Rickety wooden bench. Back against the cement-and-mud surface outside of my hut. Light breeze. Smell of firewood that reminds me of camping in Toffino years ago. Expanse of stars and a full moon above me. Kids around me, enjoying the Nigerian music coming from my laptop. Dana and Hanna sifting maize on the floor in front of me. Elijah prepares tea for Dana, him, and I, since the night is “cool.” Ah, the contentedness. Life is beautiful.

As I sit here, happily exhausted from 16 days working without a break, I contemplate the writer’s block that has plagued my blog-writing in the recent weeks. There is no shortage of things to talk about… but for some reason I don’t feel motivated to write about Saboba’s water system, or the amazing meeting I had with World Vision’s manager, or the hyper-roll that work is on now. Why? I think it’s because what I want to communicate is deeper than that. There are things I just can’t put into words. The messiness and gray areas. But I think you all, as my readers, have earned a lot of respect in my mind.

So I’m not going to try to put into words what I can’t. Instead I’ll give you honest food-for-thought and put the onus on you to be critical and understanding. And to not judge me too harshly.

—

Engineers Without Borders, as an organization, has a brand. Over the past few years, this brand has grown stronger and more powerful. It depicts it’s members as critically thinking problem solvers. True. It depicts an Africa where there is opportunity and happiness. True. It empowers an individual’s capacity to create change. Also true. It shows that African farmers and families aren’t looking for handouts, and can manage their own lives. True. It’s all true. Among many things, EWB promotes strong values and ethics, respect for cultural differences, humility, and courage in the face of ambiguity. These are things I respect most about this organization, and values that align strongly with my own.

But like every brand, we veer dangerously close to misrepresentation. I’m not talking about misrepresentation in terms of saying things that are false. The danger is in what is not said. Not all of EWB’s members are “critically thinking problem solvers.” Africa has opportunity, but not everyone has access to that. Not everyone is happy. One person can change things, in a big way; but one person is never enough. African farmers are not all innovative. And sometimes… values have to be compromised. I can say, with shame and confidence, that in the past two months I’ve played the race card, the religion card, the information-concealing card, the ulterior motive card, and many others that directly go against some of my core values. I’ve remained conscious of it, I’ve reflected on it, and I’ve done it anyway because I believed in the end goal.

Having been working with EWB for 2 years, my first few weeks in Ghana subjected me to SHOCK. It was not culture shock, it was “EWB vs. reality” shock. 7 weeks ago I remember talking to Robin Stratas, an (AMAZING!) overseas volunteer who has been here for 1 year now. I was telling her how, after being hammered at by EWB about how innovative, amazing, smart, and driven people in rural communities are, all I was seeing was a culture of complacency. Of grim acceptance. Of antagonism to change.

I beat myself up over this fact. The first six weeks of my placement, I pushed myself to find that model EWB representation of Africa. I shot myself down into exhaustion: I’m not being open enough. I’m not looking hard enough. I’m not being compassionate enough. I’m not asking enough questions. I’m not integrating enough. I’m looking at things from a too-Western point-of-view. Some of this was true. But as time went on, some realizations dawned on me. On one of the large pieces of flipchart paper taped to my mud-hut wall, I wrote the following and read it every morning:

“1) This is your experience. Don’t try and make it fit a preset idea. 2) Practice honesty. 3) Live in the moment.”

So I started experiencing what was, not what I wanted there to be. Just like people in EWB do not represent all the people in Canada, people EWB promotes don’t represent all of Africa. Or rural Ghana. Like in Canada, people are people here. There are bad people, good people, strong people, weak people, smart people, not-so-smart people… People with different strengths and weaknesses that weave the tapestry of any society.

And yes, there is a culture of complacency. People want change, people want “development.” But people don’t want to step outside whats already there. And why would they? In a culture that punishes mistakes, disallows experimentation, and where knowledge is not power, why would someone put their lives on the line? And look at the risk: if you fail, you let your whole family down. There is no cushioning, unemployment is widespread, there are  no systems that will allow people to innovate and be creative. At school, there is a rote, top-down education system where failure is not a learning opportunity, but a death sentence.

Now what is our role, as development workers? How ethical is what we do? Is it our right to push for change people aren’t completely receptive to, but that leads to change that they desperately want? And herein lies the rub.

Swirl these things in your mind, think about them. But I really want you to think about this as well: amongst all this ambiguity, I have never believed as STRONGLY as I do now in the work I’m doing. I’ve never felt as connected to people here as I do now. I have so much love for this place and this work, all of it. I believe and support the necessity for EWB’s brand, the purpose of which is to dismantle the negative and inaccurate misrepresentation of Africa pushed by other organizations. Ghana is just a place. It’s people are just human. Like Canada. There are problems, there are systemic issues, and there IS potential. As an organization, we have and will make mistakes. We’ll learn. As people, in Canada, EWB, and Ghana, we’ll all make mistakes. And we’ll learn. We just have to remain humble & critical.

—

Four days ago.

“How do you explain this to them?” I was talking to Duncan, a fellow EWB volunteer. You see, there are actually two EWB volunteers in Saboba. Saboba is one of two districts where both our Governance and Agriculture programs are being run. But for work and cultural integration’s sake, Duncan and I have been careful to see each other in moderation. Nonetheless, our conversations are some of the most high-yielding in realizations.

I had gone over to Duncan’s family’s compound, a less-than-five minute walk from where I’m living. We were talking about the experience of being here. Of working in development. Of struggling to understand realities, and especially of finding the balance between what you accept as cultural difference and what you don’t.

I was telling Duncan: “The Dagomba man on the trotro, while I was coming from Tamale, was adamant that ‘villagers don’t like to spend money. Even if they make it, they won’t spend it!’” At the time I had taken that statement with a grain of salt, because there are many social-stature complexities and perceptions between town people and village people, let alone city people. After hearing it many times since then, however, and after seeing evidence of it myself, I’ve started to attach a little bit of weight to what that man said to me nearly 2 months ago.

But even if it’s true; even if it’s common for people to not spend money to improve their lifestyle; why? Well, the family support network and peoples’ willingness to help each other always strikes me here in rural Ghana as something amazing. But like everything, there is a down side to it. If you are seen to be rich; hell, not even rich, but just slightly better off than another… people will ask you for money. For support. Extended family, very extended, will turn to you for school fees. Fellow villagers will ask you to help them pay for tractor rentals. As soon as you become slightly successful, you have to choose between giving your wealth away or being ostracized. Why? Because wealth and success is not widespread, and because people expect much more from each other than they can give. And people would rather see their family starve, than put their support network at risk.

“I know Elijah can afford to feed his family. I know that he’s doing not-bad. He’s paying for his sisters’ schooling as well. But then why are his children not getting enough food? They barely eat, unless at night.” This is what Duncan and I were talking about. “It’s not that they don’t want it.” You’re just going to have to trust my observations on this.

“But I, as the guest, get a wholesome breakfast and dinner (I’m at work during lunch time).” I can’t share my breakfast with the kids, which I really want to do everyday, since it’ll be taken as an insult to hospitality. And I’ve broken enough hospitality rules in the name of cultural integration. So every morning, as I eat my delicious Guinea Fowl eggs, I watch Elijah’s children go hungry with a smile on their face. It becomes difficult to swallow.

“How do I explain that this is not cruel? How do I explain the complexities?” I was asking Duncan.

“You’re right,” Duncan said. “Canadians would not understand this. They would think Elijah is a bad man, they wouldn’t understand.” I nodded in agreement, “they would not understand.”

—

“How were the communities chosen?” I asked the man from Accra, who was driving the pick-up as we sped along dirt roads. I had joined the two scouts from the Government of Ghana’s National Electrification Program who were tagging GPS coordinates for communities set to get electricity over the next year or so. The air-conditioned pick-up was a stark contrast to the sweat that I could see on women’s faces as they walked miles beside us on the same road, carrying loads on their heads I probably couldn’t lift. I felt uncomfortable. I had become too used to the more common form of transport into the field, motorbikes.

Fred replied “MPs and the District Chief Executive (DCE). They were told by parliament to propose 20 communities to receive power.” No rigor, no data, no process. Just the opinions and whims of two politicians. It makes sense; in my (fairly uninformed) opinion, the National Electrification Program is a political maneuver, a tactic the current government is using to win over voters. Everyone wants electricity. I know from talking to people that the power lines won’t be extended immediately. It’ll be sometime next year. Of course; it’s perfect: choose strategic communities whose votes need to be won over, and just months before the 2012 election give them electricity.

We passed by the DCE’s community: it’s on the list. MP’s community: on the list. We passed a community that had been granted power in the past: it was the previous minister’s community. “Politicians are wicked people!” Fred winked at me.

“Maybe” I thought. But I know, from spending some time with him, that the DCE is a genuine and good man. He works 7 days a week, is out campaigning at communities early in the morning (6 am), is very down-to-earth, and wants good for his people. But his activities, while they are politically inclined, are just symptoms of a larger problem. He has a lot of pressure on his head; he is the current government’s representative in Saboba, and is reporting directly to the President. And the political competition is fierce.

But does that warrant decisions that affect thousands of lives? Electricity doesn’t just mean light for a village; it means granaries, access to a phone, lower birthrates (ask me about this later)… it means teachers and medical personnel are more inclined to work in the area, which means better education and health care. So are the whims of political powers justified? No. But are good intentions good enough?

I can’t help wondering… if the data was there, if the attitudes to use it were there, would the DCE choose some communities more objectively?

—

Today, I was leaving the office around 6:30. The DCE and I, as usual, were the only people in the District Assembly structure on a Sunday. I went to see him in his office, where he had just finished a long and unsuccessful land-conflict resolution meeting. He looked exhausted. I grinned, and he replied “our people… they can’t keep doing this!”

“Yeah,” I said, “there are bigger problems to worry about.”

“Exactly.” His phone rang; he answered, and quickly finished. “I have malaria,” he said. “And he’s still working,” I thought.

Not wanting to bother him now, and knowing he leaves for Accra tomorrow, I said “sometime before I leave, lets go grab a beer and talk.” I was walking on egg shells here, not knowing how he’d react to such casualness. But if my observations of him are correct, he is just as tired of people treating him like a king because he is the DCE, as I am because I’m a foreigner. I looked tentatively, a split second of quietness, and his face broke into a large grin.

“Okay! That sounds great!” I sighed with relief. Apart from just getting to know an interesting person: Strategically, and importantly, there are some tough questions and issues I’ve been wanting to explore with the DCE, not to mention buy-in on the work I’m doing. It’s time that I tackle these things.

—

With less than four weeks left in Saboba, I need your help! I have too much to say and limited time, so what do you want to hear about for the next two blog posts?

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