Here the last set of pictures from our trip through Africa...
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/Morocco02?authkey=Gv1sRgCLGLl7rp_eaTzwE#5616714239802870738
rideshare
Saturday, June 11, 2011
Saturday, May 14, 2011
Photos - Mali, Senegal, Gambia
Slowly chewing through all our photos... Here's the latest lot from Mali, Senegal and The Gambia:
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/MaliSenegalGambia#5605092545173981794
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/MaliSenegalGambia#5605092545173981794
Saturday, April 30, 2011
Mali Mali
Butterfly shaped, Mali is a country of contradictions. One half of the land is covered in green savannah whilst the other by the vast Sahara. A lively black population inhabits the former whilst the subdued Tuaregs in the latter.
You witness a stretch Hummer gliding past a deformed leper; Burka clad market women and bursting cleavages in swanky bars; fetish stalls next to a Grande Mosquée. Mali is the crossroards of African culture where subsaharan Africa meets the north, the east meets the west.
The different tribes of Mali (and West Africa) who once fought to carve out their territory are now "joking cousins" each with their own musical, dance, and culinary traditions. We started our stay in Mali by paying a visit to one of the many fascinating tribes - the Dogon.
The Dogon preserved their tribe from neighbouring aggressors by nestling themselves in a 200km long escarpment that provides a natural fort. These people were not interested in conquering but living peacefully. Due to their isolation, the Dogon have preserved much of their heritage, such as their fascinating cosmology and rituals. Sadly, we had the sense that we had met the last generation who are still practicing their traditional beliefs. As a consequence of modernity, tourism and modern religions (Christianity, Islam) penetrating from outside, Dogon country will soon be a legendary tale.
In the last two decades, the Dogon people have chosen to live in the lower plains where water and grazing lands for the cattle is more accessable. The traditional abodes nestled in the gaps of the escarpment have thus been abondoned, collectors grabbing the famous carved doors and the rain slowly washing away the the ancient mud walls.
On our arrival, we were given news that a wealthy Dogon businessman was throwing a three day party - a cultural festival of costumes, dance and concerts. A celebration of heritage in a fast changing world.
We were thrilled at the timing of events. We postponed our five day trek through villages in the escarpment. For two days we enjoyed mask parades, dancing and music. We could now start the trek with a good idea about Dogon tradition.
The following five days we endured the intensity of Mali's sunshine and heat, walking early in the morning, resting at lunch, and continuing later in the afternoon. In five days we covered about a quarter of the escarpent visiting seven villages, a circumision site, rock formations and markets.
When we finished our trek we knew we had started our visit in Mali on a high. The remainder of places we visited in Mali - Djenné (a town and its huge Mosque constructed entirely out of mud), Mopti, Bamako (the lively and cosmopolitan capital) and Kayes - were interesting but didn't match the beauty and uniqueness of Dogon country.
So to borrow the Malian president's response to his Chinese counterpart's "chin chin" toast: "Mali Mali" to Dogons!!
You witness a stretch Hummer gliding past a deformed leper; Burka clad market women and bursting cleavages in swanky bars; fetish stalls next to a Grande Mosquée. Mali is the crossroards of African culture where subsaharan Africa meets the north, the east meets the west.
The different tribes of Mali (and West Africa) who once fought to carve out their territory are now "joking cousins" each with their own musical, dance, and culinary traditions. We started our stay in Mali by paying a visit to one of the many fascinating tribes - the Dogon.
The Dogon preserved their tribe from neighbouring aggressors by nestling themselves in a 200km long escarpment that provides a natural fort. These people were not interested in conquering but living peacefully. Due to their isolation, the Dogon have preserved much of their heritage, such as their fascinating cosmology and rituals. Sadly, we had the sense that we had met the last generation who are still practicing their traditional beliefs. As a consequence of modernity, tourism and modern religions (Christianity, Islam) penetrating from outside, Dogon country will soon be a legendary tale.
In the last two decades, the Dogon people have chosen to live in the lower plains where water and grazing lands for the cattle is more accessable. The traditional abodes nestled in the gaps of the escarpment have thus been abondoned, collectors grabbing the famous carved doors and the rain slowly washing away the the ancient mud walls.
On our arrival, we were given news that a wealthy Dogon businessman was throwing a three day party - a cultural festival of costumes, dance and concerts. A celebration of heritage in a fast changing world.
We were thrilled at the timing of events. We postponed our five day trek through villages in the escarpment. For two days we enjoyed mask parades, dancing and music. We could now start the trek with a good idea about Dogon tradition.
The following five days we endured the intensity of Mali's sunshine and heat, walking early in the morning, resting at lunch, and continuing later in the afternoon. In five days we covered about a quarter of the escarpent visiting seven villages, a circumision site, rock formations and markets.
When we finished our trek we knew we had started our visit in Mali on a high. The remainder of places we visited in Mali - Djenné (a town and its huge Mosque constructed entirely out of mud), Mopti, Bamako (the lively and cosmopolitan capital) and Kayes - were interesting but didn't match the beauty and uniqueness of Dogon country.
So to borrow the Malian president's response to his Chinese counterpart's "chin chin" toast: "Mali Mali" to Dogons!!
Monday, March 28, 2011
Photos - Mali
Here is the continuation of our photos from Mali. Enjoy!
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/20110328MaliSenegal#5589145085287959650
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/20110328MaliSenegal#5589145085287959650
Sunday, March 27, 2011
New old post...
Just completed a story I wrote at the start of our journey ... http://ghanaandbeyond.blogspot.com/2011/02/wa-wa-wahnsinn.html
We're in St Louis, Senegal and will be heading to Dakar, our final destination in West Africa tomorrow. Hope you're all well, M&T
We're in St Louis, Senegal and will be heading to Dakar, our final destination in West Africa tomorrow. Hope you're all well, M&T
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
Photos - Ghana Burkina Mali
Finally some photos from our trip through West Africa, though only a small preview plus new blog entry (below)...
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/2011030BurkinaMali#5582094033472733138
https://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/2011030BurkinaMali#5582094033472733138
Il n'y a pas de problème
Tiebele, Burkina Faso, 40 degrees in the shade. We are sitting slouched back in the shade of a thatched roof marquis in the beautiful garden of a little resto-cafe we found on the roadside. After walking up Naouri peak, at a couple of hundred meters the highest mountain in Burkina, and riding our motorbikes on dirt roads in the heat of the day we are exhausted and hungry. I ordered riz with sauce arachide and grilled chicken, which I assume constitutes two meals, but after a small French breakfast with baguette, confiture and café, I am ready to devour a whole chicken. The garcon takes my order and returns to the kitchen. Two minutes later he reappears from the kitchen, starts his motorbike and disappears from the courtyard. As the noise of the engine fades away and the dust settles I listen to the sounds of the nearby village. The women pounding maize provide the background beat. I can hear kids playing and laughing in the distance, the gentle hum of motorbikes, birds singing in the trees, roosters communicating with each other across the village and the occasional goat complaining about the midday heat. I watch a donkey pulling a cart on its way to the next village and wonder if it will ever get there at the speed it is travelling. I fear the guy on the cart will have to hit the animal a lot harder to make sure it moves at all. The more donkeys I see the more I like them. They are so docile and placid it is hard to tell if they are alive at all. Sometimes they just stand there without blinking and I am inclined to push them to see if they will fall over. Maybe a lot of them are actually dead and nobody has bothered to check. But then, about once a day, every donkey has its moment of madness, when it starts laughing like a deranged old maniac and starts galloping through town at 100 miles an hour. The whole show lasts about 30 seconds before the donkey comes to a complete standstill and pretends nothing ever happened. I assume the guy on the cart is waiting for this very moment of galloping, laughing madness to see him through to his destination.
The other interesting thing about donkeys is that the number of donkeys on the streets seems to be inversely related to a country's economic development. Hardly a revolutionary discovery, but so obvious that it could almost serve as an indicator of economic prosperity. It seems like the humble donkey is the cheapest way of moving things from A to B, followed by the horse, the motorbike and finally the car. In Burkina Faso it is all donkeys, women carrying things on their heads and the occasional moto. But then it is hard to imagine what this place would look like with lots of cars and motorbikes, for the pace of the donkey seems to perfectly match the rythm of life in Burkina. The noise of an arriving motorbike abruptly ends my donkey ponderings. The kitchen hand reappears on his motorbike with a live chicken hanging upside down on a string attached to the handle bar of the motorbike. Despite its protestations the chicken is removed from the bike and, still upside down, taken to the back of the house. I order a coke hoping that the combination of sugar and cool bubbles will give me enough energy to stay awake until lunch arrives. 'Il y'a pas de problème' the garcon says as he takes my order. I did not think there was a problem, but am thankful for the clarification. 'Il y'a pas de problème' is the Burkina equivalent of Australia's 'no worries' and just as we have few worries, the Burkinabe seem to have few problems, for despite the obvious poverty I see more people with smiles on their faces here than I do in most prosperous developed countries. If there is anyone with a problem here and now it is Mrs Chicken who reappears with her head cut off and feathers plucked, still upside down, to drain the remaining blood. Looking at the scene Steph, our French friend, tells me that he is not so hot on the grilled chicken anymore, but as the staunch omnivour I reassure him that the chicken he is about to eat had a happier life than any chicken he will consume back home - apart, obviously, from the terrifying last ten minutes of its life. After discussing the topic for a few minutes hunger and the smell of grilled meat triumph over vegetarian rationalism as Mrs Chicken reappears from the kitchen, cleaned, dried and beautiful and languidly spreads herself out on the BBQ. We spend the next half an hour debating the state of transportation in West Afirca and conclude that based on our problems in the morning and our experiences with buses, mini-buses, taxis and hired motorbikes generally, there is a 50% chance of something breaking down on any given journey. Furthermore we conclude that it was rather foolish of us to bargain down the price of the motorbike before knowing what bike we were talking about. In the end half price meant half the functionality and while a missing indicator is not a problem on African roads, one wheel is not enough. So we spent a fair chunk of our morning fixing punctures and cleaning sparks with the help of self appointed Burkinabe mechanics and a fair bit of African ingenuity.
Finally, after one and a half hours our lunch arrives and the feast begins. As with most places in Burkina the food is delicious and with my hands, arms and mouth covered in grease, a greasy smile on my face and a repaired moto waiting outside for the ride back in the setting sun I conclude:
Burkina, il y'a pas de problème.
The other interesting thing about donkeys is that the number of donkeys on the streets seems to be inversely related to a country's economic development. Hardly a revolutionary discovery, but so obvious that it could almost serve as an indicator of economic prosperity. It seems like the humble donkey is the cheapest way of moving things from A to B, followed by the horse, the motorbike and finally the car. In Burkina Faso it is all donkeys, women carrying things on their heads and the occasional moto. But then it is hard to imagine what this place would look like with lots of cars and motorbikes, for the pace of the donkey seems to perfectly match the rythm of life in Burkina. The noise of an arriving motorbike abruptly ends my donkey ponderings. The kitchen hand reappears on his motorbike with a live chicken hanging upside down on a string attached to the handle bar of the motorbike. Despite its protestations the chicken is removed from the bike and, still upside down, taken to the back of the house. I order a coke hoping that the combination of sugar and cool bubbles will give me enough energy to stay awake until lunch arrives. 'Il y'a pas de problème' the garcon says as he takes my order. I did not think there was a problem, but am thankful for the clarification. 'Il y'a pas de problème' is the Burkina equivalent of Australia's 'no worries' and just as we have few worries, the Burkinabe seem to have few problems, for despite the obvious poverty I see more people with smiles on their faces here than I do in most prosperous developed countries. If there is anyone with a problem here and now it is Mrs Chicken who reappears with her head cut off and feathers plucked, still upside down, to drain the remaining blood. Looking at the scene Steph, our French friend, tells me that he is not so hot on the grilled chicken anymore, but as the staunch omnivour I reassure him that the chicken he is about to eat had a happier life than any chicken he will consume back home - apart, obviously, from the terrifying last ten minutes of its life. After discussing the topic for a few minutes hunger and the smell of grilled meat triumph over vegetarian rationalism as Mrs Chicken reappears from the kitchen, cleaned, dried and beautiful and languidly spreads herself out on the BBQ. We spend the next half an hour debating the state of transportation in West Afirca and conclude that based on our problems in the morning and our experiences with buses, mini-buses, taxis and hired motorbikes generally, there is a 50% chance of something breaking down on any given journey. Furthermore we conclude that it was rather foolish of us to bargain down the price of the motorbike before knowing what bike we were talking about. In the end half price meant half the functionality and while a missing indicator is not a problem on African roads, one wheel is not enough. So we spent a fair chunk of our morning fixing punctures and cleaning sparks with the help of self appointed Burkinabe mechanics and a fair bit of African ingenuity.
Finally, after one and a half hours our lunch arrives and the feast begins. As with most places in Burkina the food is delicious and with my hands, arms and mouth covered in grease, a greasy smile on my face and a repaired moto waiting outside for the ride back in the setting sun I conclude:
Burkina, il y'a pas de problème.
Wednesday, February 9, 2011
Wa, Wa, Wahnsinn
I was expecting the worst. I have come to expect the worst whenever I travel any long distance anywhere in Africa. You expect crammed buses, delays, pothols and the occasional preacher and of course you expect the unexpected. So you come with your own armour to shield you from the pain that is about to be inflicted on you: you come early, you come well rested and above all you come with lots of patience. So we did. We got up at 6am after a good night's sleep and made it to the bus stop in Kumasi by 7. We enquired about the bus to Wa, which happened to be right in front of us, an almost new 40 seat Chinese built Youtong bus. We bought the tickets for 15 cedi a piece and right at that moment the stars seemed perfectly aligned for our trip to Wa. The ticket salesman was smiling, I was smiling, Abena looked chirpy and even the bus seemed to be brimming with confidence as the sun appeared over the surrounding hills. What could possibly go wrong? Well, nothing really, and nothing did go wrong, but then nothing really happened either. At first we just sat on the wooden bench at the bus stop and watched the world go by. There was plenty to keep us entertained. The barber without a barber shop, the market ladies carrying their produce on their heads, the kids running by, lorries being overloaded, goods being traded. After a while we converted the wooden bench into a bed and had a nap in the morning sun. By the time we awoke from our slumber it must have been around 10am. Our bellies were empty, so Abena went out to hunt for some food. She came back with fried rice and a hot milo drink both packaged in cheap black plastic bags. Rested and fed we were in surprisingly good spirits considering we had not moved any closer to Wa in three hours. At this point a little trotro bus pulled up right in front of our bus. The driver got out, rolled out an electric extension chord, plugged it into the power socket and connected the other end to a little megaphone which he mounted on top of his vehicle. Then he pressed the on button.
From that point onwards the megaphone was the bain of my existance: 'Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Hamale, Obama' on automatic repeat for the remainder of our stay in Kumasi, though even after hours of being tormented by the same repetitive message from the megaphone I could not figure out what Obama had to do with it. To our dismay, but in strict accordance with Ghanaian tradition any device capable of making noise is to be operated at full volume: 'Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa... Hamale Obama'. It was an incessant assault on our eardrums and quickly depleted any good will we had at the start of the day. With our patience exhausted, it was time to take action. Our first inclination was to find out when this miracle of Chinese engineering would finally get moving so we got off the bus to talk to the ticket salesman. In the absence of timetables the ticket salesman is the best proxy to determine an approximate departure time. The logic being that the bus goes whenever the last seat has been sold, or more accurately, whenever the last square inch of spare capacity has been filled, for even a full bus may have some space left for a little chicken. The only problem was that the ticket salesman had long since left the scene, a rather ominous sign. So we tried to find someone else who might be able to shed some light on our approximate departure time. The only person who could help, or so we thought, was the guy who appeared to be the driver. He told us that we would be departing soon and that we should wait 'small small'. I told him that we had already been waiting 'big big', five hours to be precise, and that the only thing 'small small' was my confidence in this bus departing at all. After a little more to and fro we started threatening to pull out of the arrangement altogether and demanded our money back. A rather futile excercise in any situation in Africa, for once you have handed money over you will never see it again, and this situation was to be no exception. Despite the initial transaction being rather straight forward, everything becomes murky after you hand over the cash. What appeared to be the official bus company ticket salesman is in fact a mere intermediary who takes his commission before he pays some lesser amount to his brother in law, who in turn pays some money to the guy who specialises in cleverly stacking luggage inside, on top and around anyone on the bus. The remainder, or rather the rest of what is left after he takes his cut, goes to the driver, the owner and any other relative involved in the operation. So who precisely you have formed a contractual relationship with remains a mystery, especially because many a middleman has left the scene long before confidence in the operation leaves you. So with your tail between your legs and your hopes of finding a favourable resolution shattered, you get back on the bus swearing to never make the same mistake again, though what exectly you did wrong is hard to figure out. So what to do? Well you do like any African would, you take your seat and you wait 'small small'.
By this time the CD sales woman has assembled her gear. Her pumping African beats competing with my 'Wa Wa Hamale' friend, though, unfortunately the two don't cancel each other out, nor do they in any way form a melodeous ensemble. To add to the general ambience the afternoon sun comes glaring down on me after I so cleverly selected the shady side of the bus for the morning bus ride. Sweat starts running down my spine and the trip provisions, including our two bottles of water are starting to run dry. After another three agonising hours waiting on the bus there appears to be a sudden frenzy of activity as people start piling onto the bus, either to occupy the last remaining seats or to sell snacks, beverages and other trinkets to the passengers on the bus. Then finally, in a sure sign of imminent departure a preacher pushes his way to the front of the vehicle and delivers his sermon to a surprisingly captive audience. At the end of his sermon he advertises his potions to fight the many evils he so diligently listed during his sermon: Infertility, hemorrhoids, malaria, even the devil himself. To my disbelief his products sell like hotcakes, so much so that I am tempted to try some myself. Then, at 3:30pm, after more than eight hours waiting on a stationary bus, the beast finally starts moving. Though in a final agonising twist we pull up at the first service station to fill up petrol and tweak the engine, before we commence our seven hour journey to Wa. A trip that was sold to us as a three to four hour bus ride. Exhausted, hungry and tormented by a three hour Nigerian movie we arrive in Wa at the end of one of the worst days of my life.
From that point onwards the megaphone was the bain of my existance: 'Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Wa, Hamale, Obama' on automatic repeat for the remainder of our stay in Kumasi, though even after hours of being tormented by the same repetitive message from the megaphone I could not figure out what Obama had to do with it. To our dismay, but in strict accordance with Ghanaian tradition any device capable of making noise is to be operated at full volume: 'Wa Wa Wa Wa Wa... Hamale Obama'. It was an incessant assault on our eardrums and quickly depleted any good will we had at the start of the day. With our patience exhausted, it was time to take action. Our first inclination was to find out when this miracle of Chinese engineering would finally get moving so we got off the bus to talk to the ticket salesman. In the absence of timetables the ticket salesman is the best proxy to determine an approximate departure time. The logic being that the bus goes whenever the last seat has been sold, or more accurately, whenever the last square inch of spare capacity has been filled, for even a full bus may have some space left for a little chicken. The only problem was that the ticket salesman had long since left the scene, a rather ominous sign. So we tried to find someone else who might be able to shed some light on our approximate departure time. The only person who could help, or so we thought, was the guy who appeared to be the driver. He told us that we would be departing soon and that we should wait 'small small'. I told him that we had already been waiting 'big big', five hours to be precise, and that the only thing 'small small' was my confidence in this bus departing at all. After a little more to and fro we started threatening to pull out of the arrangement altogether and demanded our money back. A rather futile excercise in any situation in Africa, for once you have handed money over you will never see it again, and this situation was to be no exception. Despite the initial transaction being rather straight forward, everything becomes murky after you hand over the cash. What appeared to be the official bus company ticket salesman is in fact a mere intermediary who takes his commission before he pays some lesser amount to his brother in law, who in turn pays some money to the guy who specialises in cleverly stacking luggage inside, on top and around anyone on the bus. The remainder, or rather the rest of what is left after he takes his cut, goes to the driver, the owner and any other relative involved in the operation. So who precisely you have formed a contractual relationship with remains a mystery, especially because many a middleman has left the scene long before confidence in the operation leaves you. So with your tail between your legs and your hopes of finding a favourable resolution shattered, you get back on the bus swearing to never make the same mistake again, though what exectly you did wrong is hard to figure out. So what to do? Well you do like any African would, you take your seat and you wait 'small small'.
By this time the CD sales woman has assembled her gear. Her pumping African beats competing with my 'Wa Wa Hamale' friend, though, unfortunately the two don't cancel each other out, nor do they in any way form a melodeous ensemble. To add to the general ambience the afternoon sun comes glaring down on me after I so cleverly selected the shady side of the bus for the morning bus ride. Sweat starts running down my spine and the trip provisions, including our two bottles of water are starting to run dry. After another three agonising hours waiting on the bus there appears to be a sudden frenzy of activity as people start piling onto the bus, either to occupy the last remaining seats or to sell snacks, beverages and other trinkets to the passengers on the bus. Then finally, in a sure sign of imminent departure a preacher pushes his way to the front of the vehicle and delivers his sermon to a surprisingly captive audience. At the end of his sermon he advertises his potions to fight the many evils he so diligently listed during his sermon: Infertility, hemorrhoids, malaria, even the devil himself. To my disbelief his products sell like hotcakes, so much so that I am tempted to try some myself. Then, at 3:30pm, after more than eight hours waiting on a stationary bus, the beast finally starts moving. Though in a final agonising twist we pull up at the first service station to fill up petrol and tweak the engine, before we commence our seven hour journey to Wa. A trip that was sold to us as a three to four hour bus ride. Exhausted, hungry and tormented by a three hour Nigerian movie we arrive in Wa at the end of one of the worst days of my life.
Friday, February 4, 2011
Ghana, It's Finished!
"Sweet Bite, how much?" I ask in terse Ghanaian English. The taxi driver shakes his head. "Sweet Bite, the restaurant" I try again. "The restaurant?" he asks. I confirm. "Ehee" he responds, confirming that he understood my message. "Give me 8 cedis" he says, his poker face trying to disguise that he's tripled his price for no other reason than me being an obroni. "2 cedi" I retort pretending to be a Ghanaian albino who was born and raised in this country. "Oh!" he exclaims in a way only Ghanaians can, expressing both surprise and disbelief in the audacity of my counter-offer. Then he starts playing his cards in the usual manner: Traffic, petrol prices, white man / black man we're all one people... After protracted negotiations that more or less adequately reflect the complexities of modern economic life we settle on four cedis, a price neither of us is happy with. Me, because I have no idea where this restaurant is, and him, because he hasn't sufficiently fleeced his white brother. As we're sitting in the taxi on our last night in Ghana, Abena and I listen to the familiar sounds of the warm Ghanaian evening. Loud reggae music and soppy love songs blaring out of the oversized and overloaded sound systems in the local spots, cars and trotros honking their horns, Ghanaians sitting on the street, gesticulating, arguing, laughing. The taxi stops and the driver points to the neon sign - Sweet Pub. "Sweet Bite" Abena repeats. "Brother, this is a pub, not a restaurant", she clarifies the obvious. "Sweet Bite, Sweet Bite" the driver mumbles trying to recall the correct location, then turns around the taxi and heads back in the opposite direction. After ten minutes he stops the car outside a Ghanaian chop bar that looks nothing like the Lebanese restaurant we were looking for. Clearly our driver has never heard of the place so we decide to give up and fill our empty stomachs at the chop bar.
"How much did you pay him?" I ask Abena as we exit the taxi. "5 cedi" she replies. "5 cedi!!!" I exclaim incredulously. "You mean you paid the guy more for overcharging us on the original trip and then taking us to a place we didn't want to go to?" "Well, I kind of felt sorry for the guy" she says. "So how much would you pay a blind cab driver, double?!"
As we sit down at the table the waitress reluctantly wobbles over to our table and stands next to us, barely acknowledging our presence. No smile, no akwaba, no menu. She just stand there and waits. "Do you have a menu?" I suggest. "Yes." [LONG PAUSE] "Would we be able to have a look at it?" Abena tries to progress the conversation. "Yes." [LONG PAUSE] "Would you like to move your ass over there and get it for us" was going to be my next suggestion, but alas, she read my mind. A brief moment later the menu arrives and judging by the extensive selection one could be excused for thinking we have arrived in the garden of eden. There are the stable Ghanaian foods in every possible permutation (banku, kenke, fufu, kontombre, emotuo, plantain, ...), continental dishes, all day 'break fast', a good selection of Chinese cuisine and a fair amount of spelling mistakes that remind me of my grade five, first year English as a foreign language, essays. With the obvious difference that there was no online spell check in those days and I wasn't allowed to get advice from any native speakers around me. "The flied rice comes highly recommended" I point out. "Better than fried lice" Abena retorts. "What about the Gordon Bleu or the spiky hotpot?" On closer inspection the menu looks more like the devil's dungeon than the garden of eden. "I'll have the potato salad please", Abena decides. "It's finished" the waitress mumbles. As it turns out most things on Ghanaian menus are 'finished', meaning they have either run out of ingredients or the person who dreamt up the menu blindly copied every single line from The Encyclopedia of World Cuisines. "So do you have the mixed salad available?" Abena enquires. "Yes." "And it has everything in it?", she probes in more detail. "Yes." "Even potato?" "No." "But it lists potato in the list of ingredients". "Yes." "So it's in there?" "No." "No potato?" "No." "But it has everything else?" "Yes, it has everything". "So it has carrot?" "No." "What about beans?" "No." "No beans? But it says beans here" Abena points to the list of ingredients. The waitress looks at the list rather surprised. "It has egg" the waitress pin points the one ingredient that is available. "So it is a mixed salad of egg?" Abena tries to clarify. "And lettuce." the waitress adds resolutely. "So it is a mixed salad of egg and lettuce. That's why it's called mixed?" "Ehee!" The waitress confirms emphatically. Whenever you hear an 'ehee' in the conversation in Ghana you know you have arrived at the true meaning, the essence of whatever you were talking about. Sadly in this case it is of no help. After enquiring about a couple of other options we retreat to the Ghanaian section of the menu. No qualifications here, it's all 'ehee'. So one last time we order jollof & chicken and banku & okra stew. Ghanaian food, it's finished!
"How much did you pay him?" I ask Abena as we exit the taxi. "5 cedi" she replies. "5 cedi!!!" I exclaim incredulously. "You mean you paid the guy more for overcharging us on the original trip and then taking us to a place we didn't want to go to?" "Well, I kind of felt sorry for the guy" she says. "So how much would you pay a blind cab driver, double?!"
As we sit down at the table the waitress reluctantly wobbles over to our table and stands next to us, barely acknowledging our presence. No smile, no akwaba, no menu. She just stand there and waits. "Do you have a menu?" I suggest. "Yes." [LONG PAUSE] "Would we be able to have a look at it?" Abena tries to progress the conversation. "Yes." [LONG PAUSE] "Would you like to move your ass over there and get it for us" was going to be my next suggestion, but alas, she read my mind. A brief moment later the menu arrives and judging by the extensive selection one could be excused for thinking we have arrived in the garden of eden. There are the stable Ghanaian foods in every possible permutation (banku, kenke, fufu, kontombre, emotuo, plantain, ...), continental dishes, all day 'break fast', a good selection of Chinese cuisine and a fair amount of spelling mistakes that remind me of my grade five, first year English as a foreign language, essays. With the obvious difference that there was no online spell check in those days and I wasn't allowed to get advice from any native speakers around me. "The flied rice comes highly recommended" I point out. "Better than fried lice" Abena retorts. "What about the Gordon Bleu or the spiky hotpot?" On closer inspection the menu looks more like the devil's dungeon than the garden of eden. "I'll have the potato salad please", Abena decides. "It's finished" the waitress mumbles. As it turns out most things on Ghanaian menus are 'finished', meaning they have either run out of ingredients or the person who dreamt up the menu blindly copied every single line from The Encyclopedia of World Cuisines. "So do you have the mixed salad available?" Abena enquires. "Yes." "And it has everything in it?", she probes in more detail. "Yes." "Even potato?" "No." "But it lists potato in the list of ingredients". "Yes." "So it's in there?" "No." "No potato?" "No." "But it has everything else?" "Yes, it has everything". "So it has carrot?" "No." "What about beans?" "No." "No beans? But it says beans here" Abena points to the list of ingredients. The waitress looks at the list rather surprised. "It has egg" the waitress pin points the one ingredient that is available. "So it is a mixed salad of egg?" Abena tries to clarify. "And lettuce." the waitress adds resolutely. "So it is a mixed salad of egg and lettuce. That's why it's called mixed?" "Ehee!" The waitress confirms emphatically. Whenever you hear an 'ehee' in the conversation in Ghana you know you have arrived at the true meaning, the essence of whatever you were talking about. Sadly in this case it is of no help. After enquiring about a couple of other options we retreat to the Ghanaian section of the menu. No qualifications here, it's all 'ehee'. So one last time we order jollof & chicken and banku & okra stew. Ghanaian food, it's finished!
Monday, January 31, 2011
Goodbye Accra!
So the time has come to leave our home in Accra and embark on our journey North. What a great time we had here helping out at two great organisations, West Africa AIDS Foundation, Esoko and Theatre for a Change, meeting so many interesting and inspiring people, forming lifelong friendships, and enjoying the chaotic rhythms of Ghana's capital city.
Now, we will head to the second largest city of Ghana and the capital of the Ashanti kingdom, Kumasi. Then we will head northwest to Wa. From Wa, we are intending on crossing the border into Burkina Faso (within a week from today) through the town of Leo.
Next time,
M&T
Now, we will head to the second largest city of Ghana and the capital of the Ashanti kingdom, Kumasi. Then we will head northwest to Wa. From Wa, we are intending on crossing the border into Burkina Faso (within a week from today) through the town of Leo.
Next time,
M&T
Tuesday, January 11, 2011
Photos - Ethiopia
Finally managed to get through all the photos we took over the last two and a half weeks in Ethiopia, so here's the link:
http://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/20110110Ethiopia#5560653745815263042
Happy new year!
M&T
http://picasaweb.google.com/torsten.herbst/20110110Ethiopia#5560653745815263042
Happy new year!
M&T
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