What matters, and what’s denied

The benefits of wealth are not difficult to see, and the opportunities available to most Canadians are clearly much greater than those available to the average Ghanaian. But of what kind of opportunities are we speaking? The opportunity to get educated, to live free from hunger, to have leisure, to enjoy a comfortable life, to pursue our dreams: all the usual answers, and all correct. But are we missing things that strike deeper, possibilities that touch closer to the heart? I submit that we are, in at least one instance: many Canadians, maybe even most, have the opportunity to give themselves in the service of others, to think selflessly, to put the interests of strangers before their own, and to reap the rewards of their service. And we can do so because we have reached a level of wealth sufficient for our needs; we can earn a decent salary and provide for our families without always putting ourselves first. Such is not the case in northern Ghana: here, a person must work constantly to earn enough for their family and to have any hope of getting ahead. The aspirations of people are entirely based upon their own progress: to get an education, to get a good job, to make more money, to move up in society. It is the most faultless sort of selfishness, directed not at hoarding cash or lavish consumption but simply at making a good life for yourself and your family.

A lack of opportunity to think of others. That may seem trivial, given the other, more basic requirements people cannot acquire for themselves. But it is important to look beyond the obvious, and consider the richness of lives when comparing the wealth of nations. I will have done something worth doing in my life if I can be of some service to those living in poverty; that is not a goal my host brother can realistically aspire to. And that says more to me about the divide between our opportunities than anything else.

Duncan

The Fury and the Consolation

It’s not yet seven in the morning, and I’m sitting in the office, so furious I can barely sit down. ‘Tis not an emotion I often feel this early, though today I think it is well-placed. The cause for such anger illustrates both the frustrations of working for the government in northern Ghana (and likely most developing countries) and the necessity of doing so. And as such, I feel it’s worthwhile to share.

Since I have arrived in Saboba, I have had regularly scheduled meetings with seven farmer groups, with four different agricultural extension agents (AEAs). Notice that I have said regularly scheduled, not regular: the quantity of meetings canceled by the group or the AEA is staggering. Groups that are supposed to have weekly meetings are often unseen for weeks at a time, severely affecting the continuity of the program and compounding the already difficult task of improving the business understanding of the group. Groups with biweekly meetings miss one and we don’t see them for a month; we can hardly build on our previous meetings after such a gap. I am less annoyed when the problem is the group: if there is a funeral in the community or everyone goes to the farm instead of the meeting, at least it is not the incompetence of the office that is at fault. We can at least lecture the group and/or inquire into their reasons at the next meeting if they are absent, and we always have the option of dropping the group and picking up a new one if the group is not serious.

When my AEAs are the problem, on the other hand, it is an entirely different matter. It is annoying enough when the AEA shows up at the meeting nearly an hour later, or picks me up on his motorbike fifteen minutes after the meeting is supposed to start (and it’s about a twenty-five minute ride to the community). When the AEA simply cancels the meeting, my fury reaches new heights. We spend significant amounts of time talking with groups about the importance of being on time for meetings and showing up at every one. How can we make progress and build trust with groups when we don’t even practice what we preach? Transmitting the ideas of marketing and profit analysis is already hard; how can we ingrain them into groups when there is a three-week gap between meetings? Why should the groups take us seriously when we can’t even get ourselves together once a week?

Of course, there are always excuses aplenty, some of them legitimate even if symptomatic of larger problems: the AEA who had to take his wife to the hospital four hours away because the hospital in Saboba is terrible, or the AEA whose old, government-provided motorbike broke down the morning of a meeting (although I have trouble believing he couldn’t have fixed the problem before that morning). Other excuses are less worthy, and point to the cultural problems inhibiting development: visitors to the house needed to be looked after, children needed to be picked up from school, another agricultural project needed to be worked on. When reasons such as these are given as justifications for missing scheduled meetings, I can’t help but long for the regimented structure of the Canadian working life. The ease with which these excuses are given shows the lack of concern with being late or absent from farmer group meetings, and to my mind the lack of respect for farmers from the very people who are supposed to be their advocates.

It is not only the culture of meetings that is problematic: the upward accountability that I have discussed previously is also troublesome. Since the regional agricultural office holds the district office (my office) accountable, and since regional is not pushing Agriculture as a Business (my program), there is no incentive beyond the district’s own motivation for the district staff to drive the program forward. Farmer groups don’t have a say in the district’s performance; if AEAs don’t show up for meetings, no one is going to be in trouble. If, on the other hand, the AEAs do not register all the farmers in the district (an exercise of high cost and dubious value), the district director is going to hear about from regional, and the AEAs are going to hear about it from the director.

So here I sit, not at a farmer group meeting, this morning because my AEA canceled at the last second (and I had to call him to find this out) to work on another project. I can’t say my motivation is particularly high right now, but such episodes do remind me why we are working with the government here rather than doing our own projects and own extension work. The problems of work culture and accountability within the Ministry of Food and Agriculture (MoFA) are not going to solve themselves, and we believe we have something to contribute towards making things better. MoFA is a huge, well-resourced, country-wide organization, and if we can change the way it functions, we’ll have done something worthwhile, even if we have to overcome a thousand frustrations along the way.

Imagine a MoFA that holds itself accountable to farmers in the district, and makes decisions based on their priorities and challenges. Consider if the national Ministry performance was graded by a selection of farmers from every district in the country. Or just think of a district office that holds its commitments to farmers in high regard, high enough so that they follow through on their promises. These sorts of changes would have more impact on farmers than a volunteer or EWB working on our own ever could, and that’s why I’m sitting here in this office. I may be frustrated, but at least I’m frustrated in the right place.

Duncan

The Gathering Darkness: A Blessing in Disguise

There is no question, no uncertainty about what the future will bring, and you don’t have much time; if you’re going to make it through, you’ve got to act fast.  Grab everything that isn’t nailed down and get it inside, pile mats against the doors and move anything you want to keep away from the windows. Soon it is so dark it seems twilight has come early, and the wind kicks up to extraordinary speeds in seconds. Those fires still burning flare up against the walls of houses; luckily, mud doesn’t burn. The red dust sandblasts your face as you race home, the lightening explodes in your eardrums, and the sky opens up to release her fury. Those unaccustomed may think me a little dramatic, but you would quickly revise your opinions after getting caught in your first Ghanaian thunderstorm.

The rains, late this year, have come in fits and starts, though this morning they seem to have begun in earnest. Given the previous paragraph, you may believe that I will never be satisfied: first I complain about the heat, and then I lament the coming of rains. But despite the violence, I am pleased at newfound coolness breezing into my office, and I prefer a flooded room to one soaked with sweat. Plus, not all rains are of the severe quality described; many are merely soft downpours, or even drizzles. But it is the storms that make an impression: the dark clouds massing the distance, the quick wind, the inevitability of it all. Once everything is secured, all movement stops during storms, except for the occasional child sent out to move the water-catching pails into better positions. Everyone huddles inside, paralyzed by the pounding water, until the rains let up; anyone caught outside is offered shelter by whomever happens to be nearest. Meetings are canceled, commitments put on hold, expectations dropped, all automatically: it’s raining, there is nothing one can do.

Now, given the ease of forecasting, one would think the only a fool would get caught in the open. And in general one would be right; unfortunately, I am just such a fool. At the close of work one afternoon last week, as I watched the sky darken, I decided to make a break for it. The bike home is significant, down the dirt road to town, through town, then out the other side down another dirt road to the village. As I entered town the winds picked up, and as I raced past the central tree, the thunder was so deafening I thought the massive tree must have been split in two. I turned on to the dirt road to the village just as the rain burst from above; to say I was pelted would be to put it mildly. Beaten might be a better verb. Needless to say, the ride down the village road was not the most agreeable, but my host family thought it was hilarious when I booked it through the compound drenched to the bone. At least someone got something out of it.

I would like to say that I have learned by lesson, and next time the clouds menace I will seek more immediate shelter. Unfortunately, such actions require a quantity of sense I don’t believe I possess, and thus racing the water will likely be a regular event. By the end of my stay, Canadians will have no credibility in Saboba, as they do not even seem to understand simple things like rain. Such is the burden of representing my country abroad.

Duncan

Savour the Small Successes

I’ve had a few requests for more details on the actual work I’m doing here, so unfortunately I will have to take a small break from regaling you with stories of children and farm animals to look at the business side of things. A large part of my job consists of traveling to farmer group meetings with my agricultural extension agents (AEAs) and observing/helping the AEAs facilitate the Agriculture as a Business (AAB) curriculum. For example, this morning I biked in the rain to a small community close to Saboba, arrived at the appointed time for our meeting, then waited for an hour and a bit, first for my AEA to show up and then for the group to gather. Although groups being late is not uncommon, I usually get to the meetings on the back of the AEA’s motorbike, so waiting for my AEA to show up is a rarer and much more annoying experience. But at least she came, eventually.

Before we started, I talked with the AEA about the card, the purpose of the meeting (in this case to get the group to decide on a project they will pursue together, such as growing an acre of soya beans, raising twenty pigs, or processing shea butter into soap), and key implementation practices to properly achieve the goals of the card. Due to the low literacy of this particular AEA, I was quite active during the meeting, talking with her about how to go through the card, what to ask the group, and so on. This is not my typical modus operandi: during meetings with more skilled AEAs, I intervene less and mostly confine my activities to writing down the group’s improvement plan (how to meet on time, how they will collect dues, how they will market their agro-products together, etc.). I throw in a few questions for the group as I see fit, and often make short speeches to the group about whatever is on my mind. After the meeting, the AEA and I talk about the meeting and the group, and I attempt to have them reflect on what went well and what could be improved in terms of facilitating the meeting (not an easy task with most Ghanaians, for whom such analysis is not at all familiar). I have also made an effort to set goals with my AEAs, another uphill battle. Today, the AEA and I talked about the project the group decided on (processing soya beans into soya milk, which they will sell at the market), the profitability of the project, the required training for the group on the processing technique, and other projects the group could do. Finally, we review the next card in the curriculum, to help the AEA prepare for the next meeting.

So that’s my job, or at least part of it: observing, recording, facilitating where necessary, focusing AEAs on the most important implementation practices, helping AEAs improve their work as AEAs, assisting preparation for future meetings, and finally taking everything back to the office and using it to analyze the program, the group, and the AEA. Hopefully, if I’m feeling clever enough, I can use the meeting to devise a way forward with each AEA and each group, to improve what the group takes from the program. In an ideal world, the group would get something they find valuable out of each meeting; in actual fact, however, AEAs are often more concerned with just covering everything in the card. That is not to say they don’t care about the progress of their groups: they do, some of them care a lot, but showing them that their groups may best benefit by modifying the card or emphasizing certain ideas is not easy.

For example, I’m sure most Canadians would agree that if one is to run a successful business, all options should be considered, and the ones that are most profitable should be chosen. However, for most Ghanaian farmers and some AEAs, considering all of the options is not even thought of, let alone done. If everyone in the group farms rice, then the first proposal for a group project is inevitably a group rice farm, even if doing something else is far more profitable. So for the past few meetings, I have focused on convincing my AEAs of the importance of considering all the group’s options, and finding those that will make the group the most money. So what if you farm sorghum right now; what’s stopping you from raising goats? I don’t think technical skills are not the main obstacle: farmers know a lot about different farming practices, as most are widely diversified, AEAs are technical experts and thus can help get things established, and training programs are available from my office. What is missing is the idea that other options are possible, and the push from the AEA to consider them seriously. I haven’t had a great deal of success with this emphasis, as the idea is almost as foreign to some of my AEAs as it is to many farmers. As well, small impoverished farmers are generally very risk-averse, due to the consequences of a failed venture (hunger in the family, the necessity of borrowing money at obscenely high interest rates, etc.), so getting them to test new options is not an easy sell.

Every once in a while, though, things work out. At a meeting yesterday, my AEA pontificated on why the group should be looking at all the possibilities for a group project, spoke on the different levels of agribusiness where the group could get involved (production, processing, marketing), and convinced the group to look at projects outside of their usual practices. In the end, the rice and maize farmers decided to start a dry-season vegetable garden as a group, and we did a profit analysis to see how much money they would make. I, for one, was rather pleased.

Duncan

Animal companions, and a little of the working life

It’s a little strange to have pigs harassing you when you are simply trying to relieve yourself behind the compound. I suppose they believe I’m going to throw down some food for them, though what that belief is based on I can’t imagine. Regardless, I would much prefer to be left alone at such a time; alas, escaping from the ubiquitous farmer animals of the village is rarely possible.

For those who don’t know, I moved to a village not far from Saboba about a week and a half ago. There are a few different lines of commentary I could pursue about the village and the family I’m living with, but today the livestock are on my mind. Being a city boy, I’m not used to the constant proximity to farm animals that I must now endure. Goats, sheep, chickens, guinea fowl, ducks, turkeys, pigs, cows and dogs roam in force here, given the lack of enclosures and the communal nature of the herds. It’s a little different than Winnipeg: at home, I do not need to maneuver through herds of sheep on my bike in the early morning just to reach the latrine. Nor do the chickens scratch at the ground near my feet as I eat breakfast in my kitchen at home. Herds of cattle shepherded by boys with sticks generally do not wander by my office, grazing as they go. And more than anything, I do not need to defend my food from greedy monkeys, as I witnessed one small boy do not long ago.

Except for the monkey part, the above examples demonstrate the incredibly intertwined lives farmers lead here. The source of one’s livelihood is often scampering underfoot, even as dinner is served; crops are frequently processed inside the compounds where people live, the guinea corn threshed and the peanuts cracked in the same places people cook and relax. I can see farmers planting in the morning coolness as I take my bucket shower in the mud stall. Not all fields are so close to home; many are very far away, and walking may be the only way in and out (or biking, for those lucky enough to have one). It’s an interesting contrast with the strict separation most keep between work and home in Canada, often aided by long commutes (although those chained to Blackberries may object to this characterization). I’m all for shortening my commute, but tripping over goats in the night isn’t the greatest fun.

I’m not yet sure if I shall miss my animal companions when I return to Winnipeg. I most certainly will not mourn for the curious pigs, nor will I particularly long for the bleating of sheep or the crowing of roosters when I’m trying to sleep. There is another side, though: the other day, biking by, I noticed a mother standing protectively beside her calf, watching over it as the herd moved through the village. Slowly and gently, affectionately even, she licked it clean. Those moments I may miss a little.

Duncan

The Sun’s Ugly Face

The heat. It drains you, leaves you drenched in sweat even as you sit in the office, forces its way into consideration before every move. I never go anywhere or do anything without thinking about how to keep as cool as possible, and how to minimize the odours emanating from myself and my clothes. Fortunately for those around me, twice-a-day baths are the norm in these parts; unfortunately for those same people, I’m not all that practiced at hand-washing my clothes. Luckily, the cleanliness of garments is not as much of a priority as in Canada, especially in the village, so I get by.

The locals too are not immune to the heat, even if they are used to it. In the oft-repeated words of a friend of mine, exclaimed as we sit in the early morning at his stand, each morning “the sun shows its ugly face”, and the heat of the day begins to beat down upon us. Shade is the overarching concern when deciding where to sit, and people move around throughout the day to stay out of the sun. I have been forcibly moved by my comrades when even a sliver of the midday sun finds its way to my sitting place, such is their concern for my well-being and their loathing of the burning rays. Especially in the village, people wear as few clothes as is decent, although what is decent changes by age and gender and is not quite clear to me as of yet. Fans and air conditioners, where they exist, are always on, allowing for a short reprieve from the constant oppression.

Unfortunately for me, my new room is not furnished with any sort of cooling device, and mud walls are not the best form of insulation. My only salvation is that the rainy season is right around the corner, and that is the coolest time of the year. Until then, I will continue to soak my pillow and bed mat with sweat every night, longing for the brutal winters of Winnipeg.

Duncan

Contentedness in the Face of Need

Far more often than not, poverty is not the crushing force it is portrayed to be. Such a portrayal can be seen in the near constant linking of poverty and desperation in the development dialogue and news media, suggesting that poor people are automatically hopeless, begging for any sort of relief from their condition. A person living in poverty is a person living in misery, beaten down, unable to experience any sort of happiness. And such people need to be saved.

I hesitate to dispel too successfully the myth of the above paragraph. In my opinion, development assistance from both private citizens and government coffers is far less than it should be, given the scale of inequality across countries and the impact we could have on the lives of others. Inspiring pity in people with money has long been recognized as a useful tactic in the fundraising battle, used in development as well as for relief operations, as discussed previously. Yet pity is such an ugly form of caring, and the reality of poor people presents its own opportunities to motivate concern and consideration. Plus, the impoverished life is so different from the image of desperation given to us that communicating the way things truly are seems important, for better or for worse. Just to note, I am commenting on poverty in impoverished communities, not islands of poverty in a sea of affluence, which I would think is a different experience altogether.

I travel to communities, seven in total, to work with farmer groups on Agriculture as a Business. The communities and their members are poor: mud huts are the main form of accommodation, water is drawn from rivers or hand pumps, power is sketchy if it exists (sometimes obtained from a wire thrown over a passing line), starchy staples are the primary and possibly only available nutrition (especially now, before the rains, in the lean season), and fuel is charcoal or wood felled nearby. Work is hard and long, consisting of manual labour on the farm and running the household, both done with very basic tools and thus requiring a great deal of time and physical stress. By every conventional measure the people of these remote communities are poor. Yet at almost every farmer group meeting I attend, people are laughing, debating, gossiping, living their lives not as if a cloud of misfortune hangs over their heads but as if they enjoy the life they have, and are determined to make the most of it. In other words, they live the way people live in Canada, working when they have to and taking pleasure when they can. In town and in the field, this notion has struck me again and again: people may not have much, but they are as content as they can be with what they have, and they are doing their best to be happy.

Take the family I moved in with last Saturday as an example. The family lives in a small village near Saboba, in a typical though large compound, and like almost every family in the villages, makes what little money they have through farming. But one would never guess at their poverty from their dispositions: the children are raucous, the patriarch always friendly, and the woman who has taken me under her wing never fails to greet me with a wide smile and words of welcome. Sure, the work never seems to end for the women, and the men leave early and return late from their farms, but to put it simply, they don’t let such things get them down. I probably shouldn’t be surprised at this, as one would expect people anywhere to make the most of their situation, but it is quite striking when placed against my preconceptions and the imagery of poverty common in the West.

This is not to say that poor people here are satisfied with their state, or are willing to let their children share their fate. The farmers I work with are all looking for a way out, as evidenced by the fact that they are taking part in our program. Farmers need inputs, skills and markets to “raise their level”, as the lingo in these parts goes, and they are not afraid to ask for help to get what they need. They are aware of their poverty, and they wish to escape it; they take advantage of any program that comes along in the effort to make more money. And therein lies the alternative to pity as the dominant form of charity marketing: telling stories and showing images of poor people looking for opportunities. Convincing people in rich countries to give not out of guilt or sorrow, but rather to further the ability of people to make more out of their lives. Helping people for their potential rather than their misery gives a feeling of partnership, a connection more positive and likely more fruitful than that inspired by the current system, and one that brings us closer together instead of dividing us so starkly between the givers and the receivers.

What I am saying is not anything new, of course: it is in the same direction that EWB, among other organizations, has been pushing for some years now. But perhaps it takes something more personal to have it hit home, in which case I hope you can use my personal experience as your own. Regardless, at its heart I have only a simple and perhaps obvious message: people can be poor and happy at the same time, even if they are trying as hard as they can to escape their poverty; anywhere and everywhere, people make do with what they have.

Duncan

Saboba Revealed

A few shots from your favourite inept photographer.

The Creeping Horror of Saboba

Today I have something a little more light-hearted than usual, just so I don’t become too dreary. Children here have had somewhat different reactions to me than I thought they would. Of course, I expected them to stare, perhaps call out, especially for the first little while after I arrived. There are very few white people around, and at least by my observations I’m the only one that regularly strolls about town. But the children have proven much more interesting than I gave them credit for.

The first group, consisting of children maybe three to five years old, call out “white man” in the local language, or more intriguingly, “father”, every day as I go by. The latter term has its origins with the missionaries of old, who I believe were the first white non-soldiers to set foot among the people here. Apparently the connection has stuck, and thus I, being white and not a soldier, am associated with priests, an unexpected affiliation if there ever was one. I’m not sure if anyone actually thinks I’m a missionary; I’m fairly certain that it’s just a nickname for white males. However, that doesn’t stop certain gangs of children from chanting “father, father!” every day as I pass by, to my continued amazement at their continued interest. I would have thought I’d be boring by now.

The second group, a little older than the first, are not quite as entertaining, but still curious. This group, on school days wearing wonderfully matching uniforms (I may not be for uniforms from an ideological standpoint, but you can’t deny they make hordes of students look pretty sharp), waves slightly, occasionally smiles but often stays solemn, and gives me a very polite “good morning, sir” or “good evening, sir” as I murmur and smile in return. They are delightful, especially the ones in whose smile you can discern a more mischievous spirit, but who still manage to maintain a respectful facade. Passing these children in the morning is a great start to the day.

The third and most surprising group are the screamers. These children, below the age of two, are simply terrified of me. Some are worse than others: some merely clutch the nearest adult when I come near and only bawl if I come too close or their supposed guardian forces them to make my acquaintance (which happens often). One little boy, though, brings it to whole other level: this kid runs to his grandmother if he spots me at fifty paces, even if I’m merely riding by on my bike. His grandmother, her friends, and his brothers and sisters all think this is absolutely hilarious, and continually call me over to visit him, at which point he screams bloody murder. Once, they picked him up and put him in my arms, to the enjoyment of the entire neighborhood: he screamed and struggled, I stood awkwardly and tried not to drop him, and roaring laughter came from all sides, lasting until long after his father took him back. I’m not sure which features in particular are so frightening, though I’m guessing a combination of my height, maleness, and, of course, white skin produce something akin to the creatures of the darkest bedtime stories.

Missionary affiliations, polite deference, and trembling horror: not exactly what I set out to inspire in Ghana, but I’ll take what I can get. I’m off to live in the village with a family for the rest of my stay, starting on Saturday, so I’ll likely have some interesting/heartwarming/ridiculous stories for you to peruse soon.

Until then,

Duncan

Feminist Thoughts on Unequal Lives

It breaks one’s heart to see the cast-down looks and subservient gestures of the teenage girls here. It is not so hard to see the older women, though they too are burdened by impossible workloads and an inferior role in society. At such a young age, the girls of Ghana are broken by their gender’s assigned role in society: to care for the children, to clean the home, to cook for the family, to earn an income, and, last but not least, to serve the husband. Never have I witnessed such ingrained inequality in a society.

Such an emotional response stems from a dinner at a friend’s home not long ago. As we idly watched the world go by, my friend’s wife pounded our dinner (a very laborious task, if you haven’t seen it) while his daughter set up a small table in front of us. It was eight o’clock in the evening, already pitch black in Ghana, and I knew my friend’s wife had already been working all day at a tailoring shop. The daughter helped her mother prepare the meal and minded the children in her practiced role, not once cracking a smile. I was struck by her sober expression; it did not seem to belong on a teenager’s face, and lent her a weary air beyond her years. My friend and I were served, just us two, and as we ate, the rest of the family held back, the women looking after the children, waiting until we were finished. Halfway through the meal I realized that their supper was most likely our leftovers, and so I feigned fullness to release a little guilt. Just as I had supposed, as soon as we had finished, the table was moved back, away from us, so that the women and the children could get what was left.

I don’t wish to paint too black a picture, although I may already have done so. Women here laugh, amuse others with outlandish behaviour, take pleasure in their children, and some even work in offices alongside men. Forceful and outgoing women exist, even in a country where forcefulness does not seem to be the norm among either gender. But the oppression of the teenage girl in that compound, the hopelessness she emanates, her seeming complete dearth of opportunity, destined to a life of drudgery, is what will stay with me.

I wrote the above several weeks ago, and I did not post it as I mulled it over and consulted my excellent editor. In that time, I’ve had the opportunity to see a little more of Ghanaian life, and I have a few lines to add to the above. The first part: I’ve had many farmer group meetings over the past few weeks, and at many, even at those with men present (almost all of them), women have been outspoken, they have been argumentative, they have been unreserved, they have been leaders. True, all of these instances have occurred during meetings of women’s groups, but they are still significant when looking at the behaviour of women in Ghanaian culture. Plus, twelve of my fifteen meetings have been with women’s groups, so that’s where my experience lies. (As a clarification, one or two men are often present at the meetings of women’s groups, sometimes to record minutes, as few women are literate.)

The second part of this addition is a summary of a conversation I had yesterday with one of my closest friends here. We were sitting in the early morning, and chatting about nothing in particular. From a story about a particularly lazy brother and sister, he started talking about how women do almost all the work in Ghana. Both men and women farm, he said, but women do all the housework, cook meals, clean dishes, wash clothes, and so forth. Men think they work harder because they see farming as the most difficult work, and presumably they see themselves as the more important farmers, but they are wrong. Coming from a man who grew up in Saboba and has not made it past high school, these comments are heartening, and to my mind at least, extraordinary. Even more remarkable is that I did nothing to start that conversation, or even steer towards it; he brought it up entirely of his own accord. Once again, a caveat: my friend is likely more modern and definitely smarter than the average farmer, but I still can’t help but smile at the memory.

So a tale of woe and a few more with a happier spin; an indecisive mix. The lot of women in Ghana is not one to be celebrated, but it is not one of abject misery either. Inequality between the sexes is vast, and needs to be addressed, either from inside or out. I had an argument prepared, but I’m less sure of it than I used to be, so I’ll pose a question instead: what should the reaction of Canadian feminists be to the situation of women in northern Ghana? Outrage, combined with action? Indifference, due to continued inequality in Canada, although on a much smaller scale? Impotent anger, because of the difficulty and morality of changing the cultural beliefs of another people? Or something else entirely? A little heavy thinking for the summer…

Duncan