings will be grown and distributed, free of charge, to local farmers or villagers.  Things grow quickly here, we're told, and so we should start to see growth within six weeks.

Sam's company on the farm is Chachu, who is a bit of a character and speaks and understands only a bit of English, and so much hilarity (recounted to me upon my return from the library) and semi-constructive conversations ensue.  (Sam learned, for example, that Chachu is saving money to buy land where he will farm rice, cassava, and ginseng. When Chachu asked Sam if he knew ginseng, Sam said yes and began to describe the shape of the root and its nutritional properties.  Chachu looked confused, the conversation ended, and Sam only later realized that Chachu hadn't been saying "ginseng", but "Jason", the name of a former volunteer.  Only then did Sam reflect that saying "Ginseng is my good friend" was maybe a rather too far-fetched way for Chachu to say that he intended to farm ginseng.)

So, as far as we can tell, our days will continue on like this.  We'll rise by 6:00 am (when the sun comes up and roughly the time Chachu noisily sweeps the ground and deck outside of our room) and Sam will go off to shovel poop about 20 metres away.  I will stay in bed, like the lucky lazy bum that I am, or generally occupy myself showering, reading, or writing until breakfast.  Breakfast is ... whenever Florence serves it (she is not terribly punctual), usually by 9:00 am at the latest, and Sam will take a break and we'll eat together.  After breakfast, I'll walk down the long dirt road from the farm to the paved road, where I'll wave down a tro-tro (a 10-12 passenger commuter van) and take the 30 peswas (30 cent) ride, about 10-15 minutes, into Have.  Sometimes Paul will take me on the back of his motorcycle, and I will be equal parts terrified and exhilarated as we weave around potholes and beep at passersby.   I'll open the library and then sit and wait.

Sam will work on the farm until 11:00 or 11:30 am, by which time it'll be too hot to do any more work for another 4 hours.  He'll read, or sleep, or write, and eat lunch and then go back to work sometime after 3:00 pm.  Theoretically my lunch will be sent to me at the library (but there are some kinks to be worked out there too) and then the library will close at 5:00 pm.   Then I catch a tro-tro back to the farm, by standing at the side of the road, swinging my arm over my head, and pointing to my right (the driver's left) indicating that I want a vehicle turning left at the Have crossroads towards Kpandu, not towards Hohoe ("Ho-hwey").   I'll ask for Jerusalem, the town past the farm, and point to the EDYM signpost on the side of the road, where I'll be let off to walk back along the road to the farm, Sam, and dinner.

All meals are hot, all showers are cold.   Sam and I shower and go to bed pretty much as soon as the sun goes down and so we're rarely asleep any later than 7:30 pm each night.  We sweat all night, and start again the next day.  On Thursday we take our malaria drugs and for the next few night have weird and vivid dreams.  Weekends we have off, we hope, or else we will be making concerted efforts to get out of there like we did today, when we find ourselves (40 minutes or so in a tro-tro later) in the town of Ho.   In our downtime we write in our journals, read our monstrous 900-page books (for Sam, The Count of Monte Cristo, for me, Shantaram), or play what we have decided will be the longest on-going tournament of Gin Rummy, ever.   And every so often, as often as we can, we we will send updates to you.