Minor Differences

Apologies for not posting these past couple days--things have been quite busy, but I am happy to report that my surveys look like they will run on schedule, starting next week. I completed the sampling and recruitment today, and should be able to finalize the instrument tomorrow.

Finalize the instrument. Great phrase. I think it will become my "clear the mechanism". Right before I finally throw that perfect game.

That said, these past few days I've had time to reflect on how Ghana, specifically Accra, is different from my last visit, over 18 months ago. I don't think there are any glaringly huge differences; naturally, I expect there will be new things given the country's development, but nothing overly unexpected.

As they apply to me, the differences noticed in this research assignment compared to previous ones are fairly minor. Except that they are not.

Of course, there are language differences between British English that's spoken here and the American English I grew up with (up with which I grew?), so I won't elaborate there, but, as an aside, I've never really understood the rationale for calling the letter 'z', 'zed'. My roommate and I have had this debate.

Tell me, what's the first letter in the word, 'zed'? RECURSIVE MIND IMPLOSION. YOU'RE WELCOME.

And of course there's the difference in how you count the stories of a building. Here, the first story is above the ground floor. But, really, how many stories does this building have? Come on.

Okay, enough of that. On to the real stuff

.

(1) Living in Dzorwulu v. Living in East Legon

Currently, I live in a district called Dzorwulu (pronounced JOR-loo), specifically at the Fiesta Junction because there is a nearby hotel, the Fiesta Royale, that is as ostentatious as it sounds. It's a nice area, right on the northern fringe of Accra, just south of the Accra-Tema motorway. For reference--and another difference--that motorway is officially called the George Walker Bush Highway. But I have never heard anyone call it that. Minor difference.

A stone's throw away, on the other side of the highway, is East Legon. Of course, by a stone's throw, I mean if I picked up a small, very aerodynamic pebble, had gale force winds at my back and had the shoulder ligaments of Aaron Rodgers I might be able to propel it into East Legon around the 246th iteration.

East Legon is similar to Dzorwulu, a residential area, though perhaps a bit ritzier. But the differences are astronomical.

Traffic. Getting OUT of East Legon can take over 90 minutes during rush hour. Getting out of Dzorwulu takes to the end of this sent--. Why so long to get out of East Legon? As a ritzy residential area, everyone has cars, no one car pools and the 2-3 miniscule exits simply jam. A perfect non-political example of one of my personal political maxims: persons are smart (I want to have a car because I've made it!), people are not (WHY DOES EVERYONE ELSE HAVE A CAR?!). And then you have to cross the Tema Motorway, which is itself ridiculous.

Electricity. In East Legon, the power would go out for 14 hours at a time. But that's not a problem if you have a generator, and most people do. (If you can't tell, I didn't.) This also has interesting political implications. Why demand electricity from your representative or your local bureaucrat, when you can just buy your own generator and fuel? The same goes for paving roads, which are hit or miss in East Legon.

This makes me wonder--East Legon has experienced a rise in violent and property crime recently. Maybe if residents are lacking in local, civic engagement, then there's less incentive to watch out for others, for your neighbors? Less chance that someone will report a crime they witness? This used to happen in New York in the 70s and 80s. Sometimes those social networks are the best safety nets.

Dzorwulu, on the other hand, has got the electricity and water and feels safe so far. The first two haven't gone out yet ... but I'll probably regret that statement shortly. Of course, my landlord informed me that these things don't go out here, because the ex-President lives in this neighborhood. So maybe you just have to be near someone really powerful.

(2) Twi in cabs v. English in cabs

This past semester, I took a course in Asante Twi: just the basics, introductions and chit chat, so far, but I've decided to deploy my new "skills" on some of my favorite people: taxi drivers.

As I've mentioned before, being obviously non-Ghanaian--it's my accent, naturally--results in me receiving the tourist discount (read: 200% markup) on taxi rides. There are no meters here; you have to negotiate the price in advance.

The first cab ride I took I did not deploy Twi--and subsequently got burned in the wallet. However, this guy did not have a radio, so we sat there in awkward silence.

Awkward, awkward silence.

And then I had an idea.

Me: Madanfo, wo din de s3n? (My friend, what is your name?)

Driver [STUNNED]: Uhh, uhh ... my name? Uhh, me din de ... Obi--?

Me [wishing I could ask if he were the Ghanaian Obi-Wan Kenobi]: Wo firi hene? (where are you from?)

Obi-wan: Me firi ... Eastern Region.

That's right, Obi-wan. The force is strong in this one.

We eventually switched to English, and he turned out to be pretty cool. Told me to hire his cab next time--he's stationed at the Government Ministries, where I'm surveying, so maybe I'll find him and he can give me the Ghanaian rate. As you saw in my last post, cab drivers really remember you.

Also, I think this should be the real final exam in Twi. Use your skills to get the Ghanaian rate from a cab driver. The lower the price, the higher your score.

Today (Friday) was casual Fridays at the Ministries. No joke. Basically everyone wears their kente patterns to work. I brought one kente shirt along specifically for this purpose, so I wore it today, looking extra Ghanaian. I hail a cab in Dzorwulu; this conversation followed.

Me: Maakye, madanfo, mepes3 me kc Ministries. (Morning, my friend, I want to go to Ministries.)

Driver: [Eyes widen, bursts into laughter]

Me: Eyes3n? (how much?)

Driver: Ministries. 10 cedis.

Me: Daabi. Cedi nnotwe. (No. Eight cedis.)

We settle on nine. Still high, but an improvement. Later today I got eight. The driver proceeded to call a friend, and talk excitedly. I'm not sure what about, but in my mind it goes like: "DUDE YOU WILL NOT BELIEVE THIS I HAVE A TWI-SPEAKING OBRUNI HERE".

Let's see what I can pull off after another semester.

(3) Government Department v. Kennedy School.

Okay, this one is an old one, but it is a distinction I must frequently make. In fact, a few years ago the then-G2s in my department created a holiday video lampooning this difference.

I have a very good friend who was at the Kennedy School many years ago. He's one of my Harvard connections, and has been so helpful since the day I first met him, four years ago. However, he often still introduces me as an HKS student rather than the much-more-difficult-to-say Government Department of the Graduate School of Arts & Sciences.

Really, some benefactor needs to endow GSAS and give it a simple name so that we can rival Kennedy.

So introductions sometimes go like this.

Friend [to important official]: This is my good friend, Joe. He is a PhD student at the Kennedy School at Harvard!

Me: Well, actually ...

Official: The Kennedy School! That's brilliant! There are so many important people who go through there, and I really hope to get there one day--

Me: That's really great, but--

Official: And they have the Institute of Politics! (Me, mentally, you've heard of the IOP?) With all those speakers. And the professors must be top notch. How are your classes? How are things at the Kennedy School?

Me [wondering about those IRB warnings on use of the Harvard name]: They're absolutely splendid.

Now, I have a lot of friends at HKS and my first research job was there, so I like that place a lot. It's a great school. I know other academic political scientists might be less open to the practice-oriented policy schools.

Maybe we should just merge. At least it would make my life easier.

(4) One mosquito in your room v. Zero mosquitoes in your room

Despite my investment in a permethrin mosquito net and mosquito coils, last night I found a mosquito in my room. Now having battled something that felt like malaria twice, I, a usually very calm person, freak out a bit--probably because there was no one around to see me.

Naturally, these exact thoughts go through your mind:

(a) This mosquito clearly has malaria.

(b) It will bite me repeatedly rather than just leave and feast on other less protected people.

(c) My net will fail. So will the coil.

(d) Those mefloquine anti-malarials are placebos. I haven't had any crazy dreams yet. They're not working.

(e) Something just brushed my--OH MAN I'VE BEEN BI--false alarm.

I then spent about half an hour trying to kill by swatting anything that resembled a mosquito, that had shadows like a mosquito. Let's just say there are a lot of pulverized dust bunnies in my room.

Actually, this behavior is part of a broader phenomenon: think you are very slightly ill in Africa v. thinking you are very slightly ill anywhere else.

Here, a slight tummy rumble--if you are crazed enough to read through Lonely Planet Healthy Travel Africa--could be anything from NOTHING to giardiasis to intestinal parasites to malaria to man-eating flukes.

Or you could just be hungry. As Leo asked us: "What is the most resilient parasite?" Yes, an idea. Followed immediately by giardiasis.

The first couple days I had a slight headache. I figured out what it was. Caffeine withdrawal. A cup of tea and I was better. Though if in three months I have river blindness then you'll know I was wrong.

Those symptoms anywhere else: Whatever.

Okay, time to finish some work then get to bed before the power goes out, river blindness sets in and my taxi drivers storm the house demanding their obruni discount realizing that I only speak the same 20 sentences of Twi. More updates this weekend.