Accra again...

Going through one of those phases when I seem to be backwards and forwards to Accra a lot. This means I get to sit on tro tros and buses a lot, watch telly in the hotel and have a lot of time to chew the fat. One thing though for sure, I don’t get to like Accra any better the more I visit and am always glad to be on my way back to sleepy Ho.

Was watching the news on Ghana TV the other morning – weird! The main story concerned a chieftaincy dispute in one area of the city (having a system of traditional chiefs here means that these disputes break out quite often and in some areas lead to mini wars). The head of police was in the TV studio and he explained the situation which by now involved thirty armed police and an armoured car. The “assailants” (read youth) were smashing kids bikes and drums, had left a water tap (of treated water no less) running, had poured sand in a pot of cooked cassava, and - here’s the really heavy stuff – had broken the rear wing mirror of a police vehicle. On the screen, shots of riot police interspersed with broken bikes and spoilt cassava – god help us what the response will be when the real action kicks in. On the same programme a discussion about water shortages in the capital ended with the government official, when asked what the solutions are, declaring that we must pray to God to resolve the problems. Likewise the sports feature entreated us to rally round and pray for the Black Stars (the national football team) in their forthcoming world cup qualifier against the Benin Squirrels, (they duly went on to win a very dull game 1-0). Funny country, with God on their side!

The weather now is at its most unbearable – hot, humid, sweaty – you could change your clothes several times of day and still feel like you have just come out of the sauna. This makes travel in the capital absolute agony – crammed in to ancient transits and mini buses – not an inch to spare and stuck in the endless traffic jams that plague this city. People remain remarkably calm on the whole despite all this (and of course the occasional frenzied smashing of children’s bicycles). It seems to be that people do not like to complain and I often feel that perhaps things would improve if people were a little more demanding, especially about their rights. You do of course hear some excellent arguments about the state of things but despite all the huffing and puffing and posturing these soon fizzle out and everyone becomes resigned again. It brings to mind the short time that I was encamped in the Regional Social Welfare office in Ho – all the staff would have disappeared (who knows where) and I would be the lone Yevou. A client turns up looking for a social worker – only to be told by me that they have vanished – result? Person goes outside and sleeps on the bench and waits and waits, often in vain, but without any word of complaint.

There have been more stories in the press about corruption by members of the outgoing government (NPP). The last Speaker of the House seems to have completely stripped his government residence of all soft furnishings before vacating – what a wonderful example to the people. Stories, however, that the former President built a swimming pool and installed a Jacuzzi in his house with tax payer’s money have been discredited and the NDC Minister who made the allegation has withdrawn it. One of the most depressing actions of the last government just before leaving power was to pass legislation (with NDC support) gifting cars to MPs. All these stories further discredit government in general and contribute to a general level of despair. All this in a context when Ghana is now beginning to feel the effects of the global credit crunch – inflation has now passed 20% and rising, remittances from abroad are falling and many Ghanaians working in the West are returning home having lost their jobs.

Went shopping to the Accra Mall on the edge of town – it is still fairly modest in comparison to its western counterparts but none the less an air conditioned oasis that is steadily growing and selling luxury goods for the ex pat community and the Ghanaian middle class. It is South African owned and boasts Game and Shop Rite, two large household names apparently from that neck of the woods. One welcome recent addition is a bookshop with a half decent (albeit expensive selection) of books and music. Ghana is astonishingly low on bookshops – apart from the variety – yes you have guessed it – that sells Christian motivational literature. Anyways I staggered in out of the heat – literally spewed out of a tro – with my backpack and was absolutely dripping and suddenly I felt incredibly self conscious here among the immaculately turned out clientele shopping with their “house boys”, freshly laundered – straight from SUV into the Mall. Why, my self respecting other part of me screamed or am I now ashamed of belonging to the majority world?

Going home I always enjoy too for the shopping experience. As you sit and wait for the bus to leave, people parade up and down with an astonishing variety of things for sale from miracle cures to toilet rolls to self improvement texts (all connected perhaps). I was amazed the other day to see a man selling the complete works of Shakespeare at the traffic lights – I could not help but wonder how many he sells each day (I also thought of a new project – to see what I could buy in one day whilst travelling around the city). Once the bus finally leaves it is still assailed at every stop – traffic light, jam, road toll - by people selling food, drinks, dog collars (strange but true), fake perfumes, brooms, human anatomy charts – you name it. Of course the main purchase for passengers are the plastic sachets of pure waaater and Fan Yogo (“the secret ingredient to my success” Michael Essien – national hero number one). And so another journey ends – bus stop driver – I am dropped at the end of our dirt road – home again.

Essakane nights

The road from Timbuctou starts well but after an hour just peters out – the way now is to follow what tracks you can see across the fine white shifting sands. Our drivers get lost, one car has to be dug out and we discover the desert burrs – they are sharp and prickly and get into just about everything. The journey in the end takes us about three hours and the trick seems to be to drive as fast as possible, skimming the desert and avoiding any obvious obstacles – slightly hair raising and not a little dangerous methinks but we arrive unscathed.

We had some inklings that there are problems in the region – three tourists were kidnapped up on the border with Niger a few months ago and there have been sporadic attacks by insurgents, but it still comes as a shock when we arrive at the festival site – there is a heavy military presence together with armoured cars around the perimeter. We learn later that the British Foreign Office has advised against all travel north of Timbuctou and this has certainly deterred many travellers to the festival this year.

We settle into our Tuareg tents – they are slung low, open and made from hides. A small group of men and youths have their fire just in front of our entrance – they are our “security” (or so we find out when we are packing up and they ask for cadeaux) and we are their reality television. Every slightest action of ours is closely observed and clearly fascinating to these men of the desert. Daytimes we spend wandering around – that is when we can face the intense heat – there is a marketplace – inevitably and masks galore (who makes all these?) – impromptu performances and a general festival chill. Taureg women go unveiled –unlike their men folk – and mingle freely in the crowds, dancing to the heavy desert blues pumped out through battered sound systems powered by ancient car batteries.

Late afternoons the fun begins, camel races, sword dancing, initiation rights – hard to know what is going on really – it seems that we have landed on another planet. On the first day it really hits home – having fantasised for so long about this festival – and there suddenly before our very eyes about two hundred blue men on their camels riding in – it is an awe inspiring and spine tingling moment – the hair on the back of the neck moment – they are proud, arrogant warriors, swords strapped to their sides, their camels spitting fury. They make way for no one as we learn – you have to get out of their way as quickly as possible or risk being trampled – the law of the desert.

Nighttimes are when the music really gets going. The sun sets across the endless desert and the temperature drops dramatically – everyone wraps up in whatever shawls and blankets they have and charcoal braziers burn on the dunes. On stage desert beats dominate – heavy rhythmic and hypnotic guitars, interspersed with long, effusive welcoming speeches. The festival is graced by a Moroccan princess no less (she gives out the prizes for the fastest camel, the most beautiful camel etc. on the last day) and various other dignitaries. There are also rumours that Ghadaffi will make an appearance although he does not show. Long flowery tributes are also paid to us - the “globetrotters and festivaliers” – all part of the Malian praise tradition.

The desert sky is out of this world, sparkling stars in a clear black universe, inspiring dreams and fantasies. Each night the best is saved for last – on the first night Salif Keita strides out onto the stage, for some reason wearing safari gear, his golden voice soaring into the desert night – a dream come true to see this legend on home turf – the crowd is electric, surging and singing along to every word. There is no programme and nobody seems to know who will perform – so each evening it is wait and see. We are not disappointed – Bassekou Kouyate and Ngoni ba, Adel Becoum, various Tinnariwen line ups and on the final evening Habib Koite brings the festival to a joyful finale, ending with a knees up of just about everyone on stage. We stagger home frozen at two am, exhausted but both chuffed that we made it, monkey bites and all.