Monsieur Harmattan comes to town

Photo: Le monsieur never offers to clean up after a visit










Monsieur Harmattan came to visit while we were away. In fact he always comes to visit when we are away, regardless of whether we leave the doors or windows open or not.

Apparently he comes from the Sahara, but at this time of year makes his way south. Many people don't like him because he is said to carry germs and gets up peoples' noses.

I don't mind him. To me he is kind of a breath of fresh, cool air. When Cathlin hears him coming, she usually dresses up. She'll often put on a coat and socks, because it would be inappropriate to welcome 'Le Monsieur' bare-footed.

He does, however, have a few bad habits that need fixing. He somehow gets into closed cupboards and drawers, and worst of all, he never cleans up after himself.

Jon

Shaking hands with poverty

It’s hard to ignore poverty when you are shaking hands with it.

It’s unusual that my fingers don’t bash out a quick post on an issue that comes to mind, after having worked on tight deadlines in magazines and newspapers. But I haven’t been able to finish a diary entry tackling this issue which I started in November. The reason is, it’s complicated, and each situation we have faced has been different, and we’ve had to respond accordingly.

It hasn’t just been the nine months we’ve spent living in one of the poorest countries in the world that has shaped my views. As I started reading through the Psalms and Proverbs in the Bible last year, I took out a piece of paper to make some notes on verses linked to poverty and wealth. My piece of paper was soon full.

This is a snapshot of my personal thoughts, which has shaped the way we have responded to the people we shake hands with everyday.

I have been confronted by how destructive it is when people become reliant on handouts. I have seen numerous examples of poor people – as opposed to destitute – who have the opportunity and skills to break through the poverty barrier, be discouraged by the existence of a system that provides enough ‘free’ support that it becomes an easier option to stay put rather than strive for freedom from poverty.

This is hardly a criticism of any one particular people group or class. I know, personally, that I’m most productive when I’m busy, and least productive when my situation dictates I have lots of spare time (just thinking back to those university holidays and 10-hour a week communications degree).

‘A little sleep, a little slumber, a little folding of the hands to rest – and poverty will come on you like a bandit and scarcity like an armed man.’ (Proverbs: 6:10-12)

Perhaps worst of all, this poverty mentality – I’m poor so you should give me a handout – helps corrupt people’s personality, as they strive to take advantage of any situation which may provide a free gift. On our recent trip to Ghana, the entire children population of villages would mob us and start repeating the two words of English they had memorised. ‘Please, money.’ Their parents used the same phrase. The kids were poor, but not destitute. The worst possible thing we could have done, I surmised, would be to give them money.

Now, time for the balance. It would be very easy to walk away from poverty there, and say giving doesn’t help; 'they' must learn to help themselves. But… ‘He who oppresses the poor shows contempt for his Maker, but he who is kind to the needy honours him.’ (Proverbs 14:31)

So, I gather, we should not be the cause of someone else’s poverty (that's an easy one). Anyone want a nice cup of ill-gotten coffee with some chocolate produced from cocoa farmed by people not paid a fair wage?

Also, it would be hard to describe ‘kindness’ as walking away from poverty. Does kindness drive past a man slumped on the middle of a highway, propped up against traffic lights, barely able to lift his hand as he pleads for something to keep him alive.

Or how about the uneducated worker, who was born into intense poverty, and is paid a few measly cents a day to use a cart and donkey to pile and dispose of stinking rubbish. Does kindness show her where the garbage is kept, before bidding her ‘good day’ and retreating to the comforts of a home? Are her conditions just?

‘The righteous care about justice for the poor, but the wicked have no such concern.’ (Proverbs 29:7)

These are my thoughts in progress. Apologies for all that is lacking.

Jon

'Coke for Jesus'

Picture: A popular name for Ghanaian fishing boats

Ghana is an overtly Christian nation, despite a strong Islamic influence in the north of the country. As we travelled from the top to the bottom of the country by bus, we noticed that the further south we went, the more Christian shop names we saw. It really is as though the shop owner, when deciding on a name for the shop, has grabbed a Bible and plucked some wise words from scripture.

Thus we saw 'Powerful Jesus Enterprises', 'Repent Hair Cuts', 'Jesus is Lord Supermarket', 'If God say yes who can say no' and 'Noble Character Ent.' We're wondering if the Coke rep in Ghana is aware of the small store that has the official red Coca-Cola sign out front, with 'for Jesus' tacked on after the trademark name.

More reassuring, perhaps, was the bumper sticker on the dashboard of the rickety mini van we rode in, with 20 other passengers (it was a 12 seater):'Relax, God is in control'. And taped across the steering wheel of yet another tro-tro (mini van): 'Only Jesus can save.' Amen.

Cathlin

"I speak small-small English"

This is the phrase that makes us cringe when we ask Burkinabé if they speak any English. "Oh, yes, small-small." Most of last year we were wondering where they got that phrase from, coz in French they would say "un peu/a little", yet they don't translate it as such.

Then we went to Ghana, and all was explained...they speak a special kind of English there. So "small-small" is quite common, as is "you are welcome" when you arrive somewhere (not just "welcome!") 'Fine' is a favourite word and can be used in place of 'yes'. And some words just don't get used at all. We were waiting for our bus to leave Accra for the 3-hour journey west to Cape Coast. The driver made an announcement from the aisle (no microphone) but we couldn't hear him above the noise of his radio. So he came closer, and explained that as it was a short trip we would not have a rest stop on the way. "So if you want to free yourself please come and tell me and I'll find a suitable place to stop." Huh? "So you can free yourself." We and the other (mostly) white passengers looked at him blankly. I decided to clarify to speed things up.

"You mean if we want to go to the toilet?"

He looked very embarrassed at the mention of this word...but at least everyone understood.

The accent is another thing. It's very much influenced by the rasta 'vibe' (they love Bob Marley just as much in Ghana, as in Burkina). When we returned to our hotel on the first evening of our stay in Cape Coast (pictured) and met the very friendly night guard, he asked us a question. "Do you like geckos?" is what I thought he said, prompting me to think that he was about to tell us that our room was in fact over-run by these icky little creatures (Jon actually likes them). I was formulating a reply in my head, something about how I didn't like geckos at all, and could we possibly change rooms, when Jon replied "yes, we like Cape Coast."

Geckos. Cape Coast. I played the 2 words over in my mind. They kind of sound the same, depending on how you pronounce 'cape'.

Cathlin

15 days in Ghana - Triangular trade

There was something about standing in the five by five metre dungeons, where slaves were stored in chains in preparation to be shipped overseas. At any one time, up to 200 slaves were crammed together in the tiny cells.

There was a small crease in the cement floor sloping downhill, which served as a sewerage system to gather the urine, faeces and vomit in one corner. Most West African slaves who made it to the Americas (and other continents) spent a couple of months in these cells, one of which we saw in Ghana’s Cape Coast.

Many died in the cell, or on the journey. Those chosen to be sold overseas went through a gate leading to the ships, nicknamed the ‘Door of No Return’. The dungeons under the fort were protected by cannons (which also served to protect the important trading routes), with several nations, including Sweden, England, Portugal and the Dutch taking charge at various times during the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries.

The forts along the Ghanaian coast were part of the Triangular Trade of slaves, sugar and rum between West Africa, the West Indies and the Americas. Slaves grew the sugar, which was used to produce rum, which in turn was traded for more slaves. And so the cycle went.

Our Ghanaian guide told us there was plenty of blame to go round, including the Arab slave caravans, Christian countries and the African tribes which raided and sold fellow Africans into slavery in exchange for cloth, beads and rum.

As a side point, I’ve been reading about some of the key abolitionists of the seventeenth and eighteenth centuries. Along with the well-known British politician William Wilberforce, it’s worth having a look at the role of James Ramsay and David Livingstone (from ‘Dr Livingstone I presume’ fame), for those interested in this sad period.

As I mentioned, there was something about that five by five metre cell. But mere words on a blog would never do it justice.

Jon