The Yanks are coming....

So the big day is finally here – Obama arrives in Accra this afternoon. There is a fair amount of excitement here (hyped up through the TV and radio media) and pride in the fact that he is coming to Ghana. There are Stars and Stripes across the city and huge “Welcome Home” signs, which is a bit strange as Obama has no connection with Ghana or West Africa whatsoever. There are a plethora of Obama songs played constantly on the airwaves – I like Black Rasta the best – and expectations are riding high as to what the saviour will do. I heard the former President on the radio today saying that if they can do it (meaning America), we can lift Africa up quickly – what?! Of course the politicians are milking this, especially the new NDC Government who wants to claim that the visit is some sort of affirmation of their election success. But what is really happening? There are some dissenting voices – why is he visiting Ghana? Would it not be more appropriate for him to visit one of the conflict zones – Congo DC perhaps or at least speak of Dafur or Somalia – what does he want here? One explanation given is the recent discovery of offshore oil – well probably not, USA will buy the oil anyway whatever. A more likely explanation I think is that Bush having failed to persuade the last government to accept an American base in the country, Obama is going to make a new pitch with the NDC – he will come bearing gifts and promises but the trade off will be an American military presence in the most stable, friendly and English speaking country in the region.

Whatever the reason Obama is not going to make a public appearance and his many fans will be disappointed. Security is hyper tight and he will be making his speech on Africa to a carefully selected audience of predominantly “Big Men” before being whisked off to visit one of the slave forts and then flying out. There are Obama Tee shirts everywhere on sale and various other knick knacks and souvenirs – after all this is a chance to cash in. I heard of a funeral casket maker who has rebranded his business as Obama and funnily enough the caskets are white. Meanwhile all the potholes on the visiting President’s route are being filled in and all the street hawkers being removed from the area – cleansing for God forbid that Obama should catch a glimpse of real Accra. There has been torrential rain the last 4 or 5 days or so and the gutters and drains are blocked in many parts of the city resulting in horrendous floods which have already caused a number of deaths. Until yesterday evening there was no fuel in the city but of course suddenly that has been resolved. Many roads were blocked by abandoned vehicles and huge queues at filling stations but do not worry the mighty one is amongst us today.

We were just in Accra for five days, launching a major new VSO Pilot project. Kiran has been leading the first Conference on establishing learning organisations and the project involves Ghana, Cameroon and Gambia. It will be a huge challenge but we are looking forward to being part of the project across the year. One of the things that always seems to come up in these meetings, and usually on the last day, is the issue of “sitting allowance”. By this I mean that it is the expectation of most Ghanaian participants that they should be paid a daily allowance to attend conferences and workshops (despite the fact that all expenses are paid, they are put up in rather good hotels and are still actually being paid for their regular job). It is a real mountain to climb here to try and counter this. At the conference I organised a few weeks ago for a Danish NGO it manifested itself as “Give us something small to motivate us” – what!!! However at this conference it was challenged by a few Ghanaians (so it was not left entirely to the whites to take up the issue) and interestingly these were people who had left Ghana about 20 years ago and returned in the last few years. They said that this whole issue of expecting payment is something relatively new and was not there when they left the country. This week the plea was for “inconvenience cushioning” – a wonderful phrase but what the heck outrageous. When I told the participants of what these Ghanaians had said at the other conference there was total distain – one delegate said that they must have forgotten about their sitting allowance. What really gets me is that most of these people have very good jobs and are well educated. They do not want to ask the question as to where this money will come from and how this will mean less for the actual projects and beneficiaries. Where the whole concept comes from remains a mystery but some people say it was introduced by the World Bank who paid huge allowances for people to attend meetings and that it then took root in the NGO Development world – another strong argument against the way development has been managed and imposed.

So we now have a set of wheels – we collected “Kofi” yesterday – an ageing little red 4x4 jeep, a bit the worse for wear but still running (hopefully). Of course we had to pick the day when there was no fuel in Accra so it was touch and go as to whether we would make it back but fortunately we found some petrol in Tema just outside Accra and chugged back to Ho. I like the style of the car but have to say that it does make some really strange noises. Watch this space as we negotiate the police blocks, the dash, the break downs and the fun which most of all I hope we have. Next week we are off again to the Northern Volta Region for the second phase of our work with marginalised groups of people with disabilities. We are working on supporting them to form self help groups and will be in Dambai and Kpassa – so no internet again for a while and some tricky roads to negotiate.

Snapshots on the road

The bus from Bobo to Bamako leaves at first light. The bus station is shabby and run down but the bus leaves on time – seats are numbered and luggage tagged. We are even given a carton of juice each as we climb aboard. The landscape is flat and arid – villages are few and far between. In some places great mounds of newly harvested cotton line the roadside ready for collection. The bus crew have a great selection of tapes and we cruise along to a soundtrack of Salif Keita, Ali Farka Toure, Bouabacar Traore – here we are at last rattling along on our way to Mali.

Crossing the border turns out to be easy. I had expected long delays and complications but as we leave Burkina Faso and enter Mali formalities on both sides run smoothly. Officials are polite and business like – we are given chairs under the trees in the shade as we wait for our passports to be stamped – assumptions shattered! Soon we are on our way again.

At every stop the bus is surrounded by motley gangs of boys, mostly barefoot wearing an array of filthy tattered cast offs from the charity shops of the world (container loads of clothes and shoes are dumped here in West Africa and the “home use” market is a necessity for most and a bargain hunters treasure trove for the likes of me. In Ho I have bought my first ever Ralph Lauren Polo chinos and a fabulous pair of Doc Martin brogues). They carry rusty old tins and buckets for their food and are mostly from the Koran schools. They have to beg for their food in theory to teach them humility but this seems to be a far cry from the grace and dignity of Buddhist monks with their begging bowls in South East Asia. There are several hundred thousand of these children across Mali, many of them sent by their parents from rural villages, glad to have one less mouth to feed. In the NGO sector there are growing concerns that many of these children are abused and exploited in these unregulated schools.

We arrive late afternoon on the outskirts of Bamako. The bus station is chaotic and a teeming mass of travellers, hawkers and hustlers. The taxis here are even more run down and battered than in Burkina Faso and after a lot of haggling we pile into an ancient yellow Mercedes that whisks us across the mighty Niger and into the city. We stay in the Hippodrome District in Hotel Le Djenne. This proves to be a wonderfully calm and relaxing haven away from the constant clamour and hustle of the streets. It is a small place tucked away in a back street – the rooms all individually decorated by local artists – a delight.

When not being constantly harangued on the streets or having to haggle for just about everything, we spend a lot of time in search of music clubs, although this is no easy task. On our first night we are driven endlessly around the city by an increasingly irate Taureg in search of the legendary Hogon club (Tiamane Diabete) only to eventually discover that it shut down some months ago. Helpful locals suggest salsa instead. We end up at the Savannah Club drinking incredibly expensive drinks and would you believe it listening to a band playing Michael Jackson covers – are we really in Bamako, with its legendary music scene? The next night we fare a little better ending up at the Djembe club, a seedy smoke filled joint with a band playing mean blues. One room is full of prostitutes and there is a continuous coming and going of clients to another room out the back, but at least this place oozes atmosphere.

The road to Timbuctou is long – the landscape becomes increasingly dry and desert like and the villages more and more further apart. It takes two days to the fabled city with a stop off in Severes. We at last reach the Niger and face a long queue of 4x4s waiting for the ferry on their way to the Desert Festival. Entertainment is provided by some local herders arguing with the ferry men about transporting their cattle across the river and the ensuing chaos and comedy as they try to drive them on the ferryboat. We cross as the sun sets, watching the timeless rhythms of life on the riverbank. Perched on the edge of the desert I like Timbuctou from the very first moment we arrive.

Many people are disappointed by the fabled city – I find it charming – run down, dirty – almost forgotten as if slowly disappearing into the surrounding desert. The narrow streets of the old quarter twist and turn - a maze of disjointed streets and alleys. It is hot and dusty and life goes on very slowly here. The Djingareiber Mosque is under renovation, paid for by the Aga Khan, and closed. We wander around, visit some of the explorer houses including the legendary Heinrich Barth house and sit on rooftops drinking tea, watching the world go by on the edge of time. The place has something special about it – its wonderful history, its old universities all silently and slowly crumbling. On the edge of town is a peace memorial marking the end of the last major Taureg rebellion– The Flame of Peace. Here hundreds of AK47s have been set on fire and have moulded and fused into a lump of concrete. The monument is already falling down – abandoned and almost forgotten already and beyond, stretching out as far as the eye can see, the desert, the endless desert.

Djenne – Monday is market day and the place is bursting at the seams. The streets around the mosque are clogged with donkey carts as the traders set up their stalls before the magnificent mosque. A great heaving mass of colour and movement. This is one of the most famous sights in West Africa – the mosque – the largest mud structure in the world. It dominates the central square, standing a few meters above it. There are six steps leading up from the market to the mosque – a journey from the everyday profane and material world to the spiritual sanctity of the cosmic mothership. Well, maybe... Enterprising residents charge a small fee for climbing up to their rooftops to view the magnificent panorama – the mud brick skyline. Of course there are also the inevitable masks and bagolans for sale. Narrow ancient streets thread through the town – there is the stink of shit everywhere as we marvel at the fading beauty of the old town houses. Sunlight and shadows play upon the old walls – the magic as dusk approaches. I have this sense that it would be so easy to disappear through one of these dark doorways and never return.

Onwards to Mopti where we stay in a rather plush joint on the banks of the Niger. Women cover the riverbanks with their colourful washing. We walk down to the harbour – it is disappearing under heaps of rubbish and the banks are hidden under a thick mulchy crust of paper, plastic and cloth. Everywhere people are either disembarking or preparing to leave. The sleek, long pirogues ply their trade – passengers packed in beneath huge piles of goods. Great stashes of huge calabashes wait to be loaded together with brightly coloured mounds of plastic buckets and bowls. As evening falls we watch the pirogue builders, still working by the light of their oil lamps.

The next day we travel along the Niger by pirogue to the Inland Delta. It is a lazy and gorgeous way to travel. We stop off to visit a Peul village. Further back into time – single storey mud houses and a prickly medieval looking mosque. The children run after me – the Pied Piper – we play and play – it is intoxicating. We sing and dance – the giant toubab and them, snotty, ragged and beautiful. It still breaks my heart everytime to think of what will become of these children, what world will they inherit, what lives they will grow up to lead. Further downstream we visit a bozo fishing village – more children and more high jinks. Daydreaming as we sail slowly on, lazing regally on the roof of the pirogue with just the gentle sound of water lapping on the prow – so mellow and I think just how lucky I am.