The world according to me

While being in Ghana I had the chance to meet up with Jerry J. Rawlings former president and military leader of Ghana. I was curious and had lots of questions. I wrote about it, but the text got pretty long, so I will publish it in three parts. Enjoy part I:


Last stop Boom Junction (Part I)

How do you address a former president? It is none of my every day problems. I was at a loss. ‘Good Morning, Mr. Rawlings’, would that do? Or would that be too informal? If I remembered it correctly, protocol demands that you call him Mr. President even if he is just the ex-president. But ‘Good Morning, Mr. President’ would sound somewhat subservient. Choosing a greeting, it seemed, would have some importance, because it kind of set the stage for the conversation that was to follow.

People had told me about Boom’s hypnotic power and I didn’t want to be blinded by nice words. I wanted to be hard and piercing. Popular or not that man was responsible for a good amount of hardship and, at least morally, for the deaths of a number of dissidents and former military leaders. They call him Boom for he had been a fighter pilot and was famous for his hyperactive no-nonsense way of solving what he perceived as problems.

I had plenty of time to mull over the question. I had already spent half an hour drinking coffee that Rawling’s boy had served. I was faithfully waiting for the big man sitting in his study in his colonial style residence in Accra trying not to drown in his big brown leather couch. Feigning activity, I started taking notes about the interior of his study; the frightening gang of Mastinos, Great Danes, and Dobermann patrolling around the huge garden; the flight simulator software sitting on a shelf next to miniature aircrafts models and other petty facts that promised to hold some sort of explanatory value. When I ran out of details, I fell into some sort of vegetable coma. The air condition was going at full blast, slowing me down to the speed of a snail on a cold autumn morning.


His hands were trembling

He came without making a fuss. I don’t know what I had expected, but he wasn’t all that impressive. He was a big man alright. The lean figure I had seen on black and white army photos was no more. He was about 1.85 meters tall and weighed maybe 100 kilo. Instead of the tight olive army pants I had seen in the books, he was wearing a cream colored traditional shirt with some stains on it and grey pants. His full beard and his hair had turned salt and pepper. He had Ghanaian traits, but a lighter complexion inherited from his Scottish father.

The most striking feature, though, was his failing physical strength. He seemed hung over and he excused himself for being late by saying that he had slept in. His hands were trembling like you see it with people suffering from an early stage of Parkinson. He didn’t say much in these first minutes and kept massaging his temples. He wanted to know about me, why I came. But my answers didn’t really seem to get through to him. He left after a short while, saying he had to swallow his pills.

He seemed to have regained some vigor, when he came back some 15 minutes later. It kind of reminded me of Kurtz in the Heart of Darkness, who’s most remarkable feature is his voice, a booming organ that summons the ghosts of the past. Same here; once locked up in one of his monologues, Rawlings was back to his old energetic self. Still, I never lost the impression of facing somebody who was spending more energy than he had left.

Drowned in memories

I had prepared a two page list of questions separated into different topics like economics, politics, revolution and personal history. I had changed their order several times to create a flow, something close to a real conversation. I finally decided to start with his personal background, make him talk about things that should be comforting him. Than, gradually, I wanted to switch to more delicate questions finishing off with full-on accusations.

It didn’t work out at all. We were talking for about three hours and he answered maybe a third of all my questions. Still, I enjoyed it, because he wasn’t evading my questions in that gruesome style practiced by politicians and the like; he was answering straight away. It was more the crazy amount of stories stored in his memory and his volition to tell them all that put me off the tracks. I asked him about how to organize a coup and he ended up telling me stories about how he and his men had cultivated cassava on the fields surrounding the army barracks and that, when the plants were ripe, leading officers had come in, filling the boots of their cars without even asking.

It was all very interesting, but rather like a walk through a maze than a clearly structured interview. He had this annoying habit of never finishing a sentence, of constantly rephrasing what he was saying and always trying to put as much content in a sentence as possible. It works while you are there. His tumbling prose combined with his deep authoritarian voice creates a sense of urgency, of someone who really has a message. But if you listen to the tape later on, you are left with a lot of useless fragments, allusions, and overtones - and very little meaning.

I had read about most of the stuff he told me. I liked some of his anecdotes, things you don’t get in the books. Unfortunately, he also gave me quite a number of political propaganda about the current government and its president, J. A. Kufour, who had won the elections in 2000. Rawlings accused him of being corrupt, which he probably was, because corruption is woven into the very fabric of this society. He also accused him of having led the country onto the brink of a tribal war and of ruling with fear and the suppression of fundamental rights.

(to be continued)

Labels: rawlings

Now that I started posting about Ernest and Michael again, I remembered a comment I got from someone who is much more interested and involved in development education adn coporation than me. I actually don't remember his name. We had just met at the airport on our way to a meeting of GLEN, the Global Education Network of Young Europeans. He had been to Burkina Faso and so we been chatting about West Africa. When I finally told him about Michael and that we were paying his school fees, he look me up and down and told me off.

His argument was quite elaborate, but basically went like this: By giving money to a boy like Michael, we were creating a feeling of apathy in the ones who receive the money, because they kind of owe their well-being to some rich white guys. Plus, we make it harder for development workers like him, because we were creating some sort of expectation. Like when you feed animals and they get used to it and demand it over and over again.


I have to admit that his way of talking, his irony and his cold blooded attitude did unsettle me somehow. But he made a point and though, intuitevly, I decided not to give in, his argument has left me with quite some doubt about what we do, be it as insignificant as possible.

Labels: development work

Its been quite a while since I wrote anything. Came back to Germany, had another nasty stay in hospital and got a job writing for a website on climate change, microfinance and demographic change. Life is back to normal, more or less. The contact to Ghana, however, never broke.

Michael ist still in school. The cool thing, I got in contact with people from a small NGO here in Munich, Internationales Komitee Journalisten Helfen (Journalists help; website in German only), these people all have regular jobs and all, but they have been ative for quite a while helping people in Bosnia, Ukraine, Argentina. They liked Michael's story and gav us some money to help him and another guy called Ernest. Sweet.

Labels: Munich-Ghana

There is one thing I hear again and again in all situations of daily life: “This is a free country.” “Feel free.” “You are free, my brother.” “In Ghana, you are free.” “I am free.” There are more variations to this theme, but Ghanaians are usually very proud of their tolerant and open society.

Quite often being free means being free to do whatever you want given that you can afford the bribes. You can litter, build a house without a permit, and drive cars that would be sent to the dump in every other corner of the world. You are free.

Maybe this seems like a cynical summary, but than I’m not Ghanaian. So what do you expect? My negative preconceptions were seemingly affirmed when Ghanaian government banned an International Conference on Gay and Lesbian Rights that was to be held in Accra in September. The official declaration by the Information Minister Kwamena Bartels was straight forward. He said homosexual practices were illegal in Ghana and would “violently offend the culture, morality and heritage of the entire people of Ghana”. I read the press statement when I went for a chat with someone in the German embassy. The lady said, they had sent the press release to the headquarters in Berlin without any comment. What could you probably add to phrases like, "Unnatural carnal knowledge is illegal under our criminal code. Homosexuality, lesbianism and bestiality are therefore offences under the laws of Ghana.".

The clamp down made the conference a headline and people were debating homosexuality and gay rights 24/7 on TV, in radio shows and on the streets. Here is one example out of many articles published during the time: Our culture will not be sold out for gay lifestyles. Mind you, this is a moderate one. Basically, people said, if they want to do it, they should go outside the country. Most people were arguing from a religious or traditional perspective saying things like ‘Ghanaian men don’t sleep with other men’ or ‘God created Adam and Eve for a reason’. The more elaborate among the commentators highlighted Ghana’s AIDS problem saying that gay men are the most vulnerable and that Ghana was becoming a destination for gay sex tourism.

That is the background, now comes the catch. Everyone I spoke to condemns homosexuality, still Accra has quite a number of gay bars and they are not hiding. Jones, a Ghanaian, took me out to Henri’s Palace. I had met him weeks ago at a party on Oxford Street in Osu, the nightlife area of Accra. Weeks later I saw him again, this time with his girlfriend. She was called Beauty, which wasn’t all that wrong. That night the girl was drinking like a fish and hitting on every guy around. Jones didn’t seem to care. They broke up later. My guess is that she was just a cover up.

Anyway, back to Henri’s Palace. We were sitting on the street, drinking and talking. Some details seemed odd, but I didn’t get the picture straight away. There were no women, but it was around 9 pm and most drinking spots are crowded by men anyway. One guy was dancing in a very sexy, female kind of style. But Ghanaians love to dance and some of their movements look like pure sex. There was this one Arabic looking guy with a tiny, tiny shirt that barely covered his breast. But it wasn’t until, I stepped inside the club that the picture became clear. Just men, for sure, and they were smoking, very rare in Ghana. Some of them were slim, wearing tight fitting jeans and fancy T-Shirts. Others looked like well established businessmen who came to flee reality, a wife, and three kids. On the walls were black and white shots of Hollywood stars and an Audrey Hepburn poster. A sign was saying ‘Poppers available here 80.000 Cedis”. I felt like being somewhere in Berlin or London.

That’s Ghana for you - another Ghanaian saying whenever things turn out to be slightly different from what you had expected. And I think this is very telling of how Ghanaians go about their business. Maintain a high profile in public, do what pleases you in private. My friend Jones is a perfect example. Somehow he is living a gay life and somehow he is still holding on to the idea of marrying and having a family. Must be difficult to be torn apart like this. But this is Accra for you, a strange mixture of modern globalized life and old rites and believes.

Some times it is just too hot.




But sometimes you shouldn't bet on staying dry. Dead or alive.



Kumasi Central Station. No one is waiting for a train.

One of the things I miss is autumn.

I just love this picture.

I just spent an entire week at home. Some sort of flue, I guess. I went to the hospital, one of the best in town, but doctors here don’t usually tell you what you have, less you insist. I had been waiting for over an hour, my head felt like a water melon (ripe). I was just happy to see the man in white. I didn’t insist.

Consultation came in for about 150.000 Cedis, that is approximately 18 Dollars, maybe 13 Euros. The drugs were about the same amount. Last time, when I came down with Malaria, I had to spend about 1.5 Million Cedis. 130 Euros for three days in hospital, food, drugs and 24-7 care.

While all this seems like petty amounts of money, it is quite a lot when you compare it to average Ghanaian wages. A teacher might earn two to four million a month, a journalist a bit less. Falling sick is a very costly thing for them. A carrier boy working in the markets in town makes about 30.000 Cedis a day, barely four dollars. If he falls sick, he either has to rely on family, get through without any help or die.

There is of course free treatment for the needy in some hospitals, even in the country side. But the drugs, you have to pay for. When you get a disease like Malaria that means you are in for a hard time. The test is simple and inexpensive; it is whether or not you take the medication prescribed that makes the difference. Or let’s say it like this, whether you can afford to take it.

True, a number of Ghanaians have developed a partial resistance to the parasite. They still get it, but it is like a severe flue. They vomit, they have fever and all, but they don’t succumb to it.

Still, Malaria is the number one killer in Africa. More than a million people a year perish; it is more deadly than AIDS if you wish. The ones that die are the new born, the sick, the malnourished – all those that don’t have enough resilience to fight the disease. They die. Just like this.

Since I had Malaria, I can more easily detect if someone suffers from it. With Malaria comes a very special sort of apathy, a feeling of freezing to death even in the blazing midday sun, dazzling headaches.

Being aware of this is like going through town and seeing things you are used to but all of sudden they have a new meaning. Why is this beggar not begging anymore, just hanging around staring into the void? Why would some sleep in the full tropical sun wearing thick woolen clothes? Than you get paranoid. You see it everywhere. How can these people live with such a thread? But you get used to it. That is the way of the world, just another plague to be dealt with.

In a book I read something that was maybe meant as a tranquillizer, but it didn’t make me feel too comfortable. The author said that as long as HIV, the AIDS-Virus, does not survive inside a mosquito, things aren’t that bad for Africa.

I’m going to see Rawlings, J.J.Rawlings. I guess the name doesn’t mean much to most of you, but than most of you never lived under a military regime unchecked by any legal or civil restrains. Ghana did, a few times, and longest under Rawlings.

Still, his story is different from that of most other African dictators. First of all, most people here would probably not call him a dictator, even if enough atrocities had been committed during his reign. But most significantly, he was one of the few dictators who more or less voluntarily handed over power.

Well, that sounds a bit too positive. Let me set it straight. After about nine years in office as military commander, he managed to win general elections, not without some cheating though. I don’t know if his popularity and the power of his party might have even been enough to win him the Presidency on fair grounds. Some say yes, others deny it. But he won and he was reelected after a four years term.

According to the Ghanaian constitution, inaugurated under his chairmanship, there are just two terms in office for a Ghanaian President. So he did the surprising thing and stepped back. His successors never enjoyed his popularity and the opposition leader won the race.

So, now I’m going to interview him and I have no clue where to start. I mean, how do you interview an ex-dictator turned good-guy without complacency, but still polite enough to make him answer your questions? And what do I ask? Why the atrocities, the killing and the lawless period after taking power?

Does it even make sense to talk with him? Maybe he would just keep on propagating his point of view and I get all messed up. Plus, I can’t get the other guy on the phone, Kwame Pianim, now a successful business man, but under Rawlings a long term prison inmate.

People told me, Pianim might have won against Rawlings during the first elections in 1992, even under unfair conditions. He was some kind of martyr for many, a political prisoner so charismatic that he kept on rallying people around him, even in jail. But the Supreme Court declared him ineligible, because of his prison time. Very cheesy.

Labels: rawlings