Final Project - Identity Fraud in Buduburam

BUDUBURAM, Ghana__Dust clouds billow across the roadside entrance to Buduburam, where stagnant channels of sewage meander around crumbling homes. Residents tread footpaths littered with refuse, from discarded water bags to dead mice, and the stench of urine overwhelms the neighborhood. Twenty-seven miles beyond the limits of the bustling Ghanaian capital of Accra, Buduburam provides only tentative asylum for Liberia’s refugees.

Throughout the camp, refugees attest that Ghanaian citizens have received UN identification cards with Liberian names and traveled to western nations such as America, Australia, and Norway under false identities.

Twenty refugees claim that members of the United Nations High Commission for Refugees (UNHCR) have been accepting bribes and granting Ghanaians access to refugee resettlement programs for the past fifteen years.

Buduburam was founded by the UNHCR on September 3, 1990 as a refuge for Liberians fleeing the civil war that began in 1989. It was designed to house only 3000 refugees, but with 14 years of civil war and despotism in Liberia, refugees have flooded steadily into Ghana, overwhelming the camp for the past two decades.

At its peak in 2003, Buduburam contained 45,000 refugees, roughly the population of Minneapolis, Minnesota. Since 2004, the UNHCR has been urging Liberians to repatriate to their homeland, leaving only 27,500 at the latest census.

Very few refugees have been reintegrated, or locally settled in Ghana, and the vast majority of Ghanaians express distrust and derision towards Liberian nationals residing in Buduburam, often citing the notion that they are parasites living off the Ghanaian government.

Prior to 2004, a third option known as resettlement was available to refugees in Buduburam, however some 20 refugees interviewed attest that identity fraud has long been complicating access to this program.

Emmanuel Bashir says he “learned that 9,000 Ghanaians have traveled under Liberian status,” roughly two-fifths of the 22,000 refugees resettled since the camp opened. Other refugees believe that a majority of those resettled over the past 18 years have in fact been Ghanaians.

While there is no official record to substantiate this data, it merits some consideration given the scale of this claim among the refugee population. Even former residents such as Andrew Kamara, a Sierra Leonean who has been successfully resettled in America for over six years, confirm the allegation of widespread identity fraud throughout the camp’s history.

“That's exactly what was going on while I was staying in that camp. Even Ghanian officials working for the U.N. in Accra were involved in that deal,” Kamara, claims.

The UNHCR has refused to comment on this accusation, and camp officials downplay its severity. Team Head and founder of the UN supported Neighborhood Watch Team (NEWAT), Emmett Tumbay confirms that cases of identity theft have come before the police and several have been referred to the UNHCR.

According to Tumbay, the UN doesn’t waste their time on cases of identity fraud unless they are compounded by other crimes, “then they press charges.”

With many Ghanaians living in extreme poverty themselves and a deficiency in international mediators, the temptation for corruption is tangible. Tumbay believes that bribery may be facilitating this process, but admits the difficulty in gathering evidence of such corruption.

The administration of the camp falls to the camp manager, appointed by the Ghanaian government, and the Liberian Refugee Welfare Council (LRWC). Though the Welfare Council was designed to directly represent the interests of the refugees, this supreme governing body of the camp is hand picked by the camp manager and controlled by Ghanaian officials.

“No one represents the refugees,” Francis Siepoh, who arrived on camp in 1992, states, describing the extensive corruption he has observed within the administration of the camp.

Without adequate representation, the refugees are struggling to meet their needs and yearning to be heard.

Acting as a “mouthpiece” to facilitate communication between the refugees, United Nations, and Ghanaian government, the Chairman of the LRWC describes his post as that of a critical intermediary. Varney Bamoley Sambola III, the current LRWC Chairman, prides himself on “strict talk with the refugees.”

However, Chairman Sambola, in office since 2005, is not popular among refugees. Chased off the camp between March and June this year after receiving death threats in the heated climate surrounding the women’s protest, he still sleeps off camp.

Glancing anxiously out the window, Sambola stiffens when discussing the violent opposition he faces and takes to aggressively condemning the protesters. “Every refugee has to respect the laws of their host country. You don’t keep hungry people in the sun, you don’t stop children from going to school,” Sambola declares.

Houston Siafa describes Sambola as selfish and corrupt, claiming that he “takes bribes” and is “like a puppet to the camp manager.” According to several refugees, Chairman Sambola has been selling the identities of Liberian refugees to Ghanaians for a profit.

Emmanuel Bashir claims that Sambola signed integration papers for individual refugees without consulting or informing them and sold these documents to Ghanaians, but the chairman refused to comment on this accusation.

When a verification process called for the fingerprinting of all camp residents in 2007, some 20% of the Liberian refugees who showed up were reportedly told that the record listed them as resettled in a third country of asylum such as Norway or America.

Several refugees describe witnessing this process first hand. While accompanying refugees to the airport as a courier for the United Nations, Siepoh observed what he believed to be four or five different Ghanaian families traveling under Liberian names.

“During resettlement times, when you got to the airport, you’d find that some people were using names that don’t belong to them,” Siepoh explains. One time he saw a family from off camp join a group of refugees at the airport.

He distinctly remembers one man and two women, accompanied by a young female child of about six years and a little boy. They answered to Liberian names, though “all were Ghanaian,” Siepoh recalls. According to Siepoh, this Ghanaian family left for Norway under the UNHCR’s resettlement program.

Jefferson Bor, 25, describes a strikingly similar incident. While waiting to be fingerprinted during last year’s verification, Jefferson observed two cases of identity fraud, where a “white lady working for the U.N.” said to two separate women with children, “you were supposed to leave for [America, Australia respectively] long time ago!”

While most of the victims of identity theft are no longer residing in Buduburam, many have been rendered unable to seek permanent asylum due to this falsification. Resettlement is no longer an option for refugees unless they can prove DNA ties to formerly resettled family members whom they wish to join.

Kpadeh Kessedy, 34, believes he was denied the right to join his family for resettlement in America so that a Ghanaian could take his place. “They took away my family reunion in Philadelphia and used that space. They denied me.”

According to certain refugees, Ghanaians are even bribing their way onto UNHCR boats heading to Liberia. “More Ghanaians have gone to Liberia under the repatriation programs than Liberians,” claims Kessedy, suggesting the incentive of employment.

Siepoh shares these suspicions, having seen Ghanaians boarding ships that take refugees back to Liberia. Observing irregular behavior, Siepoh notices when strange faces enter the ship. He is convinced that individual Ghanaians were posing as workers to gain passage to Liberia.

Reminiscent of a prison ward, a fenced off “Repatriation Center” at the entrance to the camp marks the only feasible way out for most Liberian refugees. Liberians fill the lot, waiting for the UN truck to arrive, but many find themselves at a dead end.

Siepoh will not be joining the mass exodus. “I can’t go back, I have to stay here. Eighteen years I’ve been in Ghana, can you imagine?”

Obama Concert in Ghana!

Saturday night was the much anticipated "Barack Obama" concert featuring Ghana's one and only Blakk Rasta. Voracious journalists, we arrived an hour before the scheduled start, only to find a desolate lot of ANGRY ant-infested grass surrounded by a concrete wall. After being suffiiently attacked by the nastiest little biters you can imagine, we found Blakk Rasta's super-friendly production crew who guided us into the special press section surrounding the stage. Though the stage lights came on soon after we arrived, set up was proceeding on African time (i.e. very slowly). Eventually, we decided to find a nearby restaurant and ended up having the fanciest dinner of our time in Ghana! The concert started over two hours late, and didn't end until 4:30am! We left at 12:00, long before Blakk Rasta came on, though we did catch some quality tunes, several excessive homophobic rants, and a very awkward scenerio. The first band to come on, "Mystic Vibrations," I believe, had a very charismatic and aggressive lead singer. To the guards dismay, he encouraged an energized crowd to storm the stage, shouting "Black people come closer" and "free the people." Awkwardly enough, we were among the very few people allowed in the enormous area by the stage, and the stark contrast we posed being the only obrunis at the concert was quite bizarre. Still, great music and a very interesting time despite the gregarious ants.

Last Week in Ghana

I have been caught up in such a flurry of activity over the past week that I haven't been able to update you! With less than a week remaining, I have been packing in everything I can. Too little time let to waste it on the internet, so this will be brief. With the exception of the Obama concert (see post), the weekend was spent finishing up my final story on Buduburam, but yesterday was amazing. We attended our second DOVE meeting with the impressive group of adolescent girls at the police baracks. The former President and Vice President of the group, current sophmores in high school, led the meeting in our honor. Excited to meet us after rave reviews from our last pow wow, these girls were intelligent, energetic, and composed - perfect role models for the younger girls and the wisest 16 year olds I have ever met! We all ended up playing dancing/clapping games reminiscent of rhythmic variations of Simon Says, with memory challenges thrown in. While the four of us obrunis got destroyed in the dancing rounds, I was the runner up on one of the memory games, and the triumphant winner in another. The kids got such a kick out of our awkward foolishness - you wouldn't believe it! Today we explored Usher town, another decaying colonial wasteland containing fascinating relics with devastating poverty in its midst.

Postcard from Kumasi Cathedral

KUMASI, Ghana___ A refuge from the frenetic pace of city life, St. Peter’s Cathedral Basilica boasts a regal extravagance, beckoning pedestrians with open doors. Drums beat a rhythmic welcome, as the voices of the choir and smell of incense fill this spacious haven.

Sheltering its finely clad occupants from the downpour outside, the cathedral melds Asante tradition with European Catholicism. Stained glass windows bear Asante symbols such as gye nyame, signifying acceptance for God, and a bronze statue of the Virgin Mary is prominently poised, her infant held high. Hundreds of crosses stand painted on the walls, in the windows, and even in the very structure of the cathedral itself - a massive crucifix.

Church leaders also exhibit this cultural blending. A meticulously dressed conductor is clothed in a radiant silver tie and shiny black suit, with a blue robe adorned in Kente patterned stripes running the length of its interior trim. Red wire-rimmed glasses and a closely trimmed crew cut accentuate his intellectual air. Between songs he wipes his face neatly with a handkerchief while his right hand remains elegantly poised, grasping a slight wand.

The all-male choir’s melodies are transfixing, interspersed with lengthy sermons on Samson’s desire for wisdom. Speaking in rapid Twi, Reverend Francis encourages the congregation to strive for knowledge in the afterlife, at times ascending into song and chant.

A female church elder walks deliberately down the aisle, commanding respect. Surveying the choir, she comes upon a dormant man and taps the wooden pew on which his head is resting.

The room is cloaked in order. Women listen attentively, many sport straightened hair or traditional head wraps, with perfectly pressed shirts and shiny shoes.

Thomas Agyemang and James Boateng, each 20 years old, agree that wealth is a common factor in the Cathedral. “Everybody gives the collection,” Thomas states.

The most prominent church in the royal city of Kumasi, St. Peter’s is a bastion of bounty.

Facing Power and Corruption

As we were led into the grand office of Buduburam’s second in command, the man sitting behind the desk dug in his heels. Immediately on edge, the Chairman exuded power and arrogance, guarding himself against the threat posed by our international status by setting up an immediate wall. He interrogated us extensively regarding our purpose on the camp, before demanding what brought us to his office.

After several tense moments of intimidation, we barely slid under the defensive radar and were granted the opportunity to commence an interview. We did not discuss the looming issue of corruption and identity theft.

Following a massive uprising led by female refugees seeking increased repatriation grants, the Chairman described how he refused to support the protesters and accordingly faced mounting opposition from the refugees.

In a jarring explosion of tension, the Chairman interrupted his explanation of the circumstances surrounding death threats that ran him off the premises last February to aggressively question us as to whether we had an appointment.

Throughout the course of the interview, he Chairman seemed to relax slightly, perhaps flattered by my references to his status as one of the most powerful men on campus. One thing is quite clear. This man represents himself and/or the Ghanaians he works for, not the refugees. And in the eyes of the refugees he is the definition of a backstabber. I can see why he watches his own back so carefully.

Obamarama in Ghana

OBAMAMANIA INVADES GHANA

By Jennifer D. Gladden

ACCRA, Ghana _ On the streets of this seaside capital, many locals have taken to sporting T-shirts emblazoned with Barack Obama’s image.

Cars covered in ‘Obama 08’ bumper stickers, and pedestrians sporting handmade bracelets boasting the presumptive Democratic presidential nominee’s name are often in full view.

One radio personality, and reggae recording artist, Ahmed AbuBakr, known as ‘Blakk Rasta’ routinely keeps his listeners updated with CNN stories on the Obama campaign

AbuBakr scored a massive radio hit here when he released a single ‘Barack Obama’ that has had Ghanaians singing along everywhere since last spring.

According to AbuBakr, “Obama is even more popular than our own President.” Even though Ghana is in the midst of its own fiercely contested presidential campaign with elections to be held this December, many are focused on America’s impending election where a candidate with strong African roots has made history.

In an interview at the popular Ghanaian radio station, JOY FM, AbuBakr described a new wave of politicians who call themselves the “Obamas of Ghana.” The People’s National Convention presidential candidate, Edward Mahama, adopted the Obama change mantre, claiming to offer “real change, real hope, real choice.”

As Obama’s contagious message of change and hope spreads across the Atlantic, Ghana has developed an Obama obsession.

AbuBakr wrote the song “Barack Obama” as both a message of support and of warning for the presidential candidate as he prepares to enter the White House.

The song includes the refrain “Barack beware,” cautioning him against the Ku Klux Klan as well as the divine judgment facing America. One verse rhymes, “9/11 was the beginning of Satan in time, baptizing black Americans in a bitter juice of lime.”

AbuBakr explains, “who is that Satan? It’s the Bush man who is in power right now.” Highlighting atrocities committed in Afghanistan and Iraq, AbuBakr feels that Bush’s wars have bred hatred towards Americans.

According to AbuBakr, “War is not a solution to these things..” AbuBakr believes that Obama’s heritage and his Muslim middle name, Hussein, will allow him to improve relations with the Middle East through dialogue and communication.

AbuBakr admits, “I’ve never been interested in an American election before. I don’t even see this Obama thing as politics, it’s a grassroots kind of thing; the voice of the poor people, the voice of the downtrodden.”

However, many Ghanaians are interested in Obama’s politics. For instance, Emmanuel Broni-Bediako, a 29-year-old entrepreneur who trains youths through an international NGO, Students for the Advancement of Global Entrepreneurship, hopes Obama will bring change to Africa through education, instead of focusing on short-term material aid programs.

“There is no point in giving money to people who don’t have the right mindset, and Barack Obama has the potential to change people’s mindsets,” Broni-Bediako says.

Unlike Broni-Bediako, AbuBakr cares little for Obama’s policies. Aware of Obama’s liberal campaign supporting civil unions and abortion, AbuBakr explains that his backing of Obama is not based on politics.

Instead, AbuBakr simply sees a need for some “spice” in the White House. He explains, “A black man in the white house; that’s a change in itself.”
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Check out the following link for a video snapshot of my interview with the legendary Blakk Rasta. http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=iWv8udVug8A

To listen to the song, click http://truepanther.com/mp3s/03%20Barack%20Obama%20Crunk.mp3

Sketches from Buduburam

Lines of laundry crisscross the paths,
towering obrunis bend low
While the diminutive guides stride ahead

Cheerful faces meet our curious eyes,
as Liberia’s children run to our side, arms open
intertwining lanky limbs with ours.
Enraptured with the foreign peculiarity,
they pet our “smooth” hair
giggle at our outlandish dance moves.

walkways littered with refuse, discarded water bags, dead mice
Stagnant channels of sewage meander around the dwellings,
An obstacle to be climbed, crossed
the stench of urine overwhelms the nostrils

While behind us
idle men retreat to the forest to escape
the heat
the boredom
the rubbish
to get high.
Self-proclaimed men in their prime
Wasting away.

Disintegrated from past floods, the rubble of feeble foundation

leaves a lingering sense of vacancy, mirroring the absence felt in the camp
20,000 refugees have been sent home in the past few months.

Daughters of the Virgin Eve

Rejuvenated from a weekend of yoga and tae kwon do, we headed out to the police barracks, where Annie's indomitable friend Florence lives with her brother and three children. Climbing the stairs to her third story apartment, we were all glowing with anticipation for our first meeting with the group of adolescent and pre-adolescent girls known as "Daughters of the Virgin Eve." Assembled on Florence's humble balcony, the girls were infinitely precious, composed, and delightful. By far the most professional organization I have ever encountered at this level, from the Presidential welcome to the chaplin's prayer, they were bright, eager, and curious. Most of the discussion centered around the differences in our education systems, growing tense at only one point, when discussing forms of punishment dealt out by teachers. Having spent a year living in the Bahamas, I was more familiar with this cultural difference than my friends, who were unable to conceal their horror at the notion of a teacher beating a child. Clearly uncomfortable with their bold outrage, I tried to dissipate it with a tangential discussion of the physical boundaries imposed by Americans in general. Walking the streets in Accra one can expect to be grabbed at any moment by an eager vendor or admiring gentleman, where this sort of behavior crosses a boundary in our American minds. Overall, the evening was a huge success. Driven (many wanted to be doctors and journalists), articulate (impressing me repeatedly as they described themselves), and confident, the girls were magnetic in their appeal. Florence has clearly been successful in creating model citizens out of these young women, and she has already earned my supreme respect for all that she does, working 6 days a week in various capacities to enrich and protect the lives of women and children in Accra. I can't wait to go back for round two.

History Unrefined in James Town

This weekend was the most enjoyable, rewarding and productive yet. Saturday, after treating ourselves to the first relaxing morning of the trip, a few of us embarked on an unchartered trip to James Town, a decrepit section of Accra with stunning remnants of British colonialism, abject poverty, and an entrenched coastline. Upon our arrival, we were aggressively deterred from photographing our surroundings by locals hoping we would pay them for the opportunity to snap a shot from what was clearly a lookout point. The contrast between our foreign luxuries and their hunger was painful and at times quite difficult to navigate. We declined to climb the lighthouse, for the man sleeping at its base insisted on charging us the outlandish price of 10 cedis to enter, twenty times the amount we paid to enter Elmina Castle last weekend. Needless to say, we opted for a stroll instead. Far more successful was our maneuvering of the entry into Fort James, a striking Portuguese slave fort, crumbling with neglect and preserving several layers of history. I was immediately enraptured in this eerie historical treasure, and wandering through its nooks and crannies left me speechless. This was BY FAR the most fascinating time capsule I have ever experienced, doubling as a prison through the beginning of the twentieth century, left for ruin, and recently appointed for preservation and tourist development. Unfiltered and unrefined, its walls alone told so many stories, revealing various stages of human interaction. The caretaker told us of Kwame Nkrumah's stay in one of its cells before explaining his own plans to mold it into a tourist attraction, complete with guides and entry fees. For the time being, they said that we could take all the pictures we wanted as long as we gave them money for a soda - we were happy to oblige.

Visit to Christiansborg (Osu) Castle

This trip was one of our most fascinating thus far, not only because of the rare opportunity to speak with the Press Secretary to the Ghanaian President, but because of the peculiar transfiguration of this 17th century Portuguese slave castle into the Ghanaian version of a white house. Despite dodging sensitive topics such as gay rights and relations with the Liberian Refugees, the Press Secretary was highly intelligent, well spoken, and informative. He expressed pride in the economic developments made over the past 8 years under the current administration, frustration with the international media that portrays all of Africa as chaotic and despotic (Mugabe, Darfur, etc.). All in all, a very interesting way to spend the afternoon!

Finding Buduburam

Today I ventured out to Buduburam, the Liberian Refugee Camp just beyond the traffic of Accra. This experience was just what I have been searching for over the past 3 weeks here in Ghana. It has given me purpose as a journalist. The extent of government corruption paired with the vibrant spirit of the refugees is wrenching to say the least. Having barely disembarked the cab, I met Houston, an outgoing and enduring personality whose parents were killed at the age of 16, as he was conscripted as a child soldier into the INPFL, a rebel army, during Liberia's civil war. He escaped and walked from Monrovia to the Ivory Coast and then to Buduburam, where he has been living for the past 19 years. Within the camp, he has been teaching as a volunteer for the past 9 years. On the 25th of June, Houston started VECSAOL After School Children's Program, run by a group of former child soldiers. We met many of his pupils in the quaint school house he fondly calls his "office." This Friday, we will return to the camp for "fun day," where the students of all ages come together for singing, drumming, dancing, and sports. I look forward to learning more of Houston's story, getting to know the kids, and investigating some of the shocking realities which he described in the camp.

Cape Coast

In our first trip with the entire NYU group, we loaded a tour bus at 6:15 AM and headed a few hours west of Accra to the region known as Cape Coast. Its chief attraction is Elmina Slave Castle, built by the Portuguese in 1482. The first slave trading cite in all of Sub-Saharan Africa, Elmina is quite an eerie place. Perhaps the most poignant moment of our tour was the dramatized "door of no return" where after crawling through hole after hole, cell after cell, we reached a narrow slit in the exterior wall, leading out to the ocean. Watching the beautiful waves crash against the shore, cannons still standing guard, I tried to comprehend the devastation that took place. Millions lost their lives in that ocean. It is hard to imagine, and the awareness of how many refuse to reflect on it is particularly disturbing. Heading back to our bonfire/dance party was odd, but the ocean breeze, brilliant moon, and serenity were welcome and soothing. Today at Cape Coast Castle, dancing was the perfect companion to an adorable encounter with a few children on the beach.

Night at the Junction

Our tro-tro rolled to a stop to let us out at Logba Alekpeti, otherwise known as "the junction." Everyone raced for the nearest sign of a toilet, labeled "urina," which turned out to be nothing more than a stall with a long crack along the far edge of the barren floor. Checking into our "hotel" was unlike anything we had ever experienced. Quaint and minimalist, it had a pleasant communal center with outdoor tables set up and a long row of rooms with very dim lighting and a communal set of stalls at the end of the hall. After checking out a neighboring village and supporting its ecotourist ventures with Mona monkeys, Annie and I hitched a motorcycle ride back to the junction. In disembarking, I discovered why people wear pants on motorcycles, as the muffler scalded my calf quite impressively. By this time, I was desperate for dinner (I know, surprise, surprise), and managed to convince the crew to venture down the road to a bar we had passed with signs proclaiming "fufu, bantu" (starchy staples here in Ghana). Unfortunately, I was painfully disheartened to discover that they were out of food (not even a ball of fufu left!). My disappointment must have been quite transparent, though, for when I asked the woman behind the counter pitifully if she had anything at all to eat, she replied "well..." and produced what she termed "porridge." Excitedly, I accepted after only a slight hesitation as I glanced at said "porridge" to rule that it was Obruni-safe (i.e. would not send my foreign stomache into spasms). After presenting this prize to me, this woman miraculously produced goat stew to accompany it, and in my excitement combined with my desire not to appear ungrateful, I accepted after determining that it did, in fact, fall into the "hot" category at some point in recent history. My companions could not believe the feat that I pulled off in acquiring a true meal after such a discouraging state of affairs any more than they could get over their horror that I was actually eating it. I have never experienced ANY meal that compares to the experience. Eating by the light of a candle (purchased on the way down the road as we realized we would soon find ourselves in complete darkness at only 6:30PM), my table mates were quite intrusive, snapping photos of every step of the meal, which was, admittedly, quite a process. Provided with several basins, soap, and a cup of water, I washed my hands before scooping goat stew into my mouth with my hands. This was my first real Ghanaian meal, and I was admittedly perturbed to discover that the chunk of goat in my bowl was a hoof with a pad attached! I still managed to nibble at it, though my appetite for meat was quickly curtailed by the endless stream of jokes and awe. It was truly the most memorable meal of my lifetime, and when I broke out with a fever of 102 the next day, infected with some sort of gastrointestinal bacteria, I paid the price for being brazenly adventurous. Fortunately, the hefty dose of Zithromax I took before my stomach even began to react to the systematic shock worked wonders and in less than 24 hours I was back to 100%. Phewww, close call.

Voyage to Volta

We didn't waste any time getting out of the city. At the dawn of our first free weekend, Kendal, Alex, Annie, Kiki and I took off for the great unknown. Rising at 6am to head for the tro-tro station, hoping to catch a bus, we set out for a remote village 3 hours drive north, near Lake Volta. As there were too many of us to fit in a taxi, we split up. When we arrived at the most chaotic scene any of us had ever experienced and realized that our taxis had taken us to different locations, we learned a very elemental lesson: never take off for a trip without exchanging digits with everyone in your group. After waking our professor and wandering through a sea of locals asking if they had seen any obrunis (white person or foreigner), we finally reunited. Overjoyed at our reunion, we boarded a very large, coach-style bus headed for our destination of choice. Unfortunately, it wasn't until after we had purchased the non-refundable tickets that we learned the bus wasn't leaving until 12:30pm. It was only 8:30AM at this point. So Alex and I ventured back into the madness to find a smaller tro-tro that would fill up in less time. We found one rather easily, wooden sign proclaiming its destinaton, and were informed that it was leaving in 20 minutes. Hastily, we rushed back to our friends and abandoned our prior vehicle only to sit on the new tro-tro for another hour in the most sweltering heat you can imagine, with vendors tugging at our sleeves and begging us to buy their goods. The relief we felt when we finally pulled out of the "station" (that was more like a market with vans interspersed) is beyond what I can explain in words. The breeze was heavenly.

First Day of School

Our first lecturer, Professor Akosua Perbi, the History Department Chair at the University of Ghana, was incredible. After covering Ghana’s history from 50,000 BC to Republic Day, she explained the chieftaincy, focusing on the role of women (the queen mother functions as the community protector). From the Trans-Saharan trade network to the Ghanaian independence song, the span of her analysis was impressive. The moment that gave me chills was when she taught us all a song that the slaves sang to unite on the Middle Passage. I look forward to passing this along to my own students at Pomfret. There is no better way to experience history.

"La Beach"

Today was amazing. At the close of my third day in Ghana, I’m finally starting to get a sense of the place. As amazing as the beach was, from the serenading strummer to the gyrating gymnasts, the highlight of the day occurred when we returned. Playing football (or American soccer) with three boys from across the road in our courtyard (yes, we have a courtyard!) was utterly exhilarating. Their skill and the Ghanaian monkey-in-the-middle style of play were revitalizing and we were all sad to see the game end a few hours later when our stomaches could hold out no longer and it was time for dinner.

Market Madness

Our first excursion into the real Accra took place at the local market. Dodging traffic interspersed between vendors, we observed Accra’s working class of traders. Chickens tied up in preparation for slaughter, smoked fish heads, and rows beyond rows of various goods are available for purchase via highly specialized vendors. Naked babies chasing stray dogs and cats added spice to the atmosphere. Wandering over chasms in the concrete pathways, we got a glimpse into the lives of many working class Ghanaians. This is only the beginning!

Pan-African Pathmaker: Nkrumah Museum

After studying law in the West, Nkrumah returned to the Gold Coast (the former British colony in present day Ghana) in 1947 to fight for independence. After succeeding in this venture and becoming the resulting nation’s first Prime Minister, he went on to spearhead Pan-Africanism throughout the continent. Unfortunately, his subsequent meetings with world leaders such as Kruschev and Castro led the U.S. to bolster a coup d’etat ousting Nkrumah from power. His original statue was defaced during the turmoil (pictured to the right), but the recently erected shrine proves the nation’s devotion.

Arrival Day

I’m finally here! It has been an exhausting whirlwind of activity since my arrival at 4AM ET (8AM Ghanaian time) but it is already clear that this place will prove captivating. This should be an exciting six weeks!