8 Weeks Ago.

“AHK!! She’s not serious!” Anger, confusion, and frustration reeked from the crowd as they complained to each other. They approached the conductor as a group, once again, to demand their money furiously.

It was pitch black, and the sole source of illumination was a yellow light on a nearby building. It was about 4 am, and malaria-ridden mosquitoes attacked our arms and neck perpetually, getting their last few hours fill of blood before they retired for the day. We were in a small dirt field surrounded by some buildings, trees, and market stalls which hadn’t yet opened for business. This field, just off the roadside in the town of Saboba, is called the Old Market Square.  Among many things, it serves the purpose of being the bus/transit station. Private minivans (“trotros”), market trucks, and the official Ghana Metro Mass would all depart from this field anytime between 3 am and 6 am each day.

This particular day, the Metro Mass had broken down; a common occurrence, but the bus hadn’t even made it out of the station today. At least 50 travelers, including myself, were trying to get to Tamale and now were severely delayed (or potentially stranded). Many had connecting buses to catch in Tamale that went to far areas of the country. The problem, the reason people were angry, was because the Metro Mass conductor – a hefty, strong-willed Ghanaian woman – was refusing to refund the money for the tickets. Thus, people wanted to join one of the trotros and trucks heading to Tamale but couldn’t.

“She’s not serious! How can she take our money like that! AKH!!” People bickered and yelled and shouted… no avail. The woman said that another bus would come, and the tickets would be valid for that one. End of story. But that wouldn’t do, since the other bus wouldn’t come until at least 9 am, 5 hours later than the usual departure time.

I stood by, irritated yes but a little curious at the woman’s attitude. Suspending assumptions, I walked over the the police inspector – a funny man I’ve had some experience dealing with – who had recently arrived. “Why won’t she just return the money?” I asked him.

“Her job is to bring back money. They’ll sack her if she does not.”

“Even if the bus is broken? I mean, we know the bus is broken!” I reasoned.

The inspector laughed. “No, the more money she brings the better it is.” And this is how a public transit system operates?!

I felt bad for the woman. Here she is getting harassed and making enemies, but she probably has a family to support and would lose her (difficult-to-come-by) job if she did otherwise. Trapped by a ridiculous system. I stood there, watching the scene unfold as the woman – forced to be arrogant and mean – continued to struggle between a rock and a hard place.

—

Business. It operates with an entirely different set of rules here. Concepts that were quite literally alien to me before I came. In stark contrast to the family and community relationships, business tends to lean a lot more towards an “every man for himself” model (sorry for the gendered term). It’s cutthroat, intense, and (from a Canadian perspective) disorganized and unreliable.

But I have faith. This faith has grown in me over my time here; and it’s the faith that in the end things will just work. And they do. I trust Ghana to work, because it does. Quite effectively. Once you understand the (often ridiculous) unwritten rules and codes-of-conduct, you can do anything. So just sit back, relax, and enjoy the bumpy ride.

—

7 Weeks Ago.

I was having a bitter morning. See, I’m not normally a morning person; but that had to change really quickly when I came to Ghana. Regardless, old habits die hard and I was seriously wanting a coffee this morning after a few nights of sparse sleep. I biked into town, accepting the fact that I’d have to have an overly sweet and overly evaporated-milk-loaded Nescafe, which is the closest I can get to coffee. Yousif is no longer in Saboba, so I had to go to the other egg-and-bread dealer in the middle of town to buy my “coffee.”

“No Nescafe.” Dammit. Bitterness, and to-do lists already forming in my mind of work to do. 7:30 already.

“Okay, I’ll go buy some and bring it,” I said.

“Over there!” The seller pointed to a nearby store. Every seller had their own store that they buy supplies from. I went over to the store. A heavyset woman – in her mid forties I’d guess – was sitting outside it. I went over and asked for some Nescafe.

“Two-point-five two-point-five” she quoted the price per sachet.

“No madame, I know it’s one-point-five.” Stop messing with me. Seriously, I’m not in the mood. It was a safe assumption that she was overcharging, since prices for these things are pretty standardized. I still wasn’t sure though.

“No, two-point-five.” The woman insisted. I felt a little uncertain…

“Fine, then I’ll go to my friend who’ll not try to charge me more!” Furious, I got on my bike and drove across town – through a network of overhanging steel roofs and back alleys of houses arranged in haphazard lines – to Ibrahim. This man is awesome; probably in his mid-fifties, I’ve had excellent conversations about business in Ghana and private-sector development with him.

Ibrahim was sitting inside his shop/stall, listening to the news on his radio. “Boss! Good morning!” I greeted him, and we chatted for a few minutes. “Ah, I want to buy Nescafe. I’ll take two.” I think a double-dose was in order. Success! 3000 for two, therefore one-point-five thousand each.

I biked back, past the egg-and-bread dealer to the woman outside the store. I shook the two sachets of Nescafe at her and exclaimed “one-point-five!” Seriously, I’ve been living here for more than a month. You see me everyday. Don’t try and rip me off. She shrugged.

Conflicted over my stupid behavior over 7 cents (yes, that’s the conversion) I took my Nescafe to the egg-and-bread man and then to the office. What am I trying to prove?!

—

Duncan and I disagreed over this particular incident. He is a lot more willing to not-bargain, while I lean more towards the “don’t mess with me” angle. Duncan said difference in wealth effects how much he bargains both here and in Canada, and that here he doesn’t feel comfortable pushing back hard. I tend to oscillate in how much I bargain; it really depends on the item, the person’s conduct, and my own mood. This is in fact exactly how most locals will also work. You just have to get a feel for it.

“It’s the principle, Duncan.” I was explaining. “She’s overcharging because she thinks we’ll pay. She thinks we’ll pay because we have money.” This is not necessarily because we’re foreigners. Even richer locals are charged extra, and have to bargain down. Being a foreigner simply highlights us as “rich” more often than not. “But this is how business works. This is how this system works. Competition is a necessary component, man.” I kind of sounded obnoxious, and desperately wanted to concede to Duncan’s ideals.

“It’s just, I don’t want her to think she can get away with it. Especially because we’re foreigners. If we are going to live in this town, if we are going to integrate… this has to be part of it.” That was my argument. I pay extra sometimes if it’s a tailor, or if it’s someone who is doing really good work. I believe in supporting the local economy, but I also believe that if you’re not tough in the face of business here you get walked all over. Yes, as foreigners we can afford it. But should we?

—

10 Weeks Ago.

“The Mangoes, who will buy them?” Elijah and I were planting Mango trees.

“Ah, town people will buy. Togo people will buy.”

“Togo people?!” I asked, surprised. But I didn’t know at that time…

In fact, (illegal?) trade between people from Togo, Burkina Faso, the Ivory Coast and Ghana is rampant. Saboba is riddled with Togolese and Nigerian people, who are selling and buying goods such as tractor parts, crops and grain of various kinds, fruits and vegetables, and more. Hausa, Linkpapa & Twi & Degbani, French, and English can all be heard on the streets of Saboba. The borders are not policed and no trade laws are enforced. I myself have crossed to Elijah’s yam farm in Togo, and I wouldn’t have known I was in another country unless I was told.

Networks and old ties between communities and tribes remain strong in rural areas, undaunted by colonial border lines imposed on Africa when the Europeans took over (see the About Ghana page). In fact the village I live in continues across the border into Togo. It’s a strange concept, but also an ebbing reminder of the injustice and damage the West has done to Africa in the past.

—

People in Ghana don’t have land lines. No one I know does. Even in the most remote areas of the country, you can see Red, Blue, and Yellow buildings plastered with advertisements from Africa’s three cell-phone giants: Vodafone, MTN, and Tigo. Fierce competition and reckless innovation is rampant in the mobile industry, with new players and new deals jumping into the fray all the time. Everyone from the richest businessman to the most hard-up farmer has a cellphone, and new deals come through text messages that make service delivery extremely streamlined.

I bought a cell phone first-thing when I came to Ghana. It cost me 45 cedis ($31) and it holds two SIM cards. One MTN, one Tigo. I also have a Vodafone SIM card I use that belongs to the district assembly, to access the internet through a USB modem. BBC sends text messages to all Vodafone SIMs with recent news.

These are some ways in which Ghana and other African countries have “skipped” steps in infrastructural development. Piggy-backing off of newly developed technologies, some services are available openly here that we have barely started using in Canada and the US.

I’m told that just a few years ago Saboba had no cell phone coverage; now, I get close to 3G speeds on an EDGE internet connection. The industry is booming, and the customers get served. How does such rapid development occur in one aspect of society, while other aspects are stagnant and suffering?

My fellow volunteer in Zambia wrote about cell phones a few weeks ago: check out Amanda’s blog post! Also, check out this great globe and mail article.

—

Cell phone coverage is high. Some industries are booming. Small scale markets in rural towns attract people from surrounding countries, districts, and villages. Market trucks, dilapidated flatbeds, trotros and broken buses bring yams from Kpandai, cloth from Togo and Cheriponi, and farmed goods from hundreds of villages. Strong, smiling market women with amazing stories and fascinating resourcefulness travel to far-off places, while young guys running the show crawl around the vehicles like giant spiders.

You can go anywhere. Just stand by the side of the dirt road. No one has all the information, nothing is certain, nothing is predictable, everything works. People have farms in far-away districts and somehow the maize gets grown, harvested, and sold. Everything can be found, everyone is connected, and there are few strict rules. Pressures are high, reliability is low, and you just have to have a little faith.

This is the reality of business in Ghana. This is my reality. I love it. I’ve grown to love life here, with it’s unpredictable practicality. And it makes me sad to think of reintegrating into structured, law-abiding Canadian society less-than three weeks from now. I don’t look forward to the cold, clear-cut business rules and the unnecessary loop holes. Or the lack of relationships and friendliness, where nothing is new and everything is standardized. Where is the fun in that?

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