Yinnrib Women’s Association: Part Two

The year is 1994:

Barre is a sprawling village in the Upper East Region of Ghana covering over 30 square miles. Its 50,000 inhabitants are divided into 6 sections: Bagung, Lakuyare, Sakorit, Sakpari, Tenyir and Yagzore. In the past, there have been tribal disputes between sections that have turned violent, and have been the cause of a death.

Daniel Danka Bonsaligya is a very influential man. He is a father of 9, holds a bachelor degree in science, and is a model farmer. He is the Assemblyman (political representative) for the people of Barre, and during the 20 years in this role, he initiated numerous community projects, including a school and multi-purpose community building.

Danka has just heard that his application for funding from the Netherlands Embassy has been granted. He now has 2.7 million cedis (~350 CAD) for his next initiative!

What better project than the creation of a shea nut processing facility?

Danka has organized women from 4 of the 6 sections of Barre to form a group who would collectively own and operate the mill. Each of the four sections has its own group who have elected a “Mangazia”, or group leader. These four leaders form the executive who oversee the mill activities. The members pay weekly dues and have organized a system of rotation so that each week a different woman is responsible for operating the mill. The duties of the operator involve collection of money and supervision of the millboy (employed by the women to do the grinding). Though the mill operation duties are voluntary, the woman can use the facility for free, and often get leftover flour.

In theory, the system works. The money is carefully tracked by a core group of people who operate transparently. Because they are elected, they have the respect of their group members, and everyone can benefit from the facility.

In Barre, there is conflict and corruption. Money is skimmed off the top of the weekly revenue. The tribal differences create hostilities within the group. The geographic location of the mill favors one section of Barre over all the rest. There is a very limited market for the shea butter, so the women fail to reap the projected benefits that had been promised. Suddenly, there are no group funds to pay for diesel to keep the machines running.

In an attempt to mediate the differences of the group, Danka shells out his own money to pay for diesel until the group can sort out its issues. In time, the group dissolves.

The year is 1996:

The derelict machines sit in a room collecting dust.

The year is 2007:

Here is a picture of the machines today:

I asked Danka about the condition of the machines. “With a little love, they can be brought back to life”. He spoke of the communities’ great intention to make use of the facility and the community funds available to resurrect the machines, but added that one has stepped up to initiate the project.

So here I am, a naive little girl, attempting to do development work. I’m standing in the middle of a dilapidated building staring at the skeletons of machines, that one might have called “appropriate technology” in an earlier life. What went wrong? Could the supposed “appropriate technology” really be considered appropriate? What was the REAL problem for the Yinnrib Women’s Association?

Yinnrib Women’s Association: Part One

Have you ever heard of Shea Butter?

For many women in northern Ghana, shea butter processing is a major part of daily life, especially during the rainy season.

Shea trees are native to the three northern regions of Ghana. The shea nut is buried inside a hard outer shell that is encapsulated inside a sweet green fruit that grows on trees. Shea nuts are quite plentiful, and the supply of shea nuts far outstrips the demand for shea butter. The women collect these nuts that are just lying around, and extract the oil to use for cooking and cosmetics. People need shea butter, there are tons of shea nuts just lying around. Sounds like an easy way to make money, right?

The extraction process is anything but easy. Lets break it down:

Step one: Collect the rotting nuts from the bush often a 5 or 6 kilometer walk from the house. (its also quite dangerous because of cobras hiding underneath rocks in the early morning)
Step two: boil the nuts. This lowers the water content, and makes the outer shell more brittle. This aids the cracking process
Step three: Dry the nuts for 3 days (still inside the shell).
Step four: Crack the shells. This is a manual process that is very time consuming.
Step five: Separate the nuts from the shells
Step six: Pound the nuts until they break into small pieces.
Step seven: Roast the nuts.
Step eight: Pound the nuts again until the pieces are very small.
Step nine: Roast the mixture.
Step ten: Add water to promote the oil separation
Step eleven: separate the oil from the solid mass
Step twelve: Re-heat the oil mixture to let the pure oil separate from the impurities.

** Disclaimer: The process is often done slightly different in different areas. I’ve also neglected steps like fetching water and firewood for simplicity.

The work is serious, relentless, backbreaking.

You will probably be glad to hear that there exist machines to make the work much easier. The grinding process and the oil extraction process can be condensed down from a 3-4 day process to one that takes just one hour. The problem is that the machines are costly, and require someone to operate and maintain them so they remain in good working condition. Unfortunately, the average rural women doesn’t have savings to purchase a grinding mill.

Often, women form co-operatives and act as each others’ collateral to apply for a loan or a grant. The women can take turns running the mill, and everyone can benefit from the presence of the machines. Sounds like a fairy tale solution… right?

If All the Raindrops Were Lemon Drops and Gumdrops...

The village of Barre is Thirsty. The crops are dying because so far, the rainy season has been anything but rainy. I’ve even heard that this drought is the worst that the region has faced in years, a pretty scary thought.

But when dark menacing clouds are on the horizon, They can only mean one thing… the possibility of rain. Yes, possibility. Mother nature can often be tricky, but today, everyone knew that the threat of a downpour was real.

At this very moment, the rain is torrential. Its weather like I’ve never experienced before. The sound of the water hitting the tin roof is so loud that I can’t even hear myself breathe. Never before had I considered rain as much more than an annoyance. However, lately, I’m realizing that rain means life to the people of Barre.

Florence, my host mother, has just come into the room, drenched from head to toe. I ask her, “What does this rain mean for the crops? Will it save them?”

“Until today the rains haven’t come. They are very late. Even if they keep coming, next year there will be hunger”, She says. “As for the maize, we might get some. If the rains keep coming, we will manage. As for that one, no one knows. All is in God’s hands”.

I will tell you that the couple I am living with in Barre are in their late 50’s and have done quite well for themselves. They have 4 grown (educated and successful) children, and are currently looking after two adopted little girls (both named Linda). Both Florence and Danka are successful farmers with brains to boot. They are well respected within the village, and often support their neighbors in times of need.

When I asked Danka about the conditions of his crops, he said, “Even if you are a smart farmer, if you do everything right, you are still at the mercy of God. We here are all vulnerable. There is not much we can do but plant and wait for the rain. But we will manage if all our crops fail. We will sell our animals, and buy food”.

But what happens when you run out of animals to sell? When you don’t have money to pay your child’s school fees? When you want to keep up your rapport with the community, but you can’t afford to entertain guests? When you don’t even get two square meals a day? When you just can’t break the cycle? When do you run out of steam?

The realization that the fate of an entire community relies entirely on factors that are outside of their control is really quite crippling. I can only try and empathize with the growing anxiety of the people of Barre, but I will never REALLY know what its like to go hungry. I won’t be here during the dry season (the hungry season), but I sure hope the rains keep coming.

And to tie it all together, If all the raindrops were enough to save the crops...

Oh what a rain it would be.

You can call me Jasmine

I feel like a princess when I wake up in Ghana. I’m surrounded by yards of white mesh. Its my permetherin treated bednet which helps to prevent me from getting malaria, but it reminds me of the canopy bed I secretly longed for when I was small. When I’m inside my bednet I feel protected from the outside world, and somehow, a little safer. The first night I arrived in the village of Kantia, I made the conscious decision not to put up my bednet. You might be wondering why… I am too.

So here’s the deal: I am sharing a room with a spunky girl named Lizzie who is exactly my age. We have spent the evening talking and laughing. In just one day I have fallen in love with this girl. When it was time to sleep, I realized that Lizzie wasn’t using a bednet. Why should I?

The next morning, I took one look at my legs and instantly regretted the decision. Never in my life have I gotten so many mosquito bites in one night. The next day, between watching Nigerian films and itching my 50 thousand mosquito bites, I thought about why sleeping under a bednet had become such an issue to me.

Here are the results of my contemplation:

Reasons to sleep under my bednet:
1. Prevent Malaria (i.e. better health, more productive work)
2. Less itchy mosquito bites
3. Role model good behavior for preventing malaria
4. The net is not serving any purpose in my knapsack
5. I feel like a princess when I wake up

Reasons NOT to sleep under my bednet:
1. Segregation from host family
2. First impressions of me based on wealth and western privilege
3. I feel like a princess when I wake up

After making this list, I realized that the reasons in the "NOT" list are all big challenges faced by a western development worker. Then, fundamentally, the decision to sleep under my bednet is not the real issue. The fact is that I HAVE a bednet. I’ve decided that its quite dumb not to use it and pretend that I don’t have one. So from now on, sleeping under the bednet it is. I think that by trying to hide some part of what I represent, I am in turn disrespecting my hosts and hindering the formation of an honest relationship with them.

After analyzing this situation to death, the fact remains that I’m a foreigner. I take malaria prophylaxis, sleep under a bednet and wear bug repellent. I have a bank account with instantly accessible funds, pimped out health insurance, and credit on my cellphone. People have relinquished their seat in a taxi to offer it to me. I’m white and I’m rich. Though I’m not rich by Canadian standards (I’m a "poor, lowly student" after all...), being in Ghana has helped me to realize that I am incredibly rich with opportunity. I come to Ghana, not to share my wealth and give away money to starving orphans, but to try and understand some part of the inequality that exists in the world and to do something about it in a thoughtful, purposeful way. Though I often feel like a princess in Ghana, there are times when I am reminded that we’re all humans after all. We all laugh, eat, pee, cry and love. No matter where we were born, we all long to lead a life that we value. Through my experiences in the past couple of months, my ideas about poverty have changed quite significantly. Although I’m not sure of my role in the big picture or how I can best contribute, I’m confident that the developed world has an obligation to help lessen the inequality that exists in the world.

Through the Looking Glass

I’m exhausted. I’ve just come back from a long day of farming. My body aches, and my arms and legs feel like lead. I’m hypnotically staring into the fire, while two women feverishly stir enormous pots of TZ (I’m not going to lie, I did feel quite guilty about not doing anything to help, but I just couldn’t bring myself to stand up). Out of the corner of my eye, I notice the kids poking something into the fire. It’s a toy mouse! They’re stuffing a toy mouse into the flames then hauling it out again.

‘Stop it’, I feel like saying, but I don’t. I look around for backup, but no one seems to think they’re misbehaving. When I start to smell the burning plastic, and my face is making an odd expression I can’t control. I ask the women, “What are the kids doing?”
“They found it at the farm today” one woman replies [in dagbani].

My stomach is now in my throat. It’s a DEAD mouse, not a PLASTIC mouse. I feel like an idiot.
**Disclaimer: For the sake of my own pride, I have to say that you have to learn to expect the unexpected around here. A plastic toy mouse is almost as plausible as hearing “Barbie Girl” by Aqua followed by “Walking on Broken Glass” by Annie Lennox on a loudspeaker at 5am. ***

Anyways, holding back the vomit, I try to explain in broken dagbani and ridiculous gestures that its not good to play with dead mice. I’m trying to say that the germs on the mouse will be on the kids’ hands, and then in their stomachs when they eat their supper. They will fall sick. The women nod, to acknowledge that I’ve spoken, but its obivious that they have no idea what I just said. They resume the stirring frenzy while I watch the kids poke at the mouse carcass, utterly disgusted.

No wonder people are ill when no one knows that handling dead rodents is not something to do for fun! For my own sanity, I go outside to walk around. A few minutes later I return. I see the children dividing up the charred meat.


Wow. I’m absolutely floored. I have this really terrible feeling in my stomach. The feeling of complete ignorance you get when you realize something you were once oblivious to. I’m shocked, and I don’t have a clue how to react. Not only did I judge the children and their parents for doing something I thought was really disgusting, but I didn’t even stop to try and see things from their perspective. Come to think of it, this was probably the biggest dose of meat that these kids have had in weeks.

Needless to say, I didn’t eat the portion of mouse leg that they offered to me.I would feel bad for taking some of their prize, but I mostly just think its gross. The moral of the story: Ignorance is bliss, but its far better to become aware of your misconceptions and be forced to feel like a complete idiot.

Home Sweet Home

Last weekend I went to the city to participate in a workshop organized by Engineers Without Borders. Some of the other volunteers seemed troubled by having to leave their host family for the weekend, but I honestly wasn’t too bothered by the idea. After all, I’m not actually a member of my host family; I’m only a guest. And it is just for three days! So what’s the big deal?

During the weekend it was nice to reunite with my fellow JF’s, as it was the first time we’d been together since we parted ways in our respective districts. It was refreshing to share experiences with other people having almost identical challenges. It was easy to step outside of our Ghanaian lives and slip back into our Canadian Habits. For example, I found myself speaking fast with some newfie slang as opposed to slow choppy “Ghanian English” I’ve adopted in order to be understood.

The weekend flew by, and by Monday afternoon, I’m back in Karaga and I’m walking back to the compound, feeling dirty/sweaty from the crowded bus ride, completely overwhelmed by the feeling that I have to accomplish something during my time in Ghana, urgently having to pee [thanks to a urinary tract infection. not a necessary detail, I know], and really hungry for some sort of food that wouldn’t give me diarrhea [see previous entry].

Much to my surprise, when walking into the compound, I was greeted by three children bolting into my arms and nearly knocking me over. This was followed by an eruption of chatter in Dagbani (all of which they assume I can somehow understand) and best of all, what seemed like a 5 minute hug with M Priba. The women shoved a hunk of sweet bread into my hands and took my bags from me. You know what? I didn’t think it, but I was so relieved to return to my pseudo-home. I truly felt like they missed me somehow, even though I’ve only been around for about a month. A wave of happiness washed over me as I sat down to munch on the bread. I look across the compound and I spy 11 month old Jaliu teetering on his little legs which are just on the verge of walking.

…..Then he did… He took his first steps! “Sharifa” I cried, “He’s walking! Come! Come!”

She laughs, “You missed it, He started walking while you were gone!”

“Oh” I say apologetically. For a few weeks now, I’ve been keeping tabs on his walking progress, constantly reminding Sharifa that the day is coming. In just 3 days I managed to miss the moment I was waiting for. Just my luck.

Even though I’m living with a family, I’m adamant not to refer to them “my family”. I have a supportive family at home in Newfoundland who gets to have that title. But these Ghanaians, who were once strangers, have become very important to me in a short period of time in a way that simply transcends the title of “Landlord” or “Host”. I can’t imagine staying in Ghana, and living any other way. If I wasn’t with them, I would be so lonely, hungry (due to my inability to cook anything edible), and unknowingly missing out on the richness of this experience that can only be understood by living the local culture.

When You're Drivin' in Your Chevy...

Perhaps the thing that excited me the least before coming to Ghana was the prospect of eating mushy food from a communal bowl. Earth shattering revelation: food in Ghana is great [for the most part], and its fun to discover new things!

So what do I eat every day?
Well, I usually eat supper with a woman in my compound named Sharifa. We prepare together and almost every night TZ (pronounced “Tee-Zed”) is on the menu. It’s a near flavour-less mixture of pounded cassava and maize that is mixed with water and boiled until it forms a white gelatin-like consistency. Ok, it probably sounds gross, but it’s the sauce that makes it tasty. The sauces can include peanuts, okra, leaves, meat, oil, hot peppers, spices and tomatoes, but they almost always contains the magic ingredient, Maggi (small cube of broth flavoring mostly made up of MSG). mm mm …addictive! At first, TZ was scary, but little by little, it has honestly grown on me. My favorite is shown in a picture: TZ with “bra” a sauce made with leaves and peanuts.

In most places I’ve been to (save small villages), the streets are dotted with food sellers, mostly women selling their specialty. Their storefront could be anything from a stool on the side of the road, to a full-out wooden kiosk with wire netting to keep the bugs out. Either way, the same person sells the same type of food at the same time and same place every day. Though its almost impossible to discern the type of food from a distance, you get to know the good places to eat pretty quickly.

I’ve included pictures of a few of my favorite Ghanaian dishes. Nabinchingy, sweetbun, wheat porrige, fufu, Wache, egg sandwich.

The only problem with the local food is that sometimes, the preparation is less than hygienic. Its possible that the food becomes contaminates by bad water, insects or inadequate storage and preparation practices. If you eat on the street, you take your chances.

I recently took my chances with a lovely plate of beans that tasted pretty good, but left a bad feeling in my stomach. I’m talkin’ REALLY bad. To keep this entry clean, I’m just going to say that I had to take a 3 hour bus ride on a rumbly stomach. For those of you who know the song, I’ll let the title of this entry speak for itself.


…Diarrhea. Diarrhea.